#70: fic: real human being (and a real hero)
Title: real human being (and a real hero)
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters here are based on those portrayed in HBO's fictionalised mini-series.
Word count: 5,200
Summary: Drive (2011) AU. "Need a lift?" It's 405, standing over Brad with a paper bag in his arm. With the sun on his face and a smile like that, he doesn't look old enough to drive. In which Nate is the Driver, Brad is Carey Mulligan, and Ray tries his best to refrain from saying Hey, Girl.
Warnings: Language, violence. Spoilers for Drive.
Notes: It's not absolutely necessary for you to have watched Drive to read this. There will be spoilers, though. Here's a trailer that also contains a startling number of spoilers. Huge thanks to forochel for the look-through and the brainstorming. ♥
"So there is this guy," Poke is saying. "The best motherfucking driver in town. Young, doesn't talk much. Hard as anything. Except one day he meets this married chick with a kid, and he falls in love. And you know what this guy does? He pays off her husband's debt, kills the guys her husband owes the money to, and is forced to skip town."
"And what exactly," says Brad, "is the point of this story?"
"The point is that people are stupid. Motherfucker loses everything, and he doesn't even get the chick in the end." Poke seems genuinely put out by this. "You hear me, dawg? People are stupid."
Brad doesn't look up from where he is polishing the frame of his bike, but he does give a little shrug. "Must have been some chick."
The guy who lives in 405 doesn't talk much. Neither does Brad, so it works out for both of them. Sometimes they ride the elevator together, or run into each other at the basement parking lot, and are forced to make fleeting eye contact. There is a sort of eloquence in 405's half-smiles in those moments, but he averts his gaze quite quickly. Brad looks away, too, because it's rude to stare.
Sometimes he stares anyway.
405 lives alone; no roommate or girlfriend. No friends, either, by the looks of it. Not the sort who come over for a beer, at least. This is not to say that Brad keeps tabs on 405. Not special tabs, anyway. Brad keeps tabs on more or less everyone in the building.
"Who's the guy in the satin jacket?" asks Ray one afternoon.
"Which guy?" asks Brad, even though he knows exactly who Ray is talking about. He's still more than a little irritated at the fact that Ray's invited himself over yet again, and cannot resist winding him up.
"You know which one, you contrary motherfucker," says Ray. "It's not like everyone in your apartment building stalks around with a fucking golden scorpion embroidered onto the back of their baseball jacket."
"Oh," says Brad. "You mean 405?"
"Nice, Brad. Not even bothering to learn the names of your neighbours."
"He lives three units away. I don't need his name."
"What do you think he does? Walking around with a jacket like that."
Brad takes a swig of his beer and carries on flipping channels.
"Maybe he's in the movies," Ray continues, regardless of Brad's non-response. "He's got the face for it. Pretty bastard."
"You, on the other hand, possess a cretinous, in-bred face that most people would pay not to see."
Ray beams, and stuffs another slice of pizza into his mouth. "Now that just warms the cockles of my heart. Not my cock - don't get me wrong. Cockles."
"Shut up, Ray."
"Cockles."
Ray's taking a shower and caterwauling Jolene at the top of his lungs when Brad heads out to get some groceries. He does this mostly because the only other alternative to physically leaving his apartment is entering the bathroom and putting Ray in a headlock to make him stop. Brad would like to avoid scrabbling around with a naked Ray as far as possible.
He's in and out of the supermarket in under fifteen minutes, stepping out into the heat again bearing armfuls of beer and other supplies. It is clearly not Brad's day, however, because his bike will not start up.
"Fuck," mutters Brad, crouching down beside the bike. He is sure Poke didn't mean to scam him with the new engine, but that doesn't explain the smoke curling ominously from it.
"Need a lift?"
It's 405, standing over Brad with a paper bag in his arm. With the sun on his face and a smile like that, he doesn't look old enough to drive.
"I don't think your ice cream's going to last much longer." He points to the condensation soaking through one of Brad's paper bags.
Brad rises to his feet, standing close enough to 405 for it to constitute looming. "It's beer."
To 405's credit, he doesn't step back or look away. Instead, he smiles. His eyes are very green. "Still."
