Advent Calendar Day Eight - Generation Kill fic: Jump
Day One | Avalanche, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, R, 400 words | for pjvilar
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
Day Three | running away from nothing real, Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words | for vinylroad
Day Four | they said a hundred times I should have died, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,192 words | for pau494
Day Five | try again, die again, die better, Torchwood, Jack, wallpaper | for pierhias
Day Six | monsters are always hungry, darling, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,001 words | for lunatics_word
Day Seven | The Nine Lives of Bryce Larkin, Chuck/Chrestomanci series (Diana Wynne Jones), Bryce/Chuck, Chrestomanci, PG-13, 1,760 words | for misura
Jump [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, PG-13, AU, 2,046 words, for idrilka, prompt: trust. Beta thanks to shoshannagold.]
"Jump," he says.
So Brad jumps.
*
Brad knew, of course. Somewhere deep down, under enough layers that it could never be put into words. But there, regardless, so that when he heard the order - jump - he didn't hesitate.
There's only one man he trusts that much.
*
South Bay Tower is 67 stories. Brad tries to count floors as he falls, but even with his arms spread out wide he's travelling too fast. 50% of terminal velocity in three seconds, 90% in eight seconds.
He isn't afraid.
He won't die. Not today.
He watches the specks below him moving around, becoming individuals, growing into recognizable shapes, people.
He falls.
*
The office party is in full swing when Brad gets there. El is half-way to drunk already, hanging onto Ray, and Ray's making sure she gets the rest of the way drunk as fast as possible. Ray winks at him.
Brad rolls his eyes. Those two have been on again, off again, ever since Brad came to work at Mattis and Ferrando, four years ago.
"Ten bucks says they break up again on New Year's Day," Tony says in Brad's ear. Sofia is holding onto his arm, looking as gorgeous as ever, one hand resting on her belly. She's due in ten days.
"Before midnight, New Year's Eve," Brad says, and shakes on it.
He takes a glass from one of the mingling waiters and looks around. He doesn't pretend to himself that he isn't looking for one person in particular. Sandy-haired, green-eyed, serious except for those times when he'll let himself slip into a wicked grin.
Nate isn't here. Brad can tell that from a quick scan of the room. Nate goes missing a lot: walks out of meetings with the flimsiest excuse on his lips, vanishes in the middle of the day and comes back with dust in his hair, shows up ten minutes late in the morning even though Brad knows he's the kind of guy who hates to be anything other than perfectly punctual.
No one else seems to notice.
Brad always notices.
*
The firm's been dealing with some unpleasant characters lately. That's the problem with a recession - they can't afford to turn away business simply because they don't like the clients.
Nate's certain it's going to bite them in the ass, and Brad agrees. They both think that they should tighten their belts and make do, but the only one of the senior partners who listens to them is Patterson, and he's generally out-voted.
Patterson isn't here tonight. There are rumors he's leaving the firm. Brad hopes not.
*
Brad's debating the merits of getting thoroughly drunk and enjoying the party more versus the pain of working through a hangover tomorrow, when he feels something cold and hard in the small of his back. He doesn't need to turn around to know that it's a gun.
"Enjoying the party?" The voice is leisurely and relaxed, with an accent Brad can't quite place. Chicago, perhaps. By way of Moscow.
"Not particularly." Brad's honesty isn't due to the slight shift of the metal as he breathes: he's always honest about not enjoying parties sober.
"In that case, I'm sure you won't mind heading across to the offices."
"Dull as it is to hear the same tired jokes year after year, I'd rather stay here."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Colbert, I'm not in a position to make it optional. You see, if you don't leave now, quietly, then I'll be forced to liven up the party in a way that I feel certain you won't like. I'm sure you wouldn't want any harm to come to Mrs. Espera, or that pretty head of purchasing, what's her name? Ah, yes, El Winters."
*
They go to the VP's office. Brad sits down at the computer. It takes him under a minute to crack the password. Only last week everyone took the mandatory online security course; this just goes to show what a waste of time that was.
"Open the folder at the bottom of the screen."
"The one labeled sundries?" Brad asks. "Or the accounts folder?" Stalling.
