Generation Kill AU - Semper Fidelis Familia (Fick/Colbert, NC-17, 2/3)
Part I
Semper Fidelis Familia
When they get back from dinner, Nate locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off, viciously and perfunctorily. He's frustrated and hard and there are all these things he wants that he knows very well he's never going to be able to have.
He takes a shower, jerks off again, this time a little less violently, gets into bed and lies there for what feels like days. The clock tells him it's been seventy-three minutes since they got home.
He can hear the TV playing softly in the living room, and he stares at his ceiling in the darkness before giving up and getting out of bed.
Brad's sitting on the sofa in a sleeveless undershirt and what are probably - hopefully -- briefs. All Nate can see are long bare legs and the blue glow of the laptop on Brad's lap.
Nate can feel Brad's eyes on him as he stalks past the TV and into the kitchen. On the bottom shelf of the pantry, in a small wooden wine holder, is Nate's bottle of Château Lafite. It was a gift from his mother when he graduated from Dartmouth and joined the Marines. She said they would open it when he made captain. Or when he met the right person. Or maybe they would open it next week. Nate would know when he was ready. But instead, his mom died, and Nate left the military before he made captain, and tonight, Nate's not celebrating his victory, but his defeat.
The bottle clatters on the kitchen counter as he looks for a wine glass and the corkscrew. He nearly ruins the whole bottle by jamming the corkscrew in too hard and breaking off pieces of the cork. His entire body goes rigid when he feels Brad right behind him.
"What are we celebrating?" Brad says, prying the bottle and cork screw out of Nate's hands.
Nate blinks at his stainless steel cabinets. He should've gone with the wood instead; his mom liked wood.
"Being in charge," Nate says eventually. "We're celebrating being in charge."
When he turns around, Brad's got the bottle open and is pouring the wine into two coffee mugs. How very… military of him. He offers Nate one of the mugs, and Nate chugs down several mouthfuls.
They should let the wine breathe, but fuck it. Who cares?
"I think you're good at being at charge," Brad says, eying Nate over the rim of his mug.
"Maybe," Nate says, setting his mug on the counter behind him and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "but I don't want to be in charge."
"And you can't just say no, can you?"
Nate doesn't laugh, he wheezes. It's disconcerting. "People don't say 'no' to Godfather, Brad."
Brad takes a sip of his wine. "I did."
"You're not his son."
Brad leans forward and sets his mug on the counter by Nate's hip. "If you don't want to be godfather, then what do you want, Nate?" he asks, his face very close to Nate’s.
Nate blinks.
Brad doesn't call him Nate. Mostly he just calls him “sir,” or manages to communicate silently. What Nate really wants is to push Brad over his black granite kitchen island and fuck him senseless. "Anything but that," he says flatly.
When Nate looks up at Brad, there's something there that he doesn't normally see, a softening around the eyes or an upturn of the mouth. Or maybe it's something that he's just been trying to ignore all along.
He doesn't mean to kiss Brad, it just happens, and oh god, does it happen. One minute he's looking and the next he's got his mouth on Brad's, his hands cupping the back of Brad's skull and his tongue licking its way inside Brad's mouth. Brad's mouth is still underneath his, and Nate's brain processes this fast enough that he reels back at the same time that Brad's pulling him forward.
They wind up bumping noses and clacking teeth, and then Brad turns his head and licks his way inside Nate's mouth. Brad's tongue is this aggressive weapon, and Nate growls because he can't get the upper hand, what with the way Brad keeps pulling away and then diving back in. He's doing fucking recon on Nate's mouth.
Brad's fingers grip Nate's jaw to hold him still as Brad fucks Nate's mouth with his tongue. Nate can't even remember how to breathe, and then Brad's mouthing along his jaw line and behind his ear, and Nate's eyes keep closing like he should just surrender now, and that's just -- that can't happen.
"No!" Nate orders, disentangling himself from Brad and reeling backwards into the counter. It hurts.
Brad's hand freezes in the space between them, like he can't figure out if he's supposed to attack or regroup. "No?" Brad licks his lips and Nate takes another step down the counter and away from Brad. They’re both breathing hard, still.
"This - this isn't supposed to happen."
"You should have what you want," Brad says, taking a decisive step towards Nate, but Nate holds up his hands to keep Brad back. He can't even quantify how badly he's probably just fucked up. He can't stop staring at Brad's mouth, and his arms, and his legs, and his everything. Brad in briefs is just cruel at this point. Nate can feel the heat from where Brad's body was pressed against his. His mouth throbs like he's been burned.
"I can't have this," Nate tries to explain. "It's not how things are done."
Brad's mouth, still red from their kisses, thins into a displeased line. "What things? Done where? Who the fuck cares?" he snaps in irritation.
"I care! I have responsibilities!"
"So, we can't fuck because you have responsibilities?" Brad's derisory tone says it all. "Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of ass-backwards, anti-fudge packing shit are they teaching kids these days?"
"This from a Marine?"
Brad ignores that. "Who the fuck cares?" he repeats. "Do you really think Alexander the Great worried that taking it up the ass would make him a lesser leader?"
Nate blinks. "No, but everybody else did."
"Well, fuck them," Brad challenges.
"This isn't Macedonia, Brad, there are rules."
"Fuck the rules, too."
Nate just sighs. "I wish I could," he says before turning on his heel and marching back to his bedroom. It's a pretty effective way to end the conversation, even if it's not the most dignified retreat ever.
He locks the door behind him and sits in the dark for the rest of the night wishing his mom was still alive.
Brad's sitting on the other side of Nate's door when he opens it the next morning to go for his run. Brad doesn't fall back when Nate opens the door; he doesn't move much at all, except to tip back his head and look up at Nate like he can't fucking believe they've been reduced to acting like this. Nate looks back down at Brad blankly before stepping over him to get to his running shoes. Brad goes with him, just like usual.
They run their first two miles in silence. Nate concentrating on not concentrating on Brad, and Brad, well, judging by how tight Brad's face is, he's probably thinking of ways to kidnap Nate and abandon him in the desert, or ways to convince Nate that he's just wrong and that nobody cares about who he fucks, which is nice, but totally not going to work in the mob, especially a military-raised mob.
Nate would not be paying attention to the dark blue Chrysler on the other side of the street if he hadn't seen it six blocks back with its back windows up. The dinged bumper gives it away, and he shoves Brad down at the same time that the gunfire starts.
They both go down fast and hard, Brad rolling on top of him before Nate can figure out how badly he's just fucked up his knees. Nate has no idea where the hell Brad's been keeping his gun in his t-shirt and track shorts, but Brad fires off several rounds to the back of the car and Nate just lies there dazed for a second before Brad's rolling him over and feeling him up on the sidewalk.
"I'm fine! I'm fine," Nate says, trying to bat Brad's hands away before his body gets completely overwhelmed with post-drive-by adrenaline and denied lust.
"I can't believe I didn't see that coming," Brad bitches, his hands ghosting along Nate's torso for gun shots.
"Doesn't matter, we're fine now."
"You don't pay me for things to be fine," Brad snaps, looming over him on the sidewalk. "I get paid to protect you."
"Yeah, well, if I hadn't been staring at you, then we'd be dead, so shut up."
Brad blinks. "And yet, you're still going to pretend that we shouldn't be fucking?"
Nate glowers.
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate looks away, down at the bloody scrapes on his knees and then around for potential witnesses. Only in Baltimore could you get shot at first thing in the morning and not have anyone see anything. "My knees hurt," he asserts. Anything to change the subject.
"And yet another point where sex would've been a preferable alternative." Brad agrees.
"Fuck you," Nate says, getting up.
"I'm trying," Brad quips with a smirk.
Military life teaches you a lot about making due with what you've got. No batteries for your night vision goggles? Squint and hope for the best. No time to take a piss? Use adult diapers. No privacy? Everybody can jack off together. It was really strange for Nate when he came back from Afghanistan and suddenly had his own space again. He could sleep when he wanted, where he wanted. He could eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Except that what he thought was freedom was actually a just a different sized box.
The adrenaline high from almost getting shot isn't comparable to anything except the filthiest, dirtiest most energetic marathon sex ever. Since Nate's 86'd the latter option, when they get back to the apartment they end up racing through whatever exercises they can do indoors: push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, pull-ups, squats. Eventually they break for showers, and in Nate's case, two quick hand jobs to take off some of the edge.
When the apartment's intercom buzzes that evening, Nate and Brad exchange a wary glance. People don't just drop by Nate's apartment unannounced. Not ever. Brad removes two pieces of an M-16 from the cupboard above the refrigerator and takes up a position down the hall from the front door.
Sometimes Nate feels like he's living in a war zone.
He takes the Beefaroni off the kitchen stove, wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches into the fruit basket to grab the Glock.
Only after he's checked the clip does he answer the incessant buzz. "Yeah?"
"We have a problem." Bryan's voice is crisp and staticy. Shit.
Nate punches the entry button and tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants. "It's Bryan."
Brad raises an eyebrow, but doesn't actually leave his position.
Two minutes later there's a knock on the door, and before Nate can answer it, Brad snatches him by the collar of his tee shirt and drags him back. "I'll get it."
"I can answer my own door," Nate protests.
"You're not wearing armor, so shut up," Brad commands.
"Are you?" Nate demands. He doesn't know whether to think Brad ordering him around is impertinent or hot.
Brad smirks. "That's not the point."
"That is the fucking point," Nate retorts, but by then Brad's opened the door and Bryan's inside, followed by Poke and Rudy.
Nate's eyes widen at the procession, but Bryan doesn't even blink at the M-16 in Brad's hand. They're just that kind of family.
Everyone stands awkwardly in the hallway for a second, waiting. "I feel like this isn't a social call," Brad prods.
"Dave fucked up," Bryan says succinctly.
Nate sighs. "Rosie said he was thinking of something, but that he wanted to talk to me first. So much for that 'first' part."
"When has Captain America ever thought about anything first?" Poke bitches.
"Poke," Bryan warns more as a matter of course than real irritation.
"Sorry, sir."
"How bad are we talking?" Nate says, turning around and heading back into the apartment. Wordlessly, he begins collecting various items from their hiding places: guns, grenades, extra clips, NVGs. Three days ago, he discovered an RPG launcher in the coat closet. He doesn't even want to know where Brad got that, but if he thinks they need it, he'll bring it along.
At every turn he's making right now though, Brad's behind him with a black duffel bag.
"Y'all keep this shit in the house?" Poke says, clearly surprised.
"Be prepared," Brad mocks, "didn't they teach your ass anything in the Marines?"
"That's the Boy Scouts, dog."
"Enough," Nate snaps. "What the hell did he do, Bry?"
"He fucked with the wrong people, terrorized somebody's kid and got his ass kidnapped. Rosie called me when he didn't come home last night, and there's an ear, a thumb and two toes in a box down in the Suburban."
Nate almost drops the grenades he keeps hidden in the rubber tree plant in the corner. "He what?"
"They've got whatever's left of him down at the Delta docks. Lilley and Baptista are waiting for back-up."
Nate glances back at Brad and Brad purses his lips.
Yeah, he can't believe this shit either.