The car is a 1973 Chevrolet Malibu. Not Brad's style, but beautiful all the same. 405 drives it like a dream. He doesn't go any faster than the speed limit but there is an effortless control in the way he navigates the sun-drenched streets back to the apartment. He turns corners with smooth precision, changes gears fluidly and skillfully. Watching 405 drive is like watching him speak a language that is only halfway familiar to Brad.
If 405 notices Brad looking at him, he doesn't say anything.
They ride the elevator together, each holding their own groceries. The polite thing to do would probably be to make small talk, but Brad isn't particularly keen on small talk and 405 seems perfectly content to give him amiable sidelong glances all the way up.
When the elevator doors slide open at the fourth floor, 405 nudges the side of his foot against the door and motions for Brad to exit before him.
"Thanks," says Brad, stepping into the corridor. "And thanks for the lift."
405 nods. "No problem."
They could easily part ways there. Already, 405 is turning to go, reaching into his trouser pocket to fish out his keys.
Maybe it's the heat, or the fact that Brad's just spent fifteen minutes watching this guy handle his car with striking competence. Or perhaps it just comes down to that last look 405 gives him before turning away, like he and Brad have come to some sort of accord without having even exchanged names.
Whatever it is, something compels Brad to ask, "Would you like a beer?" before 405 can leave.
405 pauses. He takes his hand from his trouser pocket and readjusts his grip on his paper bag, another slow smile creeping across his face. "Sure."
405's name is Nate, and he drives for a living.
"Like a limo driver?" asks Ray, freshly showered and wearing one of Brad's shirts (just because he can).
"No, for the movies," Nate says. "Car chases, things like that."
"Well, you're a pretty decent driver," says Brad.
"Oh, because that's not patronising at all, Brad," interjects Ray, swiping a bottle of beer and opening it on the countertop.
"There's a bottle opener right there, you whiskey tango retard." Brad glances at Nate. "Sorry about Ray."
Nate grins and takes another swig of beer. "It's fine," he says. It's almost conspiratorial.
Later, when Ray mentions that they're Marines, Nate nods and says that he guessed something to that effect. He also asks about Brad's other motorcycle - the one that didn't just fail Brad outside of that supermarket earlier that afternoon.
Clearly Brad isn't the only one keeping tabs on his neighbours.
There is a sort of latent languidity in the heat that brings to mind the phrase beer weather. The blazing sunshine has always made Brad itch a little for something else, something like dirt and sand and the refracted clarity borne of constant adrenaline in his veins.
But for now there are drinks to be had, and good company. Ray persuades Nate to have another bottle, and nobody at any point in the conversation looks concerned and asks isn't that dangerous with regards to what they each do for a living.
Brad takes the bike to Mike Wynn's garage the next day. Ostensibly this is because Poke's has been swamped with new orders for weeks and Brad would rather not have to wait. It certainly has very little to do with Nate mentioning that he works there, or the way he nodded when Brad had asked if they fixed bikes, too.
Nate is tuning the engine of his own car when Brad enters, but he looks up at the sound of Brad's voice.
Brad clears his throat. "Hi."
"Hi," Nate replies, setting down his wrench and coming towards Brad and Wynn. He looks only slightly surprised, but pleasantly so.
Wynn glances between them. "You two know each other, then?"
"We're neighbours," says Brad.
Nate's perspiring slightly, and his hands are stained with motor grease. Some of it has gotten on his white undershirt, and there are a couple of faint smudges on the side of his neck. It's not a bad look. Brad doesn't watch him go as he heads back to continue working on his car.
"This is a beautifully tuned machine," Wynn tells Brad, after they've examined the engine together. "Sometimes these things happen. Give me two days. I'll fix it up real good."
Brad nods. Two days is fair enough. They haggle over the price for a while but after the third time Wynn assures Brad that he's charging a very neighbourly fee indeed, they settle on a reasonable amount. When Brad asks about the nearest bus stop, Wynn waves it off.
"Don't bother with catching a bus. Nate'll give you a lift." He turns to Nate and beckons. "Come over here for a second, will you?"
Nate wanders over, wiping his hands on an equally grimy piece of cloth.
"I was thinking since you two know each other, you could give Brad here a ride home," says Wynn. "That okay?"
Nate looks from Wynn to Brad, a smile lighting his face. "Yeah. Sure." He pauses for a moment, before saying, "I don't have wheels on my car."
"Okay," says Brad.
"That's something you should know about me," Nate continues, completely straight-faced. They're looking at each other now; Nate's eyes are twinkling, and Brad can't help but begin to grin.