"Neither. Don't waste my time, Mr. Colbert. Now, save the files to this." The man puts a flash drive down on the desk, carefully - he's keeping his distance now, not giving Brad any chances.
The man has a bottle of whisky in the hand not pointing the gun at Brad. Cheap whisky, Brad notes. He isn't sure if that should tell him anything about the man or not. His skin is yellowish - maybe he has liver failure. Too much alcohol. His hands are steady, though. Brad isn't learning anything that will help him but he still stores up details. Just in case.
He looks at the folder - he can't tell what the files are without opening them, the names all ambiguous and unfamiliar to him. A client's details, he assumes. A business rival of whoever's paying the man with the gun. Or maybe some dirty business of the firm, blackmail material. Brad likes to think they're a decent company, but everyone has their secrets.
It takes him less than a minute to save the files - the job is too easy. Anyone with a few basic hacking skills could have cracked the password. Brad's only other use is to get them in and out of the office without question. Which makes him expendable as soon as the man's made his getaway. No one left to say which files were accessed. If they're smart, no one need ever know there was a breach of security.
Brad would be a fool to underestimate them. He isn't a fool.
Once he's handed over the flash drive, he's shepherded to the elevators, gun hidden in the small of his back again as they pass other people. They look like they've drunk too much - no one gives them a second glance. "Hit the button for the roof," the man tells him.
"The elevator doesn't go all the way up," Brad points out.
"I am aware of the layout of the building, but thank you for your concern. Always nice to deal with a cooperative employee."
"I imagine that you must find most people you meet cooperative," Brad says, pressing back into the gun a fraction to make his point.
The man laughs. "It must be my charming personality and good looks," he says.
Brad can see the man's reflection in the burnished metal of the elevator walls. He's burly - solid now, but he'll run to fat in a few years - with dark hair and a large nose. "Yes, that must be it," Brad says agreeably.
They take the stairs for the last storey, the door at the top swinging open when Brad pushes it. It should be padlocked, but that would have been easy enough to break. No one would come up here in the evening, no one would have heard.
There's a helicopter on the roof. "I hope it isn't a long flight," Brad says, walking slowly across the roof. "I left my jacket downstairs." He's shivering with the cold already, holding himself stiff to counteract it.
"Not long, no. Eight hundred feet, I believe."
That's the height of the building.
Brad stands very still and considers his options. The man circles around him, bending down and placing the bottle of cheap whisky on the ground once he's far enough away that Brad can't even attempt to jump him. Not that it would get him far - the helicopter pilot is aiming a second gun at him, and Brad doubts he's any less competent than his colleague.
"A pre-flight drink," the man says. "Consider it a parting thank you for a job well done.
"No glass?"
"Please, Mr. Colbert, don't be fussy. Drink up." The order is punctuated by the cocking of the gun.
Brad drinks. Every time he lowers the bottle, the gun is flicked upwards, urging him on. Brad can hold his liquor, but this is too fast. He can feel the effects of it already, the features in front of him blurring in a way that has nothing to do with the speed of the wind at this height or the shivering that he can't control any more.
"Excellent," the man says when Brad holds up the empty bottle. "Now it's time to take a trip. A shame, such a promising career ended with one drunken accident." The man motions Brad to the wall surrounding the roof. There are security cameras up here, but Brad knows there are blind spots - Ray and El have taken advantage of them more than once - and he's certain he's being sent towards one of those blind spots. There isn't going to be any rescue in time. He's just thankful Ray and Tony and Sofia and El are safe. And that Nate wasn't there.
He climbs up onto the wall, bottle in his hand. It's hard to balance, the crosswind violent, and the chill bites through his too-thin shirt.
The view is beautiful from here.
*
He jumps, but only when he hears the order from the right voice. The voice he trusts.
*
There's a flash of red beside him, and suddenly he isn't falling any more. He's floating, a moment of utter stillness, and then he's flying, wrapped up in a cloak and strong arms.
"I'm going to take you home," says the voice Brad trusts, "and then I've got some bad guys to deal with."
Brad doesn't question how he knows where Brad lives.
*
"The police are dealing with them," Nate says, when he shows up on Brad's doorstep twenty minutes later. Brad leans against the doorpost, unsteady, and Nate holds him up.