It's never just one thing that goes wrong. It's never just I almost fucked my bodyguard or I almost got shot; it's I almost fucked my bodyguard and I almost got shot and Dave fucked up when three Aleve haven't dulled the pain in my knees and I haven't had dinner yet and now Bryan and I have to cobble together an off-the-cuff recon mission to save Dave's screwby ass in the back of the SUV.
The fact that Bryan corralled Ray, Mike and Eric Kocher, in addition to Hasser, Garza, Rudy, Pappy and Poke tells Nate everything he doesn't want to know about how bad this is going to be. Nate's taken down entire cities with fewer Marines at his disposal.
There's no Craig nor is there anyone from Craig's team. Shocking.
Their assault goes as well as can be expected under the circumstances, except for the part where someone almost blows up the SUV with Pappy in it, and Rudy goes kind of apeshit and blows up at least three storage containers that apparently contain fireworks, so for a while it looks like the Fourth of July and sounds like Kandahar. And then there's that part where Walt gets shot in the leg, and Gabe has to carry him out with Mike providing cover. By the time they get to Dave, Nate's really starting to think it's not worth it, but they're already there, and if he hesitates at all about putting a bullet between someone's eyes on Dave's behalf, Bryan and Brad don't say anything about it.
Bryan just slings Dave's limp, bloody body over his shoulder and runs for it.
At no point in this plan did Nate make an allowance for Brad getting knifed by somebody throwing fucking machetes. Who the fuck brings a knife to a gun fight? Who the fuck can throw a machete effectively? So when a knife goes flying right by Nate's ear, he's suitably surprised, and when Brad stumbles next to him, Nate's immediately thrown off.
He yanks Brad along without thinking until he can find some cover for the two of them. "Why the fuck are you bleeding?" Nate demands, shoving Brad against a tall collection of wooden crates and pointing to the red dark circle soaking into the side of Brad's threadbare tee shirt. Of course Brad wouldn't wear armor like the rest of the proles.
"Because that's what humans do," Brad cracks.
Now is really not the time for Nate to crack. "What the fuck, Brad!"
Oh, well.
Brad blinks at Nate in confusion. "You're cursing at me because I did my job?"
"You're fucking hurt! You're not supposed to get hurt!" Something blows up much closer to them than Nate would like. They're in a fire fight, right.
Brad sighs and knocks his head against the crate. "Nate, I'm your bodyguard. I feel like you're missing the part of the job description where I'm guarding your body." Brad attempts to leer, but he mostly looks pained.
Nate stares as him dubiously before pulling up Brad's shirt and taking a good look at the long gash along Brad's side. "I can't believe you got stabbed in a gunfight!" he says, gingerly touching the skin that's not covered with blood. "I seriously can't believe you. Sit down, I have to look."
"Sir, I really don't think now is the time to sit down and have tea," Brad protests as gunshots continue to whiz by them.
"I'll fucking decide that," Nate snaps.
"It's not that -- that bad."
"You stuttered, you never stutter."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I paused. You're touching me in public; it happens."
Nate exhales unhappily. "Fuck, Brad."
"Maybe not right now, but I could go for a blow job."
"I'm serious!" Nate can deal with being hurt himself, but Brad's not supposed to get hurt, fuck this bodyguard shit. He's the Iceman. He's invincible. People talk about Brad in the hushed tones usually reserved for Godfather and the pope.
"It's really not as bad as it looks, sir."
Nate glares at Brad, who's giving him this sort of amused look. "Not that bad, huh?" Nate's fingers ghost over the wound again.
"That's not supposed to turn me on, is it?"
Nate has blood on his fingers -- Brad's blood. Where the hell is a medic when you need one? Oh, wait, wrong war. "Maybe if we were in Africa and this was a tribal rite of ownership."
Brad chuckles. "But, in a way, it is. I saved your life, now you belong to me."
Nate blinks. "I think the blood loss is affecting your brain," he says. He could really use some bandages right now. He ends up ripping the sleeve off of Brad's shirt, because his own shirt is refusing to cooperate.
Brad's grin is all teeth as Nate presses the blue cotton against Brad's side. "Sir, there's only so much blood in the human body and what's not leaving the wound in my side just went to my dick."
Nate rolls his eyes. "Press here so you don't die on me," he orders, only letting go when Brad's hand replaces his own.
"I would never do that, sir, we haven't had sex yet."
"You are so inappropriate."
"I try."
"We should take you to see Doc."
"Or you could take me home?" Brad offers.
Nate jumps when Ray runs up behind them, his AK Lucy on point. "When you ladies've finished talking about your Tupperware selections," Ray quips, "we've just fucked up a lot of shit and should leave before somebody makes us clean it up."
In the distance, Nate can hear the sirens. "You're right, Ray."
Ray just gapes. "Oh my god, can you please just remember he said that?" he asks Brad as they move off. "I'm never right. I can only assume that you've put some voodoo on his ass, so just do what you gotta do, Brad. You know Ray-Ray's got your back."
Doc gives Brad four stitches, several Vicodin and an order not to do anything physical for at least three days. Brad's not listening because he's too busy bitching about his tattoo getting messed up, and so Doc has to repeat the orders to Nate. Once they get home, Nate locks the door, drops a few guns in the hallway just in case and goes off to reheat the Beefaroni while Brad goes to his bedroom.
The Château Lafite has been sitting on the counter for 24 hours-it’s breathed for so long it’s probably hyperventilated by now--but it would be a shame to waste it after all this time. He takes several vinegary swigs from the bottle, and by the time Brad emerges in his briefs with a large, white bandage on his side, the wine is tasting much better.
Brad walks around the apartment, depositing the few items they didn't use earlier back in their hiding places, only moving a little more slowly than usual, and Nate doesn't look at Brad's ass the entire time. Really. Well, it's either his ass or the enormous tattoo on his lower back.
Maybe next time Nate'll suggest they bring the RPG launcher after all.
The third time Brad deliberately brushes by Nate in the kitchen, Nate turns the fire off on the stove and puts the pot on another burner. "Stop it," he says to the sink, before turning around.
Brad looks up from putting a handgun back in the fruit basket.
"Stop what?"
"The walking around with your badge of honor. I get it."
Brad's mouth crooks up at right corner. "Get what?"
"You got hurt for me, I know. You don't have to guilt trip me. I feel guilty enough."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I feel like I missed a part of this conversation."
"I know I put you in danger; I'm sorry, okay?"
Brad moves very quickly for somebody who's injured. Nate's just got a few scrapes and bruises, and he's not feeling half as fast. At least he assumes that's why Brad is able to pin him against the counter. Again. Maybe Brad in his underwear just makes Nate stupid.
"I was hired to protect you," Brad explains slowly, his hands resting on the counter on either side of Nate's hips. "You keep forgetting that part."
"I got a splinter," Nate fake bitches. "You're clearly incompetent at your job."
"And this is why you're mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you. I don’t get mad."
Brad smirks. "So you're just displeased, sir."
"Stop calling me 'sir'!"
Brad blinks. Nate rubs his eyes; it would be nice if this could get unfucked on its own.
Nate jumps when Brad's mouth brushes against his earlobe. "I live in your apartment; don't you think that's strange?"
Nate tries to pull back, and in his confusion winds up banging his head on the cabinet. "No. You're my bodyguard. You're supposed to guard my body."
It takes Nate a minute to realize what he just said. Fuck. Brad's smile is wicked. "Well," Brad says, nudging his leg between Nate's thighs. "I think if I have to guard your body, I'm going to need to see it a little more. Or maybe just see more of it."
Nate narrows his eyes. "Brad, I don't know what you think this is -"
"Don't insult me by saying you don't want me to fuck you."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to fuck you, you know I do."
"Did you really just say that?"
"I notice you're not denying it."
Nate looks around despairingly. "You're crowding me."
Brad's so close that Nate can make out the lines on his forehead and the faint scars on his cheekbone. "It would be so good. You know it would. I bet you make the best noises."
"Noises?" Nate scoffs. "You wish."
"I bet I could make you yell," Brad's voice is low and quiet. Nate almost has to strain to hear it. Or maybe he's just straining to think since all the blood in his body has gone to his dick.
He exhales through his nose when Brad's thigh presses against his cock. Brad's wearing only his briefs on purpose. He really has made Nate stupid. "I bet I could make you scream my name," Brad whispers.
Nate laughs loudly. "This is the mob, Brad, no screamers aloud." Well, except for Dave, but Dave's a fucking idiot.
Brad's not deterred in the slightest. Nate can tell, because Brad's fingers are unbuttoning Nate's shirt and Nate's just letting him. "Just think about it, how hot it would be. How tight you'd be around my cock. God, you have the best ass; I know, I've been looking."
Nate's brain whimpers, and his heart jumps in his chest when Brad's fingers brush along his sternum. "Brad, this is totally inappropriate."
"I kill people for you, Nate, not because you pay me to, but to keep you safe. There's nothing appropriate about us."
"Us."
"It."
"You want me to be safe," Nate leans into Brad. He can feel the heat on his cheeks when Brad breathes.
"I would be very unhappy if anything happened to you," Brad says, trying to pull Nate's shirt off. "It's in this entire city's best interest for you to stay alive."
Nate doesn't panic, mostly, because it's too late for that. He wants to say something here, but he can't because Brad's really close, and he smells good and he's warm and Nate really really wants to fuck him. "Brad, I don't -- you do realize who I am and what I do, right? This is my life."
"Good thing for you that I'm already a part of it then, huh."
Brad's breathing on him, not really kissing him but his mouth is moving near his, around him, not sniffing, but just sort of brushing his nose against Nate's cheek, rubbing his mouth against Nate's forehead. Jesus fuck.
"Brad."
Brad grins toothily. "Yeah, you're going to say my name like that."
"You're such a smug asshole," Nate says, darting in and kissing Brad once. When he pulls away, Brad's eyes are wide open and he's staring at Nate like he might eat him alive.
Oh.
At first it's slow, Brad brushing his mouth against Nate's, Nate nipping at Brad's bottom lip, a press of lips at the corner of his mouth. And then they attack.
It's not really accurate to call what they do kissing. When Nate thinks of kissing, he thinks girlfriends and necking in the backseat of somebody's car; this is just filthy.
This is him yanking at Brad's hair and fucking Brad's mouth with his tongue. This is Brad's teeth on his neck, leaving sharp stinging bites that make Nate moan, and then laving away the marks with his tongue. It's war with different weapons, and for the second time in as many seconds Nate smacks his head against a cabinet, but this time it's because Brad's trying to climb on top of him and the counter's in the way.
Brad makes a grunt of dissatisfaction, and Nate can hear the threads rip when Brad yanks at his shirt again, fingernails scraping along Nate's lower back as Brad pulls his shirt free of his pants. When Nate tries to help, Brad bites him on the shoulder.
"Fuck, okay," Nate surrenders, letting Brad strip him down in between groping his ass, and dry humping Nate's thigh and dragging short nails down Nate's chest. When Nate pulls away, he's not trying to actually get away, he wants to be on his knees, mouthing the head of Brad's cock through his briefs.
There's already a wet spot on the dark blue cotton and Brad's hands ghost over his hair as Nate slides his hands along the back of Brad's thighs and between the cotton of Brad's briefs and his ass.
Brad doesn't wobble, but he does thrust his hips forward. Nate digs the pads of his fingers into Brad's ass to hold him still. "I would tell you to play nice," he says, rubbing his mouth along the outline of Brad's cock, "but I don’t think you know how."