"Well, put the tyres on," says Wynn in mock exasperation.
"Hey," Nate says as they're cruising down Reseda Boulevard. "Do you want to see something?"
And it's perhaps precisely the sort of thing that Brad would do to impress someone, if he had someone to impress and didn't enjoy being alone on his bike so much. Because it's easy to be impressed, when the sunlight is glinting off the metal rim of Nate's speedometer and casting their faces in a warm glow; when they're cruising down the bank of the L.A. River beside the gleaming ribbon of water. Brad catches sight of the quiet exhilaration written on Nate's face, and experiences a disorienting jolt of affection.
"Hey," Brad says much later, when they're standing at a gorgeous little oasis watching the light glisten on the rippling surface of the water. "You're a pretty decent driver."
Nate huffs a laugh. "I'd like to see you do better."
"On my bike," says Brad, rising easily to the challenge. "Sure."
"Saturday?"
"Fine." He's not sure which of them is smoother. Perhaps that's a competition too.
"I'm not saying Mike Wynn doesn't do a good job," says Poke over the phone. "But dawg, that guy's got a bunch of real shady connections."
"Are you just throwing a bitch fit because I didn't bring my bike in to your garage?" asks Brad. The question is largely rhetorical.
"You wound me, brother," Poke tells him. "I'm just looking out for you. That new stock car he's fixing up in that garage - where do you think he got the dough for that fancy piece of crap? Sure as hell didn't fall from the motherfucking sky."
"And your point?"
"Mike Wynn's guys aren't just auto mechanics and stunt drivers. That's all I'm saying."
"All right," says Brad. "But that doesn't mean I'm taking my bike over to yours."
As promised, Brad gets his Yamaha R-1back two days later. For years Brad has laboured under the impression that he has managed to maximise every bit of horsepower from his bike.
When he takes it out for a spin that afternoon, it goes faster than ever.
Saturday morning finds Brad adjusting the headlight angles and checking tyre pressure half an hour before they're supposed to meet. Nate arrives when he's tweaking the suspension.
He's wearing his jacket again, the satin one with the scorpion on the back. On someone else, Brad thinks, it would be needlessly flashy. On Nate, however. Well.
"Nice jacket," says Brad.
"Nice bike," Nate replies.
Brad stands and picks up the extra helmet he brought along. "My orders came through," he says suddenly. "I have three weeks before I leave."
He's not sure why he mentions this now, of all times. He shouldn't find it necessary to bring it up, because this is just a fucking bike ride and Brad shouldn't be embarrassing himself like this.
If this affects Nate at all, he doesn't show it. Instead, he meets Brad's gaze squarely.
"You're not pussying out on giving me a ride, are you?"
Brad blinks. "Of course not."
"Good," Nate replies, lifting the helmet from Brad's hands.
And it's kind of all right, after that, even if Brad can't go as quickly as he wants to and the bike response slows under the weight of two people. Because Nate has his arms curled around Brad's waist and his chest pressed against Brad's back like it's the most natural thing to do, and when Brad turns corners Nate knows exactly how to shift his weight accordingly.
There is none of the solitude that Brad normally relishes about riding alone, and less of the adrenaline of hurtling at breakneck speed. It is a different rush altogether: the heady thrill of sharing this with someone, the keen realisation that something fits when it's the two of them. The expression on Nate's face when they dismount at Brad's favourite spot just off the highway.
His eyes are laughing and there's something so earnest and delighted and open that Brad cannot bring himself to look away.
"Hey," says Nate.
"Yeah?"
"You're a pretty decent driver."
Ray throws a party at Brad's apartment, because he's an asshole and because he and Brad are, in Ray's words, already "functionally housemates".
"We are not functionally anything unless there's rent involved, you cheap sister-fucking hick," is Brad's response, but he lets Ray continue after extracting a promise for there to be no country music involved.
The guys Ray invites are supposed to be people they both know. From the number of randoms who show up on the evening, Brad suspects that Ray simply asked them to bring anyone but kids.
"Not my party," Brad tells Ray when he heads out after the first forty-five minutes. Q-tip and Christeson have shit taste in music.
He's sitting on the floor in the corridor outside with a six pack of beer when Nate emerges from 405.
"Hey," says Brad. "Sorry about the noise."