Nate's in a suit. Charcoal cashmere, with a deep red silk tie and a white shirt. There's always a hint of red in Nate's outfits, Brad realizes.
"May I come in?" Nate asks politely, and Brad realizes he's been standing and staring.
He steps back and then regrets it when Nate lets go of him. He lets himself stumble as he walks down the hallway. That earns him Nate's touch again, an arm under his.
Brad turns to Nate before they reach the living room. Puts two fingers on his chest, moving Nate's tie to one side. "If I undid the buttons, what would I find underneath?"
Nate huffs a laugh. "We're going to talk about the elephant in the room? When you're drunk?"
"I have some of my best conversations drunk," Brad says truthfully.
"Not this one," Nate says, and his voice is deeper, the voice he uses as him. Brad can't argue with it, especially now Nate's settling him on the couch. "Sleep it off," Nate says, pushing a cushion under his head and lifting his feet up.
*
There's a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the table next to him, and the blinds are drawn against the morning light. Brad sits up and fumbles with the bottle - goddamn childproof top. There's a snigger.
Nate's still here, sitting in the armchair in the corner.
"Don't even think of opening it for me," Brad says, pushing the lid down and turning it. "I'm not a damsel in distress."
"No, definitely not. You're far heavier, for one thing."
So they're not going to pretend Nate didn't out himself yesterday. Brad's glad of that.
Brad swallows a couple of pills and drinks the water. He feels okay. "You didn't answer my question last night." Nate's still wearing the suit and tie.
Nate doesn't insult him by asking which one. "I didn't see the need."
"No?"
"No. I thought I'd let you find out for yourself."
Brad looks at the clock on the wall. It's 7:05. "How long will it take you to get us into work?"
Nate grins. "Fifteen seconds. Less if I rush."
That gives them long enough. "Come here," Brad says, and before he's as much as blinked Nate's standing in front of him. Brad pulls him down by his tie until Nate's in his lap. He loosens the tie and twists it to one side. Undoes one button, then another.
One day he'll ask about superheroes' apparent fascination with red. For now he concentrates on the buttons and the man underneath.
//
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
Day Three | running away from nothing real, Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words | for vinylroad
Day Four | they said a hundred times I should have died, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,192 words | for pau494
Day Five | try again, die again, die better, Torchwood, Jack, wallpaper | for pierhias
Day Six | monsters are always hungry, darling, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,001 words | for lunatics_word
Day Seven | The Nine Lives of Bryce Larkin, Chuck/Chrestomanci series (Diana Wynne Jones), Bryce/Chuck, Chrestomanci, PG-13, 1,760 words | for misura
Jump [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, PG-13, AU, 2,046 words, for idrilka, prompt: trust. Beta thanks to shoshannagold.]
"Jump," he says.
So Brad jumps.
*
Brad knew, of course. Somewhere deep down, under enough layers that it could never be put into words. But there, regardless, so that when he heard the order - jump - he didn't hesitate.
There's only one man he trusts that much.
*
South Bay Tower is 67 stories. Brad tries to count floors as he falls, but even with his arms spread out wide he's travelling too fast. 50% of terminal velocity in three seconds, 90% in eight seconds.
He isn't afraid.
He won't die. Not today.
He watches the specks below him moving around, becoming individuals, growing into recognizable shapes, people.
He falls.
*
The office party is in full swing when Brad gets there. El is half-way to drunk already, hanging onto Ray, and Ray's making sure she gets the rest of the way drunk as fast as possible. Ray winks at him.
Brad rolls his eyes. Those two have been on again, off again, ever since Brad came to work at Mattis and Ferrando, four years ago.
"Ten bucks says they break up again on New Year's Day," Tony says in Brad's ear. Sofia is holding onto his arm, looking as gorgeous as ever, one hand resting on her belly. She's due in ten days.
"Before midnight, New Year's Eve," Brad says, and shakes on it.
He takes a glass from one of the mingling waiters and looks around. He doesn't pretend to himself that he isn't looking for one person in particular. Sandy-haired, green-eyed, serious except for those times when he'll let himself slip into a wicked grin.