Nate looks up at Brad and Brad's nostrils flare. "I'm going to fuck your mouth," Brad promises. "You and your fucking pretty mouth. It's just not right, sir," Brad thrusts forward as Nate leans back to pull down Brad's briefs. "You shouldn't have a mouth like that. It gives me bad ideas."
Nate hasn't really had sex since he came back from Afghanistan. He's fucked a few nameless people on nights that he goes to other parts of town and pretends that Ray doesn't follow to make sure he doesn't end up dead, but for the most part, Nate hasn't done this in a while. He has a lot of excess energy to get out.
Brad's cock is thick and long, the head wet, and Nate mouths it, sucking and licking and then pulling back when Brad tries to thrust in. "You're a fucking tease," Brad complains as Nate takes him in hand, stroking hard, but the word 'tease' is a little pitchy.
Nate lets Brad fuck his fist several times before letting go. "Stop acting like a little bitch," Nate orders before he takes Brad in his mouth again, sucking hard and loud, his head bobbing up and down rapidly.
Brad makes this surprised noise, his hands coming down heavy on Nate's head, and Nate exhales through his nose, grips Brad's hips and lets Brad fuck his mouth. It's hard and feral and it wakes up every nerve in Nate's body. Every Recon Marine has to be able to hold their breath for four minutes, and there are some skills you just don’t let slide. Plus, it frees Nate to jerk himself off in time with Brad's thrusts.
Nate's not a professional, he gives head wet and sloppy, and judging by the noises Brad's making, this works for him. With his free hand, Nate rubs the thin line of skin behind Brad's balls. There's spit and sweat, and when Nate pushes against Brad's asshole with his middle finger, Brad's fingers tighten his hair and he comes in Nate's mouth.
Nate coughs as he pulls off, spitting on the floor before sitting back on his heels and looking up at Brad placidly, or as placid as he can be when Brad's yanking him to his feet and licking at Nate's mouth. Nate drags his fingernails down Brad's chest, swallowing Brad's groan. When Nate's fingers skid over something that's not skin, he pulls back.
"Did you pull a stitch?" he demands, looking at a very faint pink stain on the bandage on Brad's ribs.
Brad eyes him incredulously. "You're worrying about my stitches?"
"If you pull a stitch, you can explain it to Doc," Nate says, his words hitching as Brad wraps a hand around Nate's neglected cock and strokes. Nate growls in the back of his throat as Brad's thumb rubs the head of his dick.
"Would that affect the likelihood of us fucking?" Brad asks curiously.
Nate's so busy fucking Brad's hand that it takes him a moment to process the question. "What? No, it -- it just means you're going to have to be on top. Doc said nothing strenuous."
"Nothing strenuous?" Brad parrots. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Which part of 'O' and ‘K’ is confusing you?"
Nate has no idea, he can't think with the way Brad's leading him around by his cock. "It's not," he says eventually.
Brad kisses him hard. "I didn't think it would be a problem, sir."
Fucking is like riding a bike and breathing: even if you think you've forgotten how, you really haven't. So, when Brad's crouched over Nate's hips with three of Nate's fingers in his ass, and Nate's tongue in his mouth, Nate still knows exactly what's supposed to happen next.
And when Brad's on his knees with Nate's dick in his hand, promising Nate that Nate's going to scream his name, Nate just has to tell him to "Shut the fuck up and ride my cock."
Brad grins. "Do you know how hot you are when you're ordering me around?"
And then Nate's hands are on Brad's hips, pulling him down at the same time that Nate's thrusting up and if Nate had to be quasi-celibate for three, four, five years in order to have sex with someone like Brad, then fuck it, it was worth it.
The act itself is just this blur of hot slick want more harder, but there are moments that sear themselves in Nate's brain: how tight Brad is around him, how he plants a hand on Nate's chest, holds him down and just rides the fuck out of him, the way Brad's head goes back when he's jerking himself off and the way his whole body goes rigid when he comes on Nate's chest.
Afterwards, Brad climbs off of Nate and drops down on the bed next to him. Nate's sweaty and sticky and stupid. When he finally turns his head, Brad's watching him between half-closed eyes. "We should do that again sometime."
Nate snorts softly. He needs to get this condom off. "Oh, yeah?"
Brad grabs a pillow and stuffs it under his own head. "Yeah," he breathes, closing his eyes, "like in another 20 minutes."
The alarm clock on his nightstand says 7:42 a.m. when Nate wakes up, which can't be right, because Nate's not tired and the last time he looked, when Brad had him thrashing around on the bed and he almost broke his hand on the headboard, it was only 6:08 a.m.
Nate glances over at Brad, who's got his head buried under one corner of Nate's pillow, and smirks. He stops smirking when he tries to get out of bed. His knees ache, his calves feel like someone put steel plates under his skin and his skin is sticky in places it normally isn't. He makes a half-hearted grab for his robe, misses it, and keeps going through the open bedroom door. He picks up a spare Glock from the hallway and glances through the eye hole before opening the door just enough to grab the newspaper. No fish, no flashing Mrs. Martinez down the hall, just the morning paper.
Nate's just closing the door when an arm snakes around his waist and he's yanked back inside. He gets slammed face first against the unyielding feel of a metal door encased by wood. He drops the newspaper on the carpet and the gun on his foot. Of course.
"Getting the newspaper naked, sir?" Brad's body is hot against every inch of Nate's skin, his lips brushing against Nate's ear as he talks into the shell. "What if you'd gotten locked out? What if you'd gotten kidnapped? I thought I trained you better than that."
Nate shudders as Brad mouths at the nape of his neck. "Trained me?" he spits out, pushing back as Brad pins his hands to the door and kicks his legs apart.
"I bet I could train you," Brad whispers, rubbing his cock against Nate's ass.
Nate snorts. "In your dreams, sir." Brad bites him on the shoulder. Hard. His cock approves. "Shit, Brad!"
"Call me 'sir' again," Brad coaxes.
"Not until you learn how to behave," Nate says, rubbing his dick against the cool wood of the front door and pushing back against Brad at the same time.
He shivers when Brad pulls away suddenly, and then lets out a low groan when Brad licks down his spine. "You think I don't know how to behave?" Brad asks, sliding his hands down the cool trail of saliva on Nate's back, his fingers eventually spreading the cheeks of Nate's ass. Nate tenses when Brad runs a finger down the cleft.
"Well?" Brad prompts.
"What?" Nate says belatedly.
Brad chuckles and Nate twitches when something wet retraces the line of Brad's finger. "You were saying I don't know how to behave," Brad prompts. Nate exhales sharply when something probes at his entrance. It's too small for a cock and too hard for a tongue. It has to be a finger. One of Brad's long, thick fingers.
Nate makes a noncommittal noise that turns into a sharp inhale when Brad's finger pushes inside him. "I've been thinking about fucking you on every piece of furniture in the house," Brad says conversationally, his finger inching in a bit more.
Nate hisses; he's not fucking self-lubricating. Brad nips at the right cheek of his ass in some sort of apology, and Nate's brain waves the white flag.
"I listen to you jerk off while you’re in the shower in the morning," Brad carries on, slowly extracting his finger, "And I know you cover your mouth when you jerk off at night."
Nate's going to say something, but then Brad replaces his finger with his mouth and Nate makes this noise like he's going to die. Brad pulls back, his tongue flickering lightly over Nate's hole. "Yeah, that noise. That's the one I want."
"Brad," Nate urges, and Brad chuckles before putting his mouth back where Nate wants it. Brad's tongue is just as bossy as the rest of him; it probes and pushes and demands, and Nate scrabbles at the door, pushing back at Brad's mouth and trying to get more wetness, more pressure, more anything.
Brad's fucking Nate's ass with his tongue while Nate's humping the front door and -- Nate gets totally disoriented when Brad spins him around.
"What the -" Nate's protest dies off when Brad flicks his tongue over the head of Nate's cock, and then wraps his hand around the base and begins to suck Nate off. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
The corners of Brad's mouth turn up even as he's slurping obscenely on Nate's cock, one hand cupping Nate's balls, and Nate digs his nails into the wallpaper on either side of the front door, trying to hold himself up and not completely lose his shit.
Brad pulls off with a wet pop. "Go on," he urges, pulling Nate's hands away from the door frame. "I know you want to."
Nate takes a deep shuddering breath, guides his cock between Brad's lips and begins to fuck his mouth. Hard. Brad's hands cup Nate's hips, his thumbs rubbing the thin skin there as Nate slides in and out, his own panting loud in his ears. He jerks forward hard when Brad's finger slides inside of him again him and comes like he's been waiting his whole life. Brad swallows, which is too much for Nate to process, and Nate collapses on top of him, kissing Brad hard and licking away the taste of his own come before shoving Brad down on the carpet.
"Better now?" Brad asks wryly, as Nate sprawls out on top of him.
Nate breathes harshly against Brad's collarbone. "Yeah."
Nate's in the shower when Bryan calls. This is actually his second shower of the day, he tried to take one earlier, which Brad interrupted. Okay, 'interrupted' probably isn't the right word, but it ended up with hot, filthy sex on the bathroom floor, and then Nate was just as sweaty and sticky as he'd been before. So now he’s taking another one, alone this time. He's taken off guard when Brad pulls the curtain back and holds out his mobile phone. "Work."
Nate glares, but steps out of the shower anyway. "Yes," he snaps into the phone.
"Family meeting," Bryan says evenly. "One hour."
Nate sighs, because who couldn't see that coming? "Okay."
"At Godfather's house."
Nate winces. Fuck.
There are meetings and then there are meetings. The kind of meeting where all the lieutenants - Griego, Poke, Mike and Eric Kocher -- are waiting in the front hall and the front door is opened by Sixta and his Beretta denotes the latter.
Nate leaves Brad with the others and follows Sixta to his father's study where Bryan and Craig are already waiting outside the door. Bryan nods a greeting; true to form, Nate's brother just eyeballs him warily.
Sixta knocks once, waits for acknowledgement and then ushers them through the door.
Nate's father is sitting behind his desk with his reading glasses on, and he only looks up when the door closes behind them. Nate feels the way he did when he and Craig were little and had been caught fighting and had been sent here for punishment.
"Boys, have a seat."
Nate sits down next to Bryan, both of them perched on the edge of the sofa. Only Craig looks comfortable, taking a seat in Sixta's favorite leather arm chair.
"Nate, Bryan, I understand you two are behind this mess all over the front page of the morning paper." Nate scowls internally, damn Brad and his damn tongue. If he'd been able to read the paper and Brad hadn't - yeah, okay, not really the sort of thing you blame someone for.
"Yes, sir," they parrot in tandem.
"You destroyed a lot of property and brought us a lot of attention. I don't like attention, boys, you know that."
"Yes, sir."
"Sir, if I had been in charge," Craig begins.
"Godfather did not ask your opinion!"
Nate blinks. When his father talks about himself in third person, it's never a good sign.
"As I was saying," his father carries on, "You did a lot of damage, caused a lot of attention, but you saved your cousin's life, and for that his mother is grateful, and for that Godfather is grateful." Nate's stomach contracts a little. "However," oh, well, "you did not consult Godfather before you went into enemy territory. You did not advise Godfather of your plans - and blowing up property we will one day own is not good business practice."