"I should call the cops." Nate smiles wryly, leaning against the doorframe.
"I wish you would," replies Brad. "Let these retards know it's time to go the fuck home."
The door to Brad's apartment bursts open. It's Ray and Kocher, holding trash bags.
"What the fuck are you doing sitting out here, homes?" Ray cries, brandishing his bag of empty bottles.
"Having a civilised fucking conversation, Ray," Brad replies. "You should try it one day."
Kocher, in the meantime, is eyeing Nate warily, particularly the baseball jacket he has slung over his shoulder.
"Eric, this is Nate," says Brad. "Nate, Eric Kocher."
"New neighbour?" asks Kocher. His tone is neutral but he hasn't taken his eyes off Nate.
Nate shrugs. "I've been here a while."
"Eric, this is the guy I was telling you about," Ray exclaims, with the exuberance of the wildly inebriated. "The one who does car stunts!"
Kocher nods slowly. "You're a driver, then?"
"For the movies," says Nate carefully. "It's only part time."
"Nate!" Ray wanders over to sling an arm around Nate's shoulders, bottles clinking violently against each other. "I feel like we've been bad neighbours-"
"You are not my housemate, Ray," Brad interjects warningly.
"Fuck you, Brad. Nate, why don't you join us for a drink inside?"
Nate somehow manages to pat Ray placatingly on the arm while simultaneously slipping from his grasp. "I've got some things to do."
"At this time of the night?" asks Kocher with just the faintest note of hostility, but it's enough for Brad to feel the need to get to his feet.
"If this racket's still going on by the time you get back, feel free to join us," he tells Nate.
"Sure," Nate replies, giving Kocher a brief nod and waving to Ray before heading to the lift.
"Is there a problem?" asks Brad, when the lift doors close.
Kocher sets his trash bag down. "Are you friends with that guy?"
"Yes," Ray interjects loudly, "he is. And I'm just going to take out all the trash while you guys talk. Or engage in fisticuffs. Whatever the fuck it is you're planning to do."
Brad folds his arms across his chest. "Like I said. Is there a problem?"
"Look," says Kocher. "I hear things when I'm working at the races, all right? And they're saying there's a guy you can call if you're doing a job and you need a ride. Give him a time and place, and he gives you a five minute window."
Brad shrugs. "So this guy's a getaway driver?"
"This guy is the best driver you'll find in this town. That's what they're saying," Kocher tells him. "What they're also saying is that he doesn't give a name, but he wears this jacket. A white satin baseball jacket with a scorpion on the back."
"And based on this you've concluded that my neighbour is this driver," Brad finishes. "Really."
"If he is-"
"If he is."
Kocher shakes his head. "If he is, he's trouble."
It's not like Kocher to be so emphatic about someone. But Kocher's a careful guy, Brad knows, and he's spent so much time dealing with all sorts in the area that it would be foolish not to listen to his advice. It is, however, difficult to reconcile Kocher's story with what Brad knows of Nate, all warmth and quiet wit, calm competence and a smile that can go from soft to mischievous in a second.
"I can handle myself," Brad says finally, simply.
Kocher shrugs. "I'm just looking out for you."
"Thank you," Brad tells him, meaning it. "You're not the first person to have said that."
He runs into Nate outside their apartment building the next day. The first thing that comes to mind is what Kocher told him. And then Nate smiles and says hello, and Brad pushes all of that aside.
"Good party?" asks Nate. He's pulling off a pair of leather gloves that Brad has never noticed before.
"Terrible."
"Pity." He stuffs the gloves into his back pocket.
"How do you feel about surfing?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "Surfing? Never tried."
"For fuck's sake, you live in California," says Brad.
At least Nate has the sense to look sheepish. Or perhaps not, because his tone is entirely playful when he says, "Planning on fixing that?"
They agree on a date and a time, and Brad spends the next few days doing his level best to ignore the building anticipation in his gut. He's not used to this at all, and it puts him on edge. His default response, consequently, is to head out on his bike until the mind-numbing speed clears his head.
It's like the whole town is restless, now. The heat ratchets up a few notches to an unbearable blaze, and even the shady guys in tacky sunglasses are eating ice creams now as they wander past Brad in supermarket parking lots, eyeing him as if they'd ever have even a decent chance against him in a fight. Brad sweats, and drinks, and doesn't think about Nate or the fact that he's leaving.