Nate isn't here. Brad can tell that from a quick scan of the room. Nate goes missing a lot: walks out of meetings with the flimsiest excuse on his lips, vanishes in the middle of the day and comes back with dust in his hair, shows up ten minutes late in the morning even though Brad knows he's the kind of guy who hates to be anything other than perfectly punctual.
No one else seems to notice.
Brad always notices.
*
The firm's been dealing with some unpleasant characters lately. That's the problem with a recession - they can't afford to turn away business simply because they don't like the clients.
Nate's certain it's going to bite them in the ass, and Brad agrees. They both think that they should tighten their belts and make do, but the only one of the senior partners who listens to them is Patterson, and he's generally out-voted.
Patterson isn't here tonight. There are rumors he's leaving the firm. Brad hopes not.
*
Brad's debating the merits of getting thoroughly drunk and enjoying the party more versus the pain of working through a hangover tomorrow, when he feels something cold and hard in the small of his back. He doesn't need to turn around to know that it's a gun.
"Enjoying the party?" The voice is leisurely and relaxed, with an accent Brad can't quite place. Chicago, perhaps. By way of Moscow.
"Not particularly." Brad's honesty isn't due to the slight shift of the metal as he breathes: he's always honest about not enjoying parties sober.
"In that case, I'm sure you won't mind heading across to the offices."
"Dull as it is to hear the same tired jokes year after year, I'd rather stay here."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Colbert, I'm not in a position to make it optional. You see, if you don't leave now, quietly, then I'll be forced to liven up the party in a way that I feel certain you won't like. I'm sure you wouldn't want any harm to come to Mrs. Espera, or that pretty head of purchasing, what's her name? Ah, yes, El Winters."
*
They go to the VP's office. Brad sits down at the computer. It takes him under a minute to crack the password. Only last week everyone took the mandatory online security course; this just goes to show what a waste of time that was.
"Open the folder at the bottom of the screen."
"The one labeled sundries?" Brad asks. "Or the accounts folder?" Stalling.
"Neither. Don't waste my time, Mr. Colbert. Now, save the files to this." The man puts a flash drive down on the desk, carefully - he's keeping his distance now, not giving Brad any chances.
The man has a bottle of whisky in the hand not pointing the gun at Brad. Cheap whisky, Brad notes. He isn't sure if that should tell him anything about the man or not. His skin is yellowish - maybe he has liver failure. Too much alcohol. His hands are steady, though. Brad isn't learning anything that will help him but he still stores up details. Just in case.
He looks at the folder - he can't tell what the files are without opening them, the names all ambiguous and unfamiliar to him. A client's details, he assumes. A business rival of whoever's paying the man with the gun. Or maybe some dirty business of the firm, blackmail material. Brad likes to think they're a decent company, but everyone has their secrets.
It takes him less than a minute to save the files - the job is too easy. Anyone with a few basic hacking skills could have cracked the password. Brad's only other use is to get them in and out of the office without question. Which makes him expendable as soon as the man's made his getaway. No one left to say which files were accessed. If they're smart, no one need ever know there was a breach of security.
Brad would be a fool to underestimate them. He isn't a fool.
Once he's handed over the flash drive, he's shepherded to the elevators, gun hidden in the small of his back again as they pass other people. They look like they've drunk too much - no one gives them a second glance. "Hit the button for the roof," the man tells him.
"The elevator doesn't go all the way up," Brad points out.
"I am aware of the layout of the building, but thank you for your concern. Always nice to deal with a cooperative employee."
"I imagine that you must find most people you meet cooperative," Brad says, pressing back into the gun a fraction to make his point.
The man laughs. "It must be my charming personality and good looks," he says.
Brad can see the man's reflection in the burnished metal of the elevator walls. He's burly - solid now, but he'll run to fat in a few years - with dark hair and a large nose. "Yes, that must be it," Brad says agreeably.
They take the stairs for the last storey, the door at the top swinging open when Brad pushes it. It should be padlocked, but that would have been easy enough to break. No one would come up here in the evening, no one would have heard.
There's a helicopter on the roof. "I hope it isn't a long flight," Brad says, walking slowly across the roof. "I left my jacket downstairs." He's shivering with the cold already, holding himself stiff to counteract it.