Neither Nate nor Bryan reply. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, son?" his father queries.
Nate looks over at Bryan, whose face is perfectly blank. "No, sir," Nate replies crisply. "We did what we felt had to be done."
"Well, you should've called me first," Craig snaps.
"Son, you need to unfuck yourself," Nate's father says to his eldest child; Craig visibly blanches. "I suggest you remove the hamster from your asshole, congratulate them on a job well done and not let the door hit you on your way out."
Craig stands up, mumbles something and leaves the room. Nate cuts a glance towards Bryan, who's still remarkably impassive.
Nate's father leans back in his chair. "I had Craig leave, because I didn't think he should hear the part where I tell you two that if you ever pull shit like this again without telling me in advance I will personally drop you both in the river. Are we clear?"
Bryan and Nate both stand up sharply. "Yes, sir."
"Your cousin is in a private hospital, seeing about getting his appendages reattached. I've put Eric Kocher in charge until such time as I see fit to let your cousin assume command again."
Eric Kocher is the only reason Dave has lived as long as he has. As far as Nate's concerned, Eric should stay in charge permanently.
Godfather nods once. "Dismissed." Nate turns after Bryan for the door. "Not you, Nathaniel."
Nathaniel? Oh, god, his dad never calls him that.
Nate waits until Bryan closes the door and then turns back as his dad takes off his reading glasses. "Was this your idea, son?"
"No, sir, this was Bryan's plan."
"But you did the recon," his father prods.
"I helped with the planning," Nate amends. "Bryan is the one who found out about Dave. His boys did the recon; he's the one who gathered the teams. He's the one who made this a success."
Nate can feel his father scrutinizing him minutely. "Is there anything else you'd care to tell me about this operation?" Godfather asks.
Nate knows what his dad wants. He wants to hear that Nate single-handedly saved the day. That Nate stepped up and protected the family. Except that's not true. Nate will protect his own, but he won't tolerate idiots. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
His father raises an eyebrow. "Nate."
"Dad, Dave's an idiot; I know it and you know it. I know he’s your sister’s son, but it's the truth. Eric Kocher will be a better captain than Dave could ever dream of being, and frankly, if it weren't for Bryan, Dave would be dead."
His father doesn't blink. "I thought as much, but I wanted to hear it from you. It's important that you be aware of your assets and liabilities."
Nate nods.
"Brad here?"
Nate blinks. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Send him in on your way out."
Nate opens his mouth, but his father just waves him away.
Fuck.
Nate's waiting in the SUV with Ray when John Sixta comes out of the house. Nate passively registers Sixta's stocky legs trotting down the stairs, but he's not really processing at the moment.
Ray's been regaling him with increasingly sordid stories, probably to distract him -- right now he's yammering about this guy he knew that could suck his own dick -- but Nate's not listening. He wants to know what the hell his father's talking to Brad about. He's not used to being on the outside; he doesn't like the feeling.
Sixta's small enough that his chin barely comes up to the rolled-down passenger window of the Tahoe, but he is not a man to be trifled with. He's been around the Fick house for as long as Nate can remember, and he's continued to terrorize Nate and Craig long after they've towered over him.
"Godfather says for you to stop standin' around holdin' your dick and to go home," Sixta orders.
"We're waiting for Brad," Nate says evenly.
"You think that boy can't get hisself home?" Sixta barks. "That's a trained fuckin' killer in there. That boy'd still sniff out Osama Bin Laden if you cut off his nose!"
"We're waiting," Nate retorts sharply.
"And I'm telling you, you ain't! Now go home!"
"No!"
"Is you contradictin' a direct order from Godfather hisself, Nate?" Sixta's face is turning an unflattering shade of pink. Nobody says 'no' to Godfather.
Nate eyeballs Sixta for several tense moments. "No," he says eventually.
"That's what I thought." Sixta pats the car door. "Now git."
Ray walks Nate all the way to his apartment door. "You know this isn't necessary, Ray." Nate feels like he's being smothered.
Rah shrugs apologetically. "I know I'm not Terminator!Brad, but I let anything happen to you, and Brad - Boss, Brad is scary."
"Did Brad tell you to do this?"
Ray just shrugs again. "Sorry."
Nate pauses with his key in the door lock. "You're more afraid of Brad than you are of me, aren't you? I don't even know what to say to that."
"Nothing personal," Ray insists, following Nate inside. "But, you know, you'll just kill me. Brad, though, he'll, like, cut off my dick and send it to my mom to put on the bulletin board at Wal-Mart."
Nate throws his suit jacket in the vicinity of the sofa, loosening his tie as Ray glances in his bedroom and the coat closet and Brad's room. "Did you want a drink?" Nate asks, dropping the tie on the counter and opening the fridge.
For somebody who complained about Nate's Belgian beer, Brad's drunk several cases of it. Nate has to dig in the lettuce crisper to find two bottles. When he turns around, Ray's smirking at him.
"A drink, Boss? I've been working for you for three years and you've never offered me a drink in your house. Plenty of beer at Bryan's place, some good shit at Christmas, but never here."
"I didn't realize," Nate apologizes, pushing an errant 9mm and three Chinese stars out of the way as he pokes around the junk drawer for a bottle opener. The stars must belong to Brad. He's probably a fucking ninja in his spare time. He's probably reporting back to Nate's dad in his spare time, too.
Maybe this was some sort of status update.
Maybe Nate should just have a drink.
"I'm not, like, offended, Boss," Ray backtracks, "you're just not that kind of person. Well, you were, but then…" Ray trails off as Nate looks up around sharply.
"But then what?" he prompts, popping the top on the beer and sliding it across the kitchen island towards Ray.
"You know." Ray grabs the beer before it slides off the counter and gestures with it like he might be flagging down an F-22, a taxi or a football. "Brad."
Nate freezes with his own beer in hand. "Excuse me, Ray?"
Ray sets down the beer and holds up his hands. "Boss, look, I'm - you know as long as you're happy and alive that's all I really care about."
Nate narrows his eyes. "I don't know what you think you know."
"I don't know nothin'," Ray promises. "I'm just gonna go wait in the car for Brad to get home, okay?"
Nate rubs his forehead with the side of his beer. "Ray, you don't have to run away, I'm not going to shoot you."
"I know," Ray says, retreating quickly, "but Brad might if I don't do my job."
"Brad might do what to who?" Both Nate and Ray are startled when Brad appears from the front hall. Nate didn't even hear the door open. Definite ninja training.
"Brad might say I can go home early?" Ray asks hopefully, giving Brad his toothiest grin.
"I think you have to ask your boss about that," Brad says, discarding his suit jacket on the sofa right over Nate's.
Ray gives Nate his most pleading face, and Nate snorts. "Go on, we'll see you in the morning."
Ray grins. "You're the man, Nate," he says, before dashing off.
The door slams shut while Nate's still staring at where Ray's stood. He can't remember Ray ever calling him Nate. He stumbles slightly when Brad deliberately knocks him against the counter and steals his beer.
"Were you having a team bonding exercise without me?" Brad scolds.
Nate shakes his head, he had a beer. He knows he did. He leans far over the counter to grab the beer Ray had, he glances over his shoulder because he can feel Brad's eyes on the back of his neck, only he was wrong about the location because Brad's staring at his ass.
Nate snorts lightly as he slides back down onto his feet and moves around Brad. "Good beer?" he asks, pausing to remove his cufflinks and drop them by the sink.
Brad's tracking him around the kitchen and when Nate drops down on the sofa, Brad's practically on top of him. He sits down close enough that Nate has to poke him in the ass to get him to move over. Brad nudges him in the ribs, shifting around and kicking off his shoes. "Ask me."
Nate sets his beer on the coffee table and eyeballs Brad in confusion. "Ask you what?"
"You're not going to ask?"
"What are we talking about?" Nate tries again.
"Why Godfather wanted to see me."
Nate pinches his nose. "I don't want to know."
"Yes, you do."
"No, you want me to know."
Brad gives him a wry grin. "Very true, sir."
"Then just fucking tell me," Nate replies crossly.
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I don’t know whether to think you being pissy is hot or bitchy girlfriend."
Nate snatches the beer out of Brad's hand and it spills over his fingers when slams it on the coffee table. "I'm not a girl, so just tell me!"
Brad blinks. Maybe that was a little harsh. "If I'd known you'd be such an ungrateful fuck about it, I never would've accepted."
Nate's stomach bottoms out. "Accepted what?"
"The offer."
"What offer?"
Brad's peering intently at Nate now. "This wasn't your idea."
Nate's really about to lose his shit. "What wasn't my idea?"
The corners of Brad's mouth turn down. "That's unexpected."
Nate gets up, because if he doesn't move away, he's probably going to start shouting at Brad, and he'd prefer to save all shouting for things that are sex-related.
"Let's try this again," Nate says slowly, rubbing his forehead. "You accepted an offer from Godfather. What was it?"
"He made me an offer," Brad says flatly. "Your offer."
Nate can feel the blood leaving his face. "My offer? I didn't make you any offers. Why the hell would I make you an offer through Godfather?"
Brad narrows his eyes. "Isn't that how things are done here?"
"No," Nate hisses. "Not when it comes to -"
"To what?" Brad prompts.
Nate's head hurts, and he takes a step back when Brad stands up suddenly. "Your father made me an offer to come and work for him. In return, you keep the docks. You won't have to be the head of the family if you don't want to. You can stay here; we can stay here."
Nate's brain completely shorts out. "And you accepted this offer? Without asking me first?"
"Why wouldn’t I accept this offer?" Brad points out rationally. "You left. I thought this was your decision. I thought this was you saying I could stay or go."
"Don't you think I would've told you if I'd made a decision like that? Why would I even propose something like that?!" Nate rails. "Who the hell gives Godfather an ultimatum like, the guy I'm fucking is so great, here let me sell you his ass for my future!"
"I'm going to work for someone," Brad counters, "I don't give a shit who it is."
"Why did you do this?"
"Because you don’t want to be in charge. Because of this." Brad motions between them vaguely.
"Because of this," Nate parrots slowly. "What this? Us fucking? I told you that wasn't a good idea!"
"You didn't say that when I had my tongue in your ass," Brad snaps.
Nate glowers darkly. "You work for me; you had no right to make arrangements with someone else."
Brad's jaw tightens. "I did what you do: I put Godfather first."
Nate doesn't really mean to swing for Brad; it just happens. He supposes it's a good thing he misses, but then Brad tackles him and they go flying over the sofa, knocking over the end table, the beer and a lamp.
"You had no right to make a decision about my future without my consent!" Nate orders as they roll around on the floor.
"Your father's been deciding your life for the last thirty-fucking-years, why does it matter now?" Brad demands.
"You are not Godfather!" Nate shouts, struggling as Brad pins him down.
Brad looms over him, his face a mixture of confusion and impatience. "Neither are you," he says sharply.
Nate shoves Brad off of him and gets to his feet. "Get out," he commands.
Brad gives him a disbelieving look, but Nate's resolve is set. "Get out now," he repeats. He stands in the middle of his living room, pointedly not looking at Brad, and it's only when the door clicks shut that Nate realizes that he just got rid of the only good thing he's had in a long time.