On the morning they're supposed to meet, Brad wakes up before his alarm clock goes. He brushes his teeth, gets his gear into a bag, makes himself some breakfast and nudges a sleeping Ray Person to one side so he can settle on his couch to wait.
Nate doesn't show.
Brad waits long enough that even Ray wakes up, rubbing his hands over his face and enquiring as to why the fuck Brad's watching television on mute.
"Didn't want to wake you," Brad says shortly.
"Always knew you had a thing for me, homes." Ray beams, swiping drool from his chin. "Just so you know, the feeling is mutual."
Brad scowls back at him. "If that’s a thinly veiled hint for me to make you breakfast, don't push your luck.
As Ray shuffles over to the kitchen and starts hunting around for food, Brad decides that patience is overrated and heads out into the corridor.
When he knocks on 405's door he is met with nothing but silence. Brad lingers outside for a few minutes, listening for any signs of movement. Nate's not in.
Ray is standing at the door when Brad returns to his own apartment. "Brad, Nate was on the phone for you. He hung up, though."
Fuck. "Did he say anything?"
"Hello," Ray yodels soulfully in the style of Lionel Richie.
"Ray."
"He said he was sorry and asked to take a rain check, homes," Ray tells Brad. "I asked him to call you back."
Brad schools his expression into one that is decidedly not disappointed. "Thanks," he says, returning to the couch to turn up the volume on a news report about a robbery gone wrong at a pawn shop.
"Hey Brad. Catch." Ray tosses him a can of beer.
On the screen, the newsreader informs them that there were no accomplices involved besides the man who was shot dead.
"Never too early, huh?" says Ray.
Brad shrugs and opens the beer.
Nate turns up at Brad's door two days later. He looks a little worse for wear; there's a bit of dirt on the sleeve of his baseball jacket and there are dark shadows under his eye. From the way he's holding his right arm, Brad suspects he's been hurt.
"I'm sorry," says Nate. There's something in his tone and his expression, something almost - hunted, Brad realises. When Nate says he's sorry it feels like he's apologising for a lot more than their trip to the beach.
"What happened to your arm?" asks Brad.
Nate looks startled. "Just a scrape," he replies quickly. "I'm all right." He moves his arm to illustrate his point.
"Don't," says Brad.
"Can we talk?" asks Nate.
"I'm heading out, actually."
"I'll walk with you."
"Fine." Brad picks up his helmet.
"I drive for people," says Nate. "Within a five-minute window, they do whatever they have to, and I get them out of there."
"I know," Brad tells him. "Kocher warned me about you."
Nate laughs hollowly. "You should have listened."
They pause as they reach the lift. Brad pushes the call button before turning back to look Nate squarely in the eye.
"Nate. What happened to your arm?"
"There was a job. That pawn shop, two days ago. The guy who got shot was someone I was helping out," says Nate. "It was a set-up. There was way more money than they were told to expect, and there was a tail."
"But you got away?"
Nate nods grimly. "They sent people to take us out at the motel." Hanging implicit in that statement is the fact that Nate survived it.
"Nate-" Brad begins.
The lift doors slide open. There is an unfamiliar man in a tan suit standing inside, who smiles apologetically. "Wrong floor."
They enter in silence. As the lift begins to move, Brad sees Nate glance surreptitiously at the man. Before Brad can take a closer look at what might be a revolver under the man's jacket, however, Nate reaches backwards and curls his fingers around Brad's forearm.
Time slows in those moments - Nate nudges Brad towards the side of the lift, his other hand flying up to hover uncertainly by Brad's stomach as he turns round and leans in swiftly, softly for a kiss.
It is at this point, in this single fraction of a second that Brad realises that this is exactly what he wants, this is everything he wants. Nate's fingers on his skin and Nate's lips against his and Nate, gasping as Brad kisses back, like he's surprised that Brad would want him like this.
There is a long pause after Nate pulls away in which Brad can do nothing but look at him, take in the relief and the euphoria and the maddening hope in his eyes.
And then Nate blinks and takes a step back, and it's like he's closed off something within himself. Brad wants to reach for him, to pull him back into that singularly gorgeous revelation they have both just shared.
Except Nate is turning now towards the man in the tan suit, lightning fast as he grabs the back of the man's neck and brings his head crashing hard against the wall of the lift.
