[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] of the wild ones
Title: of the wild ones
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's one way of making the world a better place.
Notes: For the prompt teacher/professor AU, inspired by this song. Non-linear is my faaaaave.
"You don't seem like the type," Brad says as Nate's hands settle on his shoulders, turning him ever so slightly towards the left. "To do this kind of thing." Nate doesn't say anything, just takes his hands away and nods. Inhale, exhale, a gentle squeeze on the trigger and Brad takes the shot. Headshot. Inhale, exhale, another shot. Chest. Perfect shots.
"It's one way of making the world a better place," Nate says finally, dusting his hands off on the thighs of his jeans. He says nothing about the shots, doesn't even glance at the target, just turns his back on Brad and walks to the door.
The man comes to Brad in his cell. He leans back against the wall and stares and Brad refuses to feel self conscious, refuses to acknowledge the fact he needs a shower, needs a shave, needs sleep.
"You can come with me and all charges will be dropped," the man says. "Or you can stay here."
"I'm assuming they won't be dropped if I stay here?" Brad says, stares right back at the man with his polo shirt and flip flops, with his bright green eyes.
"You can be assured of that."
"It'll be a shame to leave the comfort of jail." There's a smile on the edge of the man's lips, a gentle curve. "Before I give up not being able to bend over in the showers, how about you tell me who you are?"
"I'm Nate Fick," he says. "And I work for an organization that could make use of your...skill set."
Nate's breath is warm against Brad's shoulder, a gentle slew of air, his fingers tracing a pattern across Brad's ribs.
"You were great today," he says, flattening his hand out against Brad's chest. There's a bruise, it aches slightly under the pressure of Nate's hand. "How do you feel?"
"A-fucking-mazing." Nate laughs, curls his hand back towards Brad's ribs.
"Do you understand it yet?" Brad doesn't have an answer for that.
They leave him to stew in his apartment for three weeks. His apartment, none of his things. Everything's gone, his computers, his books, the keys to his bike, his clothes. He buys jeans and t-shirts from Goodwill, borrows books from the library, bitches to nothing and noone about the computers and waits. He doesn't call it waiting. He doesn't acknowledge he's expecting something better than this.
It's a nearly a month, but finally Nate comes, the keys to Brad's bike swinging on his index finger and a smile on his face.
"We had to make sure you wouldn't run," he says, like that's an explanation, like Brad knows who we is. "Get your stuff. You're leaving." He catches his keys one handed and doesn't tell Nate his bags are already packed.
Nate doesn't mean to kiss Brad, doesn't mean to lean across the space between them and kiss him. Except he does, he does, he does.
Brad kisses him back, a hand cupped to the back of Nate's neck and it feels too much like falling.
Brad takes the shot from the building opposite. He doesn't move his eyes from the target, even with Nate beside him, one hand barely an inch from Brad's thigh.
"Well done," Nate whispers, a hush of breath that nearly gets lost to the noise. Brad just shifts, squeezes the cramp from his thigh and ignores the niggling voice at the back of his mind that says you're a killer now.
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's one way of making the world a better place.
Notes: For the prompt teacher/professor AU, inspired by this song. Non-linear is my faaaaave.
"You don't seem like the type," Brad says as Nate's hands settle on his shoulders, turning him ever so slightly towards the left. "To do this kind of thing." Nate doesn't say anything, just takes his hands away and nods. Inhale, exhale, a gentle squeeze on the trigger and Brad takes the shot. Headshot. Inhale, exhale, another shot. Chest. Perfect shots.
"It's one way of making the world a better place," Nate says finally, dusting his hands off on the thighs of his jeans. He says nothing about the shots, doesn't even glance at the target, just turns his back on Brad and walks to the door.
The man comes to Brad in his cell. He leans back against the wall and stares and Brad refuses to feel self conscious, refuses to acknowledge the fact he needs a shower, needs a shave, needs sleep.
"You can come with me and all charges will be dropped," the man says. "Or you can stay here."
"I'm assuming they won't be dropped if I stay here?" Brad says, stares right back at the man with his polo shirt and flip flops, with his bright green eyes.
"You can be assured of that."
"It'll be a shame to leave the comfort of jail." There's a smile on the edge of the man's lips, a gentle curve. "Before I give up not being able to bend over in the showers, how about you tell me who you are?"
"I'm Nate Fick," he says. "And I work for an organization that could make use of your...skill set."
Nate's breath is warm against Brad's shoulder, a gentle slew of air, his fingers tracing a pattern across Brad's ribs.
"You were great today," he says, flattening his hand out against Brad's chest. There's a bruise, it aches slightly under the pressure of Nate's hand. "How do you feel?"
"A-fucking-mazing." Nate laughs, curls his hand back towards Brad's ribs.
"Do you understand it yet?" Brad doesn't have an answer for that.
They leave him to stew in his apartment for three weeks. His apartment, none of his things. Everything's gone, his computers, his books, the keys to his bike, his clothes. He buys jeans and t-shirts from Goodwill, borrows books from the library, bitches to nothing and noone about the computers and waits. He doesn't call it waiting. He doesn't acknowledge he's expecting something better than this.
It's a nearly a month, but finally Nate comes, the keys to Brad's bike swinging on his index finger and a smile on his face.
"We had to make sure you wouldn't run," he says, like that's an explanation, like Brad knows who we is. "Get your stuff. You're leaving." He catches his keys one handed and doesn't tell Nate his bags are already packed.
Nate doesn't mean to kiss Brad, doesn't mean to lean across the space between them and kiss him. Except he does, he does, he does.
Brad kisses him back, a hand cupped to the back of Nate's neck and it feels too much like falling.
Brad takes the shot from the building opposite. He doesn't move his eyes from the target, even with Nate beside him, one hand barely an inch from Brad's thigh.
"Well done," Nate whispers, a hush of breath that nearly gets lost to the noise. Brad just shifts, squeezes the cramp from his thigh and ignores the niggling voice at the back of his mind that says you're a killer now.