Part III
Semper Fidelis Familia
When they get back from dinner, Nate locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off, viciously and perfunctorily. He's frustrated and hard and there are all these things he wants that he knows very well he's never going to be able to have.
He takes a shower, jerks off again, this time a little less violently, gets into bed and lies there for what feels like days. The clock tells him it's been seventy-three minutes since they got home.
He can hear the TV playing softly in the living room, and he stares at his ceiling in the darkness before giving up and getting out of bed.
Brad's sitting on the sofa in a sleeveless undershirt and what are probably - hopefully -- briefs. All Nate can see are long bare legs and the blue glow of the laptop on Brad's lap.
Nate can feel Brad's eyes on him as he stalks past the TV and into the kitchen. On the bottom shelf of the pantry, in a small wooden wine holder, is Nate's bottle of Château Lafite. It was a gift from his mother when he graduated from Dartmouth and joined the Marines. She said they would open it when he made captain. Or when he met the right person. Or maybe they would open it next week. Nate would know when he was ready. But instead, his mom died, and Nate left the military before he made captain, and tonight, Nate's not celebrating his victory, but his defeat.
The bottle clatters on the kitchen counter as he looks for a wine glass and the corkscrew. He nearly ruins the whole bottle by jamming the corkscrew in too hard and breaking off pieces of the cork. His entire body goes rigid when he feels Brad right behind him.
"What are we celebrating?" Brad says, prying the bottle and cork screw out of Nate's hands.
Nate blinks at his stainless steel cabinets. He should've gone with the wood instead; his mom liked wood.
"Being in charge," Nate says eventually. "We're celebrating being in charge."
When he turns around, Brad's got the bottle open and is pouring the wine into two coffee mugs. How very… military of him. He offers Nate one of the mugs, and Nate chugs down several mouthfuls.
They should let the wine breathe, but fuck it. Who cares?
"I think you're good at being at charge," Brad says, eying Nate over the rim of his mug.
"Maybe," Nate says, setting his mug on the counter behind him and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "but I don't want to be in charge."
"And you can't just say no, can you?"
Nate doesn't laugh, he wheezes. It's disconcerting. "People don't say 'no' to Godfather, Brad."
Brad takes a sip of his wine. "I did."
"You're not his son."
Brad leans forward and sets his mug on the counter by Nate's hip. "If you don't want to be godfather, then what do you want, Nate?" he asks, his face very close to Nate’s.
Nate blinks.
Brad doesn't call him Nate. Mostly he just calls him “sir,” or manages to communicate silently. What Nate really wants is to push Brad over his black granite kitchen island and fuck him senseless. "Anything but that," he says flatly.
When Nate looks up at Brad, there's something there that he doesn't normally see, a softening around the eyes or an upturn of the mouth. Or maybe it's something that he's just been trying to ignore all along.
He doesn't mean to kiss Brad, it just happens, and oh god, does it happen. One minute he's looking and the next he's got his mouth on Brad's, his hands cupping the back of Brad's skull and his tongue licking its way inside Brad's mouth. Brad's mouth is still underneath his, and Nate's brain processes this fast enough that he reels back at the same time that Brad's pulling him forward.
They wind up bumping noses and clacking teeth, and then Brad turns his head and licks his way inside Nate's mouth. Brad's tongue is this aggressive weapon, and Nate growls because he can't get the upper hand, what with the way Brad keeps pulling away and then diving back in. He's doing fucking recon on Nate's mouth.
Brad's fingers grip Nate's jaw to hold him still as Brad fucks Nate's mouth with his tongue. Nate can't even remember how to breathe, and then Brad's mouthing along his jaw line and behind his ear, and Nate's eyes keep closing like he should just surrender now, and that's just -- that can't happen.
"No!" Nate orders, disentangling himself from Brad and reeling backwards into the counter. It hurts.
Brad's hand freezes in the space between them, like he can't figure out if he's supposed to attack or regroup. "No?" Brad licks his lips and Nate takes another step down the counter and away from Brad. They’re both breathing hard, still.
"This - this isn't supposed to happen."
"You should have what you want," Brad says, taking a decisive step towards Nate, but Nate holds up his hands to keep Brad back. He can't even quantify how badly he's probably just fucked up. He can't stop staring at Brad's mouth, and his arms, and his legs, and his everything. Brad in briefs is just cruel at this point. Nate can feel the heat from where Brad's body was pressed against his. His mouth throbs like he's been burned.
"I can't have this," Nate tries to explain. "It's not how things are done."
Brad's mouth, still red from their kisses, thins into a displeased line. "What things? Done where? Who the fuck cares?" he snaps in irritation.
"I care! I have responsibilities!"
"So, we can't fuck because you have responsibilities?" Brad's derisory tone says it all. "Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of ass-backwards, anti-fudge packing shit are they teaching kids these days?"
"This from a Marine?"
Brad ignores that. "Who the fuck cares?" he repeats. "Do you really think Alexander the Great worried that taking it up the ass would make him a lesser leader?"
Nate blinks. "No, but everybody else did."
"Well, fuck them," Brad challenges.
"This isn't Macedonia, Brad, there are rules."
"Fuck the rules, too."
Nate just sighs. "I wish I could," he says before turning on his heel and marching back to his bedroom. It's a pretty effective way to end the conversation, even if it's not the most dignified retreat ever.
He locks the door behind him and sits in the dark for the rest of the night wishing his mom was still alive.
Brad's sitting on the other side of Nate's door when he opens it the next morning to go for his run. Brad doesn't fall back when Nate opens the door; he doesn't move much at all, except to tip back his head and look up at Nate like he can't fucking believe they've been reduced to acting like this. Nate looks back down at Brad blankly before stepping over him to get to his running shoes. Brad goes with him, just like usual.
They run their first two miles in silence. Nate concentrating on not concentrating on Brad, and Brad, well, judging by how tight Brad's face is, he's probably thinking of ways to kidnap Nate and abandon him in the desert, or ways to convince Nate that he's just wrong and that nobody cares about who he fucks, which is nice, but totally not going to work in the mob, especially a military-raised mob.
Nate would not be paying attention to the dark blue Chrysler on the other side of the street if he hadn't seen it six blocks back with its back windows up. The dinged bumper gives it away, and he shoves Brad down at the same time that the gunfire starts.
They both go down fast and hard, Brad rolling on top of him before Nate can figure out how badly he's just fucked up his knees. Nate has no idea where the hell Brad's been keeping his gun in his t-shirt and track shorts, but Brad fires off several rounds to the back of the car and Nate just lies there dazed for a second before Brad's rolling him over and feeling him up on the sidewalk.
"I'm fine! I'm fine," Nate says, trying to bat Brad's hands away before his body gets completely overwhelmed with post-drive-by adrenaline and denied lust.
"I can't believe I didn't see that coming," Brad bitches, his hands ghosting along Nate's torso for gun shots.
"Doesn't matter, we're fine now."
"You don't pay me for things to be fine," Brad snaps, looming over him on the sidewalk. "I get paid to protect you."
"Yeah, well, if I hadn't been staring at you, then we'd be dead, so shut up."
Brad blinks. "And yet, you're still going to pretend that we shouldn't be fucking?"
Nate glowers.
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate looks away, down at the bloody scrapes on his knees and then around for potential witnesses. Only in Baltimore could you get shot at first thing in the morning and not have anyone see anything. "My knees hurt," he asserts. Anything to change the subject.
"And yet another point where sex would've been a preferable alternative." Brad agrees.
"Fuck you," Nate says, getting up.
"I'm trying," Brad quips with a smirk.
Military life teaches you a lot about making due with what you've got. No batteries for your night vision goggles? Squint and hope for the best. No time to take a piss? Use adult diapers. No privacy? Everybody can jack off together. It was really strange for Nate when he came back from Afghanistan and suddenly had his own space again. He could sleep when he wanted, where he wanted. He could eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Except that what he thought was freedom was actually a just a different sized box.
The adrenaline high from almost getting shot isn't comparable to anything except the filthiest, dirtiest most energetic marathon sex ever. Since Nate's 86'd the latter option, when they get back to the apartment they end up racing through whatever exercises they can do indoors: push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, pull-ups, squats. Eventually they break for showers, and in Nate's case, two quick hand jobs to take off some of the edge.
When the apartment's intercom buzzes that evening, Nate and Brad exchange a wary glance. People don't just drop by Nate's apartment unannounced. Not ever. Brad removes two pieces of an M-16 from the cupboard above the refrigerator and takes up a position down the hall from the front door.
Sometimes Nate feels like he's living in a war zone.
He takes the Beefaroni off the kitchen stove, wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches into the fruit basket to grab the Glock.
Only after he's checked the clip does he answer the incessant buzz. "Yeah?"
"We have a problem." Bryan's voice is crisp and staticy. Shit.
Nate punches the entry button and tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants. "It's Bryan."
Brad raises an eyebrow, but doesn't actually leave his position.
Two minutes later there's a knock on the door, and before Nate can answer it, Brad snatches him by the collar of his tee shirt and drags him back. "I'll get it."
"I can answer my own door," Nate protests.
"You're not wearing armor, so shut up," Brad commands.
"Are you?" Nate demands. He doesn't know whether to think Brad ordering him around is impertinent or hot.
Brad smirks. "That's not the point."
"That is the fucking point," Nate retorts, but by then Brad's opened the door and Bryan's inside, followed by Poke and Rudy.
Nate's eyes widen at the procession, but Bryan doesn't even blink at the M-16 in Brad's hand. They're just that kind of family.
Everyone stands awkwardly in the hallway for a second, waiting. "I feel like this isn't a social call," Brad prods.
"Dave fucked up," Bryan says succinctly.
Nate sighs. "Rosie said he was thinking of something, but that he wanted to talk to me first. So much for that 'first' part."
"When has Captain America ever thought about anything first?" Poke bitches.
"Poke," Bryan warns more as a matter of course than real irritation.
"Sorry, sir."
"How bad are we talking?" Nate says, turning around and heading back into the apartment. Wordlessly, he begins collecting various items from their hiding places: guns, grenades, extra clips, NVGs. Three days ago, he discovered an RPG launcher in the coat closet. He doesn't even want to know where Brad got that, but if he thinks they need it, he'll bring it along.
At every turn he's making right now though, Brad's behind him with a black duffel bag.
"Y'all keep this shit in the house?" Poke says, clearly surprised.
"Be prepared," Brad mocks, "didn't they teach your ass anything in the Marines?"
"That's the Boy Scouts, dog."
"Enough," Nate snaps. "What the hell did he do, Bry?"
"He fucked with the wrong people, terrorized somebody's kid and got his ass kidnapped. Rosie called me when he didn't come home last night, and there's an ear, a thumb and two toes in a box down in the Suburban."
Nate almost drops the grenades he keeps hidden in the rubber tree plant in the corner. "He what?"
"They've got whatever's left of him down at the Delta docks. Lilley and Baptista are waiting for back-up."
Nate glances back at Brad and Brad purses his lips.
Yeah, he can't believe this shit either.
It's never just one thing that goes wrong. It's never just I almost fucked my bodyguard or I almost got shot; it's I almost fucked my bodyguard and I almost got shot and Dave fucked up when three Aleve haven't dulled the pain in my knees and I haven't had dinner yet and now Bryan and I have to cobble together an off-the-cuff recon mission to save Dave's screwby ass in the back of the SUV.