The man twists in Nate's grip, reaching inside his jacket for his gun, but Brad slams into him before he can even get to it, wrenching the man's arms behind his back and shoving him firmly to the floor.
Nate crouches down beside the man and pulls the gun from its holster, cocking it and pointing it at the man's head.
"So tell me," says Nate, while the man tries to struggle under Brad's weight. "Whose money do I have?"
The man shakes his head, trembling.
"Don't fuck around," Nate tells him sharply, nudging the gun harder into the man's temple. "Whose money do I have?"
"Godfather's," the man gasps. "You have Godfather's money."
One does not live in this town and hang about with guys like Poke and Kocher without hearing about Godfather. Brad knows he pulls most of the strings in the area. He also knows that people who cross Godfather don't get away.
It is clear from the look on Nate's face that he is fully aware of this.
"All right," says Nate. "Call him."
"I don't want the two million," Nate tells Brad. He's disassembling and assembling the pistol on Brad's coffee table, over and over again. "I just want to shake these guys and get away clean."
"I've got your six," says Brad.
Nate's head jerks up. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I don't want to drag you into this, Brad."
This is the thing - it has stopped being a choice for Brad. It stopped the moment Brad pressed one of Godfather's hitmen to the ground and held him there while Nate questioned him. Or perhaps the moment Nate pushed him gently into the corner of the lift and leaned in to kiss him, or any of the times Nate looked at Brad and smiled, eyes bright.
"Like I said," Brad tells Nate. "I've got your six."
Nate meets Godfather on his own turf, at a crowded Chinese restaurant called The Great Wall. Brad arrives five minutes earlier in a Chevy Impala that Wynn has fitted with a hundred and sixty horsepower engine. It still looks like a piece of shit, but it serves its purpose.
Nate parks his own car a few lots left of Brad's. Brad watches him all the way until he disappears through the restaurant doors.
Nate's on his own when he's inside. That's what he insisted on. "Besides," Nate had added, "they're not going to do anything until I show Godfather the money." Brad hadn't argued, but he in turn had insisted on Nate wearing a microphone under his shirt.
"Wine?" Godfather's voice is a whispered rasp that's made doubly difficult to hear via the radio transmitter.
"No thanks," says Nate.
There is a long silence, punctuated by the sound of dishes being set down on the table.
"Look, kid, you've gotten my guys out of a tight situation more than a couple of times," Brad hears Godfather say. "Ferrando was looking forward to seeing his name on that stock car, see you win a few races. But you've cut yourself a wide swath out there."
"I don't want any of it."
"Nobody does," says Godfather. "The question is where that leaves us."
"You tell me," Nate replies.
"Did you bring the cash?"
"Yes."
"You need to understand that there are people Ferrando is involved with who have long memories," says Godfather. "Bringing in the money today, that's the right thing to do. In exchange, you get to walk away from me. But here's a suggestion. Mike Wynn says you drive. Fast. That's a start. Because for the rest of your life you're going to be looking over your shoulder."
He pauses, as if to let that sink in.
"Fine," says Nate. "Now do you want your money or not?"
In a little over a minute Brad sees Nate and Godfather leaving the restaurant, Nate leading the way towards his car. Brad watches as Nate opens the boot of the car, lifting out the grubby looking sports bag that contains two million dollars in cash.
"I guess we won't be seeing each other again," says Godfather.
Perhaps it's something in Godfather's tone, or the fact that he doesn't yet reach for the sports bag, but Brad's out of the car almost immediately, gun at the ready.
At exactly the same time, Godfather pulls out a switchblade and plunges it into Nate's stomach. As he pulls it out again Nate lurches away, and when Godfather tries to stab him again Nate grabs hold of his arm, twisting the blade from Godfather's grip.
Godfather brings his other hand up around Nate's neck, shoving him backwards, but it doesn't matter because Brad takes aim and fires two shots exactly. One hits Godfather in the shoulder. The second goes right to the head, spattering blood across the burning concrete as he crumples to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Nate slumps against the car, pressing a hand to his wound. He's slipping towards the ground when Brad reaches him and grabs his shoulders, steadying him. Blood is seeping through his shirt at an alarming rate, staining his jacket an ugly red.
"Can you stand?" asks Brad.
"Yeah," says Nate. "Give me the keys."
"You're not driving," Brad tells him.
Nate musters the energy to scowl at him. "Of course I fucking am."