"Not long, no. Eight hundred feet, I believe."
That's the height of the building.
Brad stands very still and considers his options. The man circles around him, bending down and placing the bottle of cheap whisky on the ground once he's far enough away that Brad can't even attempt to jump him. Not that it would get him far - the helicopter pilot is aiming a second gun at him, and Brad doubts he's any less competent than his colleague.
"A pre-flight drink," the man says. "Consider it a parting thank you for a job well done.
"No glass?"
"Please, Mr. Colbert, don't be fussy. Drink up." The order is punctuated by the cocking of the gun.
Brad drinks. Every time he lowers the bottle, the gun is flicked upwards, urging him on. Brad can hold his liquor, but this is too fast. He can feel the effects of it already, the features in front of him blurring in a way that has nothing to do with the speed of the wind at this height or the shivering that he can't control any more.
"Excellent," the man says when Brad holds up the empty bottle. "Now it's time to take a trip. A shame, such a promising career ended with one drunken accident." The man motions Brad to the wall surrounding the roof. There are security cameras up here, but Brad knows there are blind spots - Ray and El have taken advantage of them more than once - and he's certain he's being sent towards one of those blind spots. There isn't going to be any rescue in time. He's just thankful Ray and Tony and Sofia and El are safe. And that Nate wasn't there.
He climbs up onto the wall, bottle in his hand. It's hard to balance, the crosswind violent, and the chill bites through his too-thin shirt.
The view is beautiful from here.
*
He jumps, but only when he hears the order from the right voice. The voice he trusts.
*
There's a flash of red beside him, and suddenly he isn't falling any more. He's floating, a moment of utter stillness, and then he's flying, wrapped up in a cloak and strong arms.
"I'm going to take you home," says the voice Brad trusts, "and then I've got some bad guys to deal with."
Brad doesn't question how he knows where Brad lives.
*
"The police are dealing with them," Nate says, when he shows up on Brad's doorstep twenty minutes later. Brad leans against the doorpost, unsteady, and Nate holds him up.
Nate's in a suit. Charcoal cashmere, with a deep red silk tie and a white shirt. There's always a hint of red in Nate's outfits, Brad realizes.
"May I come in?" Nate asks politely, and Brad realizes he's been standing and staring.
He steps back and then regrets it when Nate lets go of him. He lets himself stumble as he walks down the hallway. That earns him Nate's touch again, an arm under his.
Brad turns to Nate before they reach the living room. Puts two fingers on his chest, moving Nate's tie to one side. "If I undid the buttons, what would I find underneath?"
Nate huffs a laugh. "We're going to talk about the elephant in the room? When you're drunk?"
"I have some of my best conversations drunk," Brad says truthfully.
"Not this one," Nate says, and his voice is deeper, the voice he uses as him. Brad can't argue with it, especially now Nate's settling him on the couch. "Sleep it off," Nate says, pushing a cushion under his head and lifting his feet up.
*
There's a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the table next to him, and the blinds are drawn against the morning light. Brad sits up and fumbles with the bottle - goddamn childproof top. There's a snigger.
Nate's still here, sitting in the armchair in the corner.
"Don't even think of opening it for me," Brad says, pushing the lid down and turning it. "I'm not a damsel in distress."
"No, definitely not. You're far heavier, for one thing."
So they're not going to pretend Nate didn't out himself yesterday. Brad's glad of that.
Brad swallows a couple of pills and drinks the water. He feels okay. "You didn't answer my question last night." Nate's still wearing the suit and tie.
Nate doesn't insult him by asking which one. "I didn't see the need."
"No?"
"No. I thought I'd let you find out for yourself."
Brad looks at the clock on the wall. It's 7:05. "How long will it take you to get us into work?"
Nate grins. "Fifteen seconds. Less if I rush."
That gives them long enough. "Come here," Brad says, and before he's as much as blinked Nate's standing in front of him. Brad pulls him down by his tie until Nate's in his lap. He loosens the tie and twists it to one side. Undoes one button, then another.
One day he'll ask about superheroes' apparent fascination with red. For now he concentrates on the buttons and the man underneath.
//