The fact that Bryan corralled Ray, Mike and Eric Kocher, in addition to Hasser, Garza, Rudy, Pappy and Poke tells Nate everything he doesn't want to know about how bad this is going to be. Nate's taken down entire cities with fewer Marines at his disposal.
There's no Craig nor is there anyone from Craig's team. Shocking.
Their assault goes as well as can be expected under the circumstances, except for the part where someone almost blows up the SUV with Pappy in it, and Rudy goes kind of apeshit and blows up at least three storage containers that apparently contain fireworks, so for a while it looks like the Fourth of July and sounds like Kandahar. And then there's that part where Walt gets shot in the leg, and Gabe has to carry him out with Mike providing cover. By the time they get to Dave, Nate's really starting to think it's not worth it, but they're already there, and if he hesitates at all about putting a bullet between someone's eyes on Dave's behalf, Bryan and Brad don't say anything about it.
Bryan just slings Dave's limp, bloody body over his shoulder and runs for it.
At no point in this plan did Nate make an allowance for Brad getting knifed by somebody throwing fucking machetes. Who the fuck brings a knife to a gun fight? Who the fuck can throw a machete effectively? So when a knife goes flying right by Nate's ear, he's suitably surprised, and when Brad stumbles next to him, Nate's immediately thrown off.
He yanks Brad along without thinking until he can find some cover for the two of them. "Why the fuck are you bleeding?" Nate demands, shoving Brad against a tall collection of wooden crates and pointing to the red dark circle soaking into the side of Brad's threadbare tee shirt. Of course Brad wouldn't wear armor like the rest of the proles.
"Because that's what humans do," Brad cracks.
Now is really not the time for Nate to crack. "What the fuck, Brad!"
Oh, well.
Brad blinks at Nate in confusion. "You're cursing at me because I did my job?"
"You're fucking hurt! You're not supposed to get hurt!" Something blows up much closer to them than Nate would like. They're in a fire fight, right.
Brad sighs and knocks his head against the crate. "Nate, I'm your bodyguard. I feel like you're missing the part of the job description where I'm guarding your body." Brad attempts to leer, but he mostly looks pained.
Nate stares as him dubiously before pulling up Brad's shirt and taking a good look at the long gash along Brad's side. "I can't believe you got stabbed in a gunfight!" he says, gingerly touching the skin that's not covered with blood. "I seriously can't believe you. Sit down, I have to look."
"Sir, I really don't think now is the time to sit down and have tea," Brad protests as gunshots continue to whiz by them.
"I'll fucking decide that," Nate snaps.
"It's not that -- that bad."
"You stuttered, you never stutter."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I paused. You're touching me in public; it happens."
Nate exhales unhappily. "Fuck, Brad."
"Maybe not right now, but I could go for a blow job."
"I'm serious!" Nate can deal with being hurt himself, but Brad's not supposed to get hurt, fuck this bodyguard shit. He's the Iceman. He's invincible. People talk about Brad in the hushed tones usually reserved for Godfather and the pope.
"It's really not as bad as it looks, sir."
Nate glares at Brad, who's giving him this sort of amused look. "Not that bad, huh?" Nate's fingers ghost over the wound again.
"That's not supposed to turn me on, is it?"
Nate has blood on his fingers -- Brad's blood. Where the hell is a medic when you need one? Oh, wait, wrong war. "Maybe if we were in Africa and this was a tribal rite of ownership."
Brad chuckles. "But, in a way, it is. I saved your life, now you belong to me."
Nate blinks. "I think the blood loss is affecting your brain," he says. He could really use some bandages right now. He ends up ripping the sleeve off of Brad's shirt, because his own shirt is refusing to cooperate.
Brad's grin is all teeth as Nate presses the blue cotton against Brad's side. "Sir, there's only so much blood in the human body and what's not leaving the wound in my side just went to my dick."
Nate rolls his eyes. "Press here so you don't die on me," he orders, only letting go when Brad's hand replaces his own.
"I would never do that, sir, we haven't had sex yet."
"You are so inappropriate."
"I try."
"We should take you to see Doc."
"Or you could take me home?" Brad offers.
Nate jumps when Ray runs up behind them, his AK Lucy on point. "When you ladies've finished talking about your Tupperware selections," Ray quips, "we've just fucked up a lot of shit and should leave before somebody makes us clean it up."
In the distance, Nate can hear the sirens. "You're right, Ray."
Ray just gapes. "Oh my god, can you please just remember he said that?" he asks Brad as they move off. "I'm never right. I can only assume that you've put some voodoo on his ass, so just do what you gotta do, Brad. You know Ray-Ray's got your back."
Doc gives Brad four stitches, several Vicodin and an order not to do anything physical for at least three days. Brad's not listening because he's too busy bitching about his tattoo getting messed up, and so Doc has to repeat the orders to Nate. Once they get home, Nate locks the door, drops a few guns in the hallway just in case and goes off to reheat the Beefaroni while Brad goes to his bedroom.
The Château Lafite has been sitting on the counter for 24 hours-it’s breathed for so long it’s probably hyperventilated by now--but it would be a shame to waste it after all this time. He takes several vinegary swigs from the bottle, and by the time Brad emerges in his briefs with a large, white bandage on his side, the wine is tasting much better.
Brad walks around the apartment, depositing the few items they didn't use earlier back in their hiding places, only moving a little more slowly than usual, and Nate doesn't look at Brad's ass the entire time. Really. Well, it's either his ass or the enormous tattoo on his lower back.
Maybe next time Nate'll suggest they bring the RPG launcher after all.
The third time Brad deliberately brushes by Nate in the kitchen, Nate turns the fire off on the stove and puts the pot on another burner. "Stop it," he says to the sink, before turning around.
Brad looks up from putting a handgun back in the fruit basket.
"Stop what?"
"The walking around with your badge of honor. I get it."
Brad's mouth crooks up at right corner. "Get what?"
"You got hurt for me, I know. You don't have to guilt trip me. I feel guilty enough."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I feel like I missed a part of this conversation."
"I know I put you in danger; I'm sorry, okay?"
Brad moves very quickly for somebody who's injured. Nate's just got a few scrapes and bruises, and he's not feeling half as fast. At least he assumes that's why Brad is able to pin him against the counter. Again. Maybe Brad in his underwear just makes Nate stupid.
"I was hired to protect you," Brad explains slowly, his hands resting on the counter on either side of Nate's hips. "You keep forgetting that part."
"I got a splinter," Nate fake bitches. "You're clearly incompetent at your job."
"And this is why you're mad at me?"
"I'm not mad at you. I don’t get mad."
Brad smirks. "So you're just displeased, sir."
"Stop calling me 'sir'!"
Brad blinks. Nate rubs his eyes; it would be nice if this could get unfucked on its own.
Nate jumps when Brad's mouth brushes against his earlobe. "I live in your apartment; don't you think that's strange?"
Nate tries to pull back, and in his confusion winds up banging his head on the cabinet. "No. You're my bodyguard. You're supposed to guard my body."
It takes Nate a minute to realize what he just said. Fuck. Brad's smile is wicked. "Well," Brad says, nudging his leg between Nate's thighs. "I think if I have to guard your body, I'm going to need to see it a little more. Or maybe just see more of it."
Nate narrows his eyes. "Brad, I don't know what you think this is -"
"Don't insult me by saying you don't want me to fuck you."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to fuck you, you know I do."
"Did you really just say that?"
"I notice you're not denying it."
Nate looks around despairingly. "You're crowding me."
Brad's so close that Nate can make out the lines on his forehead and the faint scars on his cheekbone. "It would be so good. You know it would. I bet you make the best noises."
"Noises?" Nate scoffs. "You wish."
"I bet I could make you yell," Brad's voice is low and quiet. Nate almost has to strain to hear it. Or maybe he's just straining to think since all the blood in his body has gone to his dick.
He exhales through his nose when Brad's thigh presses against his cock. Brad's wearing only his briefs on purpose. He really has made Nate stupid. "I bet I could make you scream my name," Brad whispers.
Nate laughs loudly. "This is the mob, Brad, no screamers aloud." Well, except for Dave, but Dave's a fucking idiot.
Brad's not deterred in the slightest. Nate can tell, because Brad's fingers are unbuttoning Nate's shirt and Nate's just letting him. "Just think about it, how hot it would be. How tight you'd be around my cock. God, you have the best ass; I know, I've been looking."
Nate's brain whimpers, and his heart jumps in his chest when Brad's fingers brush along his sternum. "Brad, this is totally inappropriate."
"I kill people for you, Nate, not because you pay me to, but to keep you safe. There's nothing appropriate about us."
"Us."
"It."
"You want me to be safe," Nate leans into Brad. He can feel the heat on his cheeks when Brad breathes.
"I would be very unhappy if anything happened to you," Brad says, trying to pull Nate's shirt off. "It's in this entire city's best interest for you to stay alive."
Nate doesn't panic, mostly, because it's too late for that. He wants to say something here, but he can't because Brad's really close, and he smells good and he's warm and Nate really really wants to fuck him. "Brad, I don't -- you do realize who I am and what I do, right? This is my life."
"Good thing for you that I'm already a part of it then, huh."
Brad's breathing on him, not really kissing him but his mouth is moving near his, around him, not sniffing, but just sort of brushing his nose against Nate's cheek, rubbing his mouth against Nate's forehead. Jesus fuck.
"Brad."
Brad grins toothily. "Yeah, you're going to say my name like that."
"You're such a smug asshole," Nate says, darting in and kissing Brad once. When he pulls away, Brad's eyes are wide open and he's staring at Nate like he might eat him alive.
Oh.
At first it's slow, Brad brushing his mouth against Nate's, Nate nipping at Brad's bottom lip, a press of lips at the corner of his mouth. And then they attack.
It's not really accurate to call what they do kissing. When Nate thinks of kissing, he thinks girlfriends and necking in the backseat of somebody's car; this is just filthy.
This is him yanking at Brad's hair and fucking Brad's mouth with his tongue. This is Brad's teeth on his neck, leaving sharp stinging bites that make Nate moan, and then laving away the marks with his tongue. It's war with different weapons, and for the second time in as many seconds Nate smacks his head against a cabinet, but this time it's because Brad's trying to climb on top of him and the counter's in the way.
Brad makes a grunt of dissatisfaction, and Nate can hear the threads rip when Brad yanks at his shirt again, fingernails scraping along Nate's lower back as Brad pulls his shirt free of his pants. When Nate tries to help, Brad bites him on the shoulder.
"Fuck, okay," Nate surrenders, letting Brad strip him down in between groping his ass, and dry humping Nate's thigh and dragging short nails down Nate's chest. When Nate pulls away, he's not trying to actually get away, he wants to be on his knees, mouthing the head of Brad's cock through his briefs.
There's already a wet spot on the dark blue cotton and Brad's hands ghost over his hair as Nate slides his hands along the back of Brad's thighs and between the cotton of Brad's briefs and his ass.
Brad doesn't wobble, but he does thrust his hips forward. Nate digs the pads of his fingers into Brad's ass to hold him still. "I would tell you to play nice," he says, rubbing his mouth along the outline of Brad's cock, "but I don’t think you know how."