They leave the cash. It belongs to Godfather, after all.
In Iraq, Brad dreams. When he closes his eyes he dreams of relentless California heat and sun-warmed dashboards, of Nate's smile the first time they spoke in a supermarket car park that they will never go back to. Of beaches and well-tuned car engines, of Nate's wrecked baseball jacket lying on the back of the car seat.
Nate writes letters that say nothing and everything. Sometimes they contain his race timings and a few lines assuring Brad that he's all right. Other times he writes longer letters, once memorably devoting three entire paragraphs to describe to Brad exactly how cold it is in Nova Scotia (fucking cold, balls freezing off, hitting the road as soon as there's a chance to). Wynn sets Nate up with people he knows, and Nate's good enough to find work almost anywhere.
He doesn't stop running, though. He can't.
The last thing Brad receives before he returns Stateside is a postcard of Oceanside Pier at night. The other side is blank apart from a car license number written in Nate's precise handwriting.
And beneath that, as a postscript: keys are under the left rear wheel.
End
A/N: Hey, Gen Kill. It's been a long time. ♥ This was pretty fun/tough to write. Also, exams. What exams? ;____; Some of the dialogue was taken from the movie, and some of it was also inspired by the earlier, more dialogue-heavy screenplay. These three songs from the Drive Soundtrack were basically all I listened to while writing this. They're ace.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters here are based on those portrayed in HBO's fictionalised mini-series.
Word count: 5,200
Summary: Drive (2011) AU. "Need a lift?" It's 405, standing over Brad with a paper bag in his arm. With the sun on his face and a smile like that, he doesn't look old enough to drive. In which Nate is the Driver, Brad is Carey Mulligan, and Ray tries his best to refrain from saying Hey, Girl.
Warnings: Language, violence. Spoilers for Drive.
Notes: It's not absolutely necessary for you to have watched Drive to read this. There will be spoilers, though. Here's a trailer that also contains a startling number of spoilers. Huge thanks to forochel for the look-through and the brainstorming. ♥
"So there is this guy," Poke is saying. "The best motherfucking driver in town. Young, doesn't talk much. Hard as anything. Except one day he meets this married chick with a kid, and he falls in love. And you know what this guy does? He pays off her husband's debt, kills the guys her husband owes the money to, and is forced to skip town."
"And what exactly," says Brad, "is the point of this story?"
"The point is that people are stupid. Motherfucker loses everything, and he doesn't even get the chick in the end." Poke seems genuinely put out by this. "You hear me, dawg? People are stupid."
Brad doesn't look up from where he is polishing the frame of his bike, but he does give a little shrug. "Must have been some chick."
The guy who lives in 405 doesn't talk much. Neither does Brad, so it works out for both of them. Sometimes they ride the elevator together, or run into each other at the basement parking lot, and are forced to make fleeting eye contact. There is a sort of eloquence in 405's half-smiles in those moments, but he averts his gaze quite quickly. Brad looks away, too, because it's rude to stare.
Sometimes he stares anyway.
405 lives alone; no roommate or girlfriend. No friends, either, by the looks of it. Not the sort who come over for a beer, at least. This is not to say that Brad keeps tabs on 405. Not special tabs, anyway. Brad keeps tabs on more or less everyone in the building.
"Who's the guy in the satin jacket?" asks Ray one afternoon.
"Which guy?" asks Brad, even though he knows exactly who Ray is talking about. He's still more than a little irritated at the fact that Ray's invited himself over yet again, and cannot resist winding him up.
"You know which one, you contrary motherfucker," says Ray. "It's not like everyone in your apartment building stalks around with a fucking golden scorpion embroidered onto the back of their baseball jacket."
"Oh," says Brad. "You mean 405?"
"Nice, Brad. Not even bothering to learn the names of your neighbours."
"He lives three units away. I don't need his name."
"What do you think he does? Walking around with a jacket like that."
Brad takes a swig of his beer and carries on flipping channels.
"Maybe he's in the movies," Ray continues, regardless of Brad's non-response. "He's got the face for it. Pretty bastard."
"You, on the other hand, possess a cretinous, in-bred face that most people would pay not to see."
Ray beams, and stuffs another slice of pizza into his mouth. "Now that just warms the cockles of my heart. Not my cock - don't get me wrong. Cockles."
"Shut up, Ray."
"Cockles."