Nate looks up at Brad and Brad's nostrils flare. "I'm going to fuck your mouth," Brad promises. "You and your fucking pretty mouth. It's just not right, sir," Brad thrusts forward as Nate leans back to pull down Brad's briefs. "You shouldn't have a mouth like that. It gives me bad ideas."
Nate hasn't really had sex since he came back from Afghanistan. He's fucked a few nameless people on nights that he goes to other parts of town and pretends that Ray doesn't follow to make sure he doesn't end up dead, but for the most part, Nate hasn't done this in a while. He has a lot of excess energy to get out.
Brad's cock is thick and long, the head wet, and Nate mouths it, sucking and licking and then pulling back when Brad tries to thrust in. "You're a fucking tease," Brad complains as Nate takes him in hand, stroking hard, but the word 'tease' is a little pitchy.
Nate lets Brad fuck his fist several times before letting go. "Stop acting like a little bitch," Nate orders before he takes Brad in his mouth again, sucking hard and loud, his head bobbing up and down rapidly.
Brad makes this surprised noise, his hands coming down heavy on Nate's head, and Nate exhales through his nose, grips Brad's hips and lets Brad fuck his mouth. It's hard and feral and it wakes up every nerve in Nate's body. Every Recon Marine has to be able to hold their breath for four minutes, and there are some skills you just don’t let slide. Plus, it frees Nate to jerk himself off in time with Brad's thrusts.
Nate's not a professional, he gives head wet and sloppy, and judging by the noises Brad's making, this works for him. With his free hand, Nate rubs the thin line of skin behind Brad's balls. There's spit and sweat, and when Nate pushes against Brad's asshole with his middle finger, Brad's fingers tighten his hair and he comes in Nate's mouth.
Nate coughs as he pulls off, spitting on the floor before sitting back on his heels and looking up at Brad placidly, or as placid as he can be when Brad's yanking him to his feet and licking at Nate's mouth. Nate drags his fingernails down Brad's chest, swallowing Brad's groan. When Nate's fingers skid over something that's not skin, he pulls back.
"Did you pull a stitch?" he demands, looking at a very faint pink stain on the bandage on Brad's ribs.
Brad eyes him incredulously. "You're worrying about my stitches?"
"If you pull a stitch, you can explain it to Doc," Nate says, his words hitching as Brad wraps a hand around Nate's neglected cock and strokes. Nate growls in the back of his throat as Brad's thumb rubs the head of his dick.
"Would that affect the likelihood of us fucking?" Brad asks curiously.
Nate's so busy fucking Brad's hand that it takes him a moment to process the question. "What? No, it -- it just means you're going to have to be on top. Doc said nothing strenuous."
"Nothing strenuous?" Brad parrots. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Which part of 'O' and ‘K’ is confusing you?"
Nate has no idea, he can't think with the way Brad's leading him around by his cock. "It's not," he says eventually.
Brad kisses him hard. "I didn't think it would be a problem, sir."
Fucking is like riding a bike and breathing: even if you think you've forgotten how, you really haven't. So, when Brad's crouched over Nate's hips with three of Nate's fingers in his ass, and Nate's tongue in his mouth, Nate still knows exactly what's supposed to happen next.
And when Brad's on his knees with Nate's dick in his hand, promising Nate that Nate's going to scream his name, Nate just has to tell him to "Shut the fuck up and ride my cock."
Brad grins. "Do you know how hot you are when you're ordering me around?"
And then Nate's hands are on Brad's hips, pulling him down at the same time that Nate's thrusting up and if Nate had to be quasi-celibate for three, four, five years in order to have sex with someone like Brad, then fuck it, it was worth it.
The act itself is just this blur of hot slick want more harder, but there are moments that sear themselves in Nate's brain: how tight Brad is around him, how he plants a hand on Nate's chest, holds him down and just rides the fuck out of him, the way Brad's head goes back when he's jerking himself off and the way his whole body goes rigid when he comes on Nate's chest.
Afterwards, Brad climbs off of Nate and drops down on the bed next to him. Nate's sweaty and sticky and stupid. When he finally turns his head, Brad's watching him between half-closed eyes. "We should do that again sometime."
Nate snorts softly. He needs to get this condom off. "Oh, yeah?"
Brad grabs a pillow and stuffs it under his own head. "Yeah," he breathes, closing his eyes, "like in another 20 minutes."
The alarm clock on his nightstand says 7:42 a.m. when Nate wakes up, which can't be right, because Nate's not tired and the last time he looked, when Brad had him thrashing around on the bed and he almost broke his hand on the headboard, it was only 6:08 a.m.
Nate glances over at Brad, who's got his head buried under one corner of Nate's pillow, and smirks. He stops smirking when he tries to get out of bed. His knees ache, his calves feel like someone put steel plates under his skin and his skin is sticky in places it normally isn't. He makes a half-hearted grab for his robe, misses it, and keeps going through the open bedroom door. He picks up a spare Glock from the hallway and glances through the eye hole before opening the door just enough to grab the newspaper. No fish, no flashing Mrs. Martinez down the hall, just the morning paper.
Nate's just closing the door when an arm snakes around his waist and he's yanked back inside. He gets slammed face first against the unyielding feel of a metal door encased by wood. He drops the newspaper on the carpet and the gun on his foot. Of course.
"Getting the newspaper naked, sir?" Brad's body is hot against every inch of Nate's skin, his lips brushing against Nate's ear as he talks into the shell. "What if you'd gotten locked out? What if you'd gotten kidnapped? I thought I trained you better than that."
Nate shudders as Brad mouths at the nape of his neck. "Trained me?" he spits out, pushing back as Brad pins his hands to the door and kicks his legs apart.
"I bet I could train you," Brad whispers, rubbing his cock against Nate's ass.
Nate snorts. "In your dreams, sir." Brad bites him on the shoulder. Hard. His cock approves. "Shit, Brad!"
"Call me 'sir' again," Brad coaxes.
"Not until you learn how to behave," Nate says, rubbing his dick against the cool wood of the front door and pushing back against Brad at the same time.
He shivers when Brad pulls away suddenly, and then lets out a low groan when Brad licks down his spine. "You think I don't know how to behave?" Brad asks, sliding his hands down the cool trail of saliva on Nate's back, his fingers eventually spreading the cheeks of Nate's ass. Nate tenses when Brad runs a finger down the cleft.
"Well?" Brad prompts.
"What?" Nate says belatedly.
Brad chuckles and Nate twitches when something wet retraces the line of Brad's finger. "You were saying I don't know how to behave," Brad prompts. Nate exhales sharply when something probes at his entrance. It's too small for a cock and too hard for a tongue. It has to be a finger. One of Brad's long, thick fingers.
Nate makes a noncommittal noise that turns into a sharp inhale when Brad's finger pushes inside him. "I've been thinking about fucking you on every piece of furniture in the house," Brad says conversationally, his finger inching in a bit more.
Nate hisses; he's not fucking self-lubricating. Brad nips at the right cheek of his ass in some sort of apology, and Nate's brain waves the white flag.
"I listen to you jerk off while you’re in the shower in the morning," Brad carries on, slowly extracting his finger, "And I know you cover your mouth when you jerk off at night."
Nate's going to say something, but then Brad replaces his finger with his mouth and Nate makes this noise like he's going to die. Brad pulls back, his tongue flickering lightly over Nate's hole. "Yeah, that noise. That's the one I want."
"Brad," Nate urges, and Brad chuckles before putting his mouth back where Nate wants it. Brad's tongue is just as bossy as the rest of him; it probes and pushes and demands, and Nate scrabbles at the door, pushing back at Brad's mouth and trying to get more wetness, more pressure, more anything.
Brad's fucking Nate's ass with his tongue while Nate's humping the front door and -- Nate gets totally disoriented when Brad spins him around.
"What the -" Nate's protest dies off when Brad flicks his tongue over the head of Nate's cock, and then wraps his hand around the base and begins to suck Nate off. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
The corners of Brad's mouth turn up even as he's slurping obscenely on Nate's cock, one hand cupping Nate's balls, and Nate digs his nails into the wallpaper on either side of the front door, trying to hold himself up and not completely lose his shit.
Brad pulls off with a wet pop. "Go on," he urges, pulling Nate's hands away from the door frame. "I know you want to."
Nate takes a deep shuddering breath, guides his cock between Brad's lips and begins to fuck his mouth. Hard. Brad's hands cup Nate's hips, his thumbs rubbing the thin skin there as Nate slides in and out, his own panting loud in his ears. He jerks forward hard when Brad's finger slides inside of him again him and comes like he's been waiting his whole life. Brad swallows, which is too much for Nate to process, and Nate collapses on top of him, kissing Brad hard and licking away the taste of his own come before shoving Brad down on the carpet.
"Better now?" Brad asks wryly, as Nate sprawls out on top of him.
Nate breathes harshly against Brad's collarbone. "Yeah."
Nate's in the shower when Bryan calls. This is actually his second shower of the day, he tried to take one earlier, which Brad interrupted. Okay, 'interrupted' probably isn't the right word, but it ended up with hot, filthy sex on the bathroom floor, and then Nate was just as sweaty and sticky as he'd been before. So now he’s taking another one, alone this time. He's taken off guard when Brad pulls the curtain back and holds out his mobile phone. "Work."
Nate glares, but steps out of the shower anyway. "Yes," he snaps into the phone.
"Family meeting," Bryan says evenly. "One hour."
Nate sighs, because who couldn't see that coming? "Okay."
"At Godfather's house."
Nate winces. Fuck.
There are meetings and then there are meetings. The kind of meeting where all the lieutenants - Griego, Poke, Mike and Eric Kocher -- are waiting in the front hall and the front door is opened by Sixta and his Beretta denotes the latter.
Nate leaves Brad with the others and follows Sixta to his father's study where Bryan and Craig are already waiting outside the door. Bryan nods a greeting; true to form, Nate's brother just eyeballs him warily.
Sixta knocks once, waits for acknowledgement and then ushers them through the door.
Nate's father is sitting behind his desk with his reading glasses on, and he only looks up when the door closes behind them. Nate feels the way he did when he and Craig were little and had been caught fighting and had been sent here for punishment.
"Boys, have a seat."
Nate sits down next to Bryan, both of them perched on the edge of the sofa. Only Craig looks comfortable, taking a seat in Sixta's favorite leather arm chair.
"Nate, Bryan, I understand you two are behind this mess all over the front page of the morning paper." Nate scowls internally, damn Brad and his damn tongue. If he'd been able to read the paper and Brad hadn't - yeah, okay, not really the sort of thing you blame someone for.
"Yes, sir," they parrot in tandem.
"You destroyed a lot of property and brought us a lot of attention. I don't like attention, boys, you know that."
"Yes, sir."
"Sir, if I had been in charge," Craig begins.
"Godfather did not ask your opinion!"
Nate blinks. When his father talks about himself in third person, it's never a good sign.
"As I was saying," his father carries on, "You did a lot of damage, caused a lot of attention, but you saved your cousin's life, and for that his mother is grateful, and for that Godfather is grateful." Nate's stomach contracts a little. "However," oh, well, "you did not consult Godfather before you went into enemy territory. You did not advise Godfather of your plans - and blowing up property we will one day own is not good business practice."
Neither Nate nor Bryan reply. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, son?" his father queries.
Nate looks over at Bryan, whose face is perfectly blank. "No, sir," Nate replies crisply. "We did what we felt had to be done."
"Well, you should've called me first," Craig snaps.
"Son, you need to unfuck yourself," Nate's father says to his eldest child; Craig visibly blanches. "I suggest you remove the hamster from your asshole, congratulate them on a job well done and not let the door hit you on your way out."
Craig stands up, mumbles something and leaves the room. Nate cuts a glance towards Bryan, who's still remarkably impassive.
Nate's father leans back in his chair. "I had Craig leave, because I didn't think he should hear the part where I tell you two that if you ever pull shit like this again without telling me in advance I will personally drop you both in the river. Are we clear?"
Bryan and Nate both stand up sharply. "Yes, sir."
"Your cousin is in a private hospital, seeing about getting his appendages reattached. I've put Eric Kocher in charge until such time as I see fit to let your cousin assume command again."
Eric Kocher is the only reason Dave has lived as long as he has. As far as Nate's concerned, Eric should stay in charge permanently.
Godfather nods once. "Dismissed." Nate turns after Bryan for the door. "Not you, Nathaniel."
Nathaniel? Oh, god, his dad never calls him that.
Nate waits until Bryan closes the door and then turns back as his dad takes off his reading glasses. "Was this your idea, son?"
"No, sir, this was Bryan's plan."
"But you did the recon," his father prods.
"I helped with the planning," Nate amends. "Bryan is the one who found out about Dave. His boys did the recon; he's the one who gathered the teams. He's the one who made this a success."
Nate can feel his father scrutinizing him minutely. "Is there anything else you'd care to tell me about this operation?" Godfather asks.
Nate knows what his dad wants. He wants to hear that Nate single-handedly saved the day. That Nate stepped up and protected the family. Except that's not true. Nate will protect his own, but he won't tolerate idiots. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
His father raises an eyebrow. "Nate."
"Dad, Dave's an idiot; I know it and you know it. I know he’s your sister’s son, but it's the truth. Eric Kocher will be a better captain than Dave could ever dream of being, and frankly, if it weren't for Bryan, Dave would be dead."
His father doesn't blink. "I thought as much, but I wanted to hear it from you. It's important that you be aware of your assets and liabilities."
Nate nods.
"Brad here?"
Nate blinks. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Send him in on your way out."
Nate opens his mouth, but his father just waves him away.
Fuck.
Nate's waiting in the SUV with Ray when John Sixta comes out of the house. Nate passively registers Sixta's stocky legs trotting down the stairs, but he's not really processing at the moment.
Ray's been regaling him with increasingly sordid stories, probably to distract him -- right now he's yammering about this guy he knew that could suck his own dick -- but Nate's not listening. He wants to know what the hell his father's talking to Brad about. He's not used to being on the outside; he doesn't like the feeling.
Sixta's small enough that his chin barely comes up to the rolled-down passenger window of the Tahoe, but he is not a man to be trifled with. He's been around the Fick house for as long as Nate can remember, and he's continued to terrorize Nate and Craig long after they've towered over him.
"Godfather says for you to stop standin' around holdin' your dick and to go home," Sixta orders.
"We're waiting for Brad," Nate says evenly.
"You think that boy can't get hisself home?" Sixta barks. "That's a trained fuckin' killer in there. That boy'd still sniff out Osama Bin Laden if you cut off his nose!"
"We're waiting," Nate retorts sharply.
"And I'm telling you, you ain't! Now go home!"
"No!"
"Is you contradictin' a direct order from Godfather hisself, Nate?" Sixta's face is turning an unflattering shade of pink. Nobody says 'no' to Godfather.
Nate eyeballs Sixta for several tense moments. "No," he says eventually.
"That's what I thought." Sixta pats the car door. "Now git."
Ray walks Nate all the way to his apartment door. "You know this isn't necessary, Ray." Nate feels like he's being smothered.
Rah shrugs apologetically. "I know I'm not Terminator!Brad, but I let anything happen to you, and Brad - Boss, Brad is scary."
"Did Brad tell you to do this?"
Ray just shrugs again. "Sorry."
Nate pauses with his key in the door lock. "You're more afraid of Brad than you are of me, aren't you? I don't even know what to say to that."
"Nothing personal," Ray insists, following Nate inside. "But, you know, you'll just kill me. Brad, though, he'll, like, cut off my dick and send it to my mom to put on the bulletin board at Wal-Mart."
Nate throws his suit jacket in the vicinity of the sofa, loosening his tie as Ray glances in his bedroom and the coat closet and Brad's room. "Did you want a drink?" Nate asks, dropping the tie on the counter and opening the fridge.
For somebody who complained about Nate's Belgian beer, Brad's drunk several cases of it. Nate has to dig in the lettuce crisper to find two bottles. When he turns around, Ray's smirking at him.
"A drink, Boss? I've been working for you for three years and you've never offered me a drink in your house. Plenty of beer at Bryan's place, some good shit at Christmas, but never here."
"I didn't realize," Nate apologizes, pushing an errant 9mm and three Chinese stars out of the way as he pokes around the junk drawer for a bottle opener. The stars must belong to Brad. He's probably a fucking ninja in his spare time. He's probably reporting back to Nate's dad in his spare time, too.
Maybe this was some sort of status update.
Maybe Nate should just have a drink.
"I'm not, like, offended, Boss," Ray backtracks, "you're just not that kind of person. Well, you were, but then…" Ray trails off as Nate looks up around sharply.
"But then what?" he prompts, popping the top on the beer and sliding it across the kitchen island towards Ray.
"You know." Ray grabs the beer before it slides off the counter and gestures with it like he might be flagging down an F-22, a taxi or a football. "Brad."
Nate freezes with his own beer in hand. "Excuse me, Ray?"
Ray sets down the beer and holds up his hands. "Boss, look, I'm - you know as long as you're happy and alive that's all I really care about."
Nate narrows his eyes. "I don't know what you think you know."
"I don't know nothin'," Ray promises. "I'm just gonna go wait in the car for Brad to get home, okay?"
Nate rubs his forehead with the side of his beer. "Ray, you don't have to run away, I'm not going to shoot you."
"I know," Ray says, retreating quickly, "but Brad might if I don't do my job."
"Brad might do what to who?" Both Nate and Ray are startled when Brad appears from the front hall. Nate didn't even hear the door open. Definite ninja training.
"Brad might say I can go home early?" Ray asks hopefully, giving Brad his toothiest grin.
"I think you have to ask your boss about that," Brad says, discarding his suit jacket on the sofa right over Nate's.
Ray gives Nate his most pleading face, and Nate snorts. "Go on, we'll see you in the morning."
Ray grins. "You're the man, Nate," he says, before dashing off.
The door slams shut while Nate's still staring at where Ray's stood. He can't remember Ray ever calling him Nate. He stumbles slightly when Brad deliberately knocks him against the counter and steals his beer.
"Were you having a team bonding exercise without me?" Brad scolds.
Nate shakes his head, he had a beer. He knows he did. He leans far over the counter to grab the beer Ray had, he glances over his shoulder because he can feel Brad's eyes on the back of his neck, only he was wrong about the location because Brad's staring at his ass.
Nate snorts lightly as he slides back down onto his feet and moves around Brad. "Good beer?" he asks, pausing to remove his cufflinks and drop them by the sink.
Brad's tracking him around the kitchen and when Nate drops down on the sofa, Brad's practically on top of him. He sits down close enough that Nate has to poke him in the ass to get him to move over. Brad nudges him in the ribs, shifting around and kicking off his shoes. "Ask me."
Nate sets his beer on the coffee table and eyeballs Brad in confusion. "Ask you what?"
"You're not going to ask?"
"What are we talking about?" Nate tries again.
"Why Godfather wanted to see me."
Nate pinches his nose. "I don't want to know."
"Yes, you do."
"No, you want me to know."
Brad gives him a wry grin. "Very true, sir."
"Then just fucking tell me," Nate replies crossly.
Brad raises an eyebrow. "I don’t know whether to think you being pissy is hot or bitchy girlfriend."
Nate snatches the beer out of Brad's hand and it spills over his fingers when slams it on the coffee table. "I'm not a girl, so just tell me!"
Brad blinks. Maybe that was a little harsh. "If I'd known you'd be such an ungrateful fuck about it, I never would've accepted."
Nate's stomach bottoms out. "Accepted what?"
"The offer."
"What offer?"
Brad's peering intently at Nate now. "This wasn't your idea."
Nate's really about to lose his shit. "What wasn't my idea?"
The corners of Brad's mouth turn down. "That's unexpected."
Nate gets up, because if he doesn't move away, he's probably going to start shouting at Brad, and he'd prefer to save all shouting for things that are sex-related.
"Let's try this again," Nate says slowly, rubbing his forehead. "You accepted an offer from Godfather. What was it?"
"He made me an offer," Brad says flatly. "Your offer."
Nate can feel the blood leaving his face. "My offer? I didn't make you any offers. Why the hell would I make you an offer through Godfather?"
Brad narrows his eyes. "Isn't that how things are done here?"
"No," Nate hisses. "Not when it comes to -"
"To what?" Brad prompts.
Nate's head hurts, and he takes a step back when Brad stands up suddenly. "Your father made me an offer to come and work for him. In return, you keep the docks. You won't have to be the head of the family if you don't want to. You can stay here; we can stay here."
Nate's brain completely shorts out. "And you accepted this offer? Without asking me first?"
"Why wouldn’t I accept this offer?" Brad points out rationally. "You left. I thought this was your decision. I thought this was you saying I could stay or go."
"Don't you think I would've told you if I'd made a decision like that? Why would I even propose something like that?!" Nate rails. "Who the hell gives Godfather an ultimatum like, the guy I'm fucking is so great, here let me sell you his ass for my future!"
"I'm going to work for someone," Brad counters, "I don't give a shit who it is."
"Why did you do this?"
"Because you don’t want to be in charge. Because of this." Brad motions between them vaguely.
"Because of this," Nate parrots slowly. "What this? Us fucking? I told you that wasn't a good idea!"
"You didn't say that when I had my tongue in your ass," Brad snaps.
Nate glowers darkly. "You work for me; you had no right to make arrangements with someone else."
Brad's jaw tightens. "I did what you do: I put Godfather first."
Nate doesn't really mean to swing for Brad; it just happens. He supposes it's a good thing he misses, but then Brad tackles him and they go flying over the sofa, knocking over the end table, the beer and a lamp.
"You had no right to make a decision about my future without my consent!" Nate orders as they roll around on the floor.
"Your father's been deciding your life for the last thirty-fucking-years, why does it matter now?" Brad demands.
"You are not Godfather!" Nate shouts, struggling as Brad pins him down.
Brad looms over him, his face a mixture of confusion and impatience. "Neither are you," he says sharply.
Nate shoves Brad off of him and gets to his feet. "Get out," he commands.
Brad gives him a disbelieving look, but Nate's resolve is set. "Get out now," he repeats. He stands in the middle of his living room, pointedly not looking at Brad, and it's only when the door clicks shut that Nate realizes that he just got rid of the only good thing he's had in a long time.
Part III