Ray's taking a shower and caterwauling Jolene at the top of his lungs when Brad heads out to get some groceries. He does this mostly because the only other alternative to physically leaving his apartment is entering the bathroom and putting Ray in a headlock to make him stop. Brad would like to avoid scrabbling around with a naked Ray as far as possible.
He's in and out of the supermarket in under fifteen minutes, stepping out into the heat again bearing armfuls of beer and other supplies. It is clearly not Brad's day, however, because his bike will not start up.
"Fuck," mutters Brad, crouching down beside the bike. He is sure Poke didn't mean to scam him with the new engine, but that doesn't explain the smoke curling ominously from it.
"Need a lift?"
It's 405, standing over Brad with a paper bag in his arm. With the sun on his face and a smile like that, he doesn't look old enough to drive.
"I don't think your ice cream's going to last much longer." He points to the condensation soaking through one of Brad's paper bags.
Brad rises to his feet, standing close enough to 405 for it to constitute looming. "It's beer."
To 405's credit, he doesn't step back or look away. Instead, he smiles. His eyes are very green. "Still."
The car is a 1973 Chevrolet Malibu. Not Brad's style, but beautiful all the same. 405 drives it like a dream. He doesn't go any faster than the speed limit but there is an effortless control in the way he navigates the sun-drenched streets back to the apartment. He turns corners with smooth precision, changes gears fluidly and skillfully. Watching 405 drive is like watching him speak a language that is only halfway familiar to Brad.
If 405 notices Brad looking at him, he doesn't say anything.
They ride the elevator together, each holding their own groceries. The polite thing to do would probably be to make small talk, but Brad isn't particularly keen on small talk and 405 seems perfectly content to give him amiable sidelong glances all the way up.
When the elevator doors slide open at the fourth floor, 405 nudges the side of his foot against the door and motions for Brad to exit before him.
"Thanks," says Brad, stepping into the corridor. "And thanks for the lift."
405 nods. "No problem."
They could easily part ways there. Already, 405 is turning to go, reaching into his trouser pocket to fish out his keys.
Maybe it's the heat, or the fact that Brad's just spent fifteen minutes watching this guy handle his car with striking competence. Or perhaps it just comes down to that last look 405 gives him before turning away, like he and Brad have come to some sort of accord without having even exchanged names.
Whatever it is, something compels Brad to ask, "Would you like a beer?" before 405 can leave.
405 pauses. He takes his hand from his trouser pocket and readjusts his grip on his paper bag, another slow smile creeping across his face. "Sure."
405's name is Nate, and he drives for a living.
"Like a limo driver?" asks Ray, freshly showered and wearing one of Brad's shirts (just because he can).
"No, for the movies," Nate says. "Car chases, things like that."
"Well, you're a pretty decent driver," says Brad.
"Oh, because that's not patronising at all, Brad," interjects Ray, swiping a bottle of beer and opening it on the countertop.
"There's a bottle opener right there, you whiskey tango retard." Brad glances at Nate. "Sorry about Ray."
Nate grins and takes another swig of beer. "It's fine," he says. It's almost conspiratorial.
Later, when Ray mentions that they're Marines, Nate nods and says that he guessed something to that effect. He also asks about Brad's other motorcycle - the one that didn't just fail Brad outside of that supermarket earlier that afternoon.
Clearly Brad isn't the only one keeping tabs on his neighbours.
There is a sort of latent languidity in the heat that brings to mind the phrase beer weather. The blazing sunshine has always made Brad itch a little for something else, something like dirt and sand and the refracted clarity borne of constant adrenaline in his veins.
But for now there are drinks to be had, and good company. Ray persuades Nate to have another bottle, and nobody at any point in the conversation looks concerned and asks isn't that dangerous with regards to what they each do for a living.
Brad takes the bike to Mike Wynn's garage the next day. Ostensibly this is because Poke's has been swamped with new orders for weeks and Brad would rather not have to wait. It certainly has very little to do with Nate mentioning that he works there, or the way he nodded when Brad had asked if they fixed bikes, too.
Nate is tuning the engine of his own car when Brad enters, but he looks up at the sound of Brad's voice.
Brad clears his throat. "Hi."
"Hi," Nate replies, setting down his wrench and coming towards Brad and Wynn. He looks only slightly surprised, but pleasantly so.
Wynn glances between them. "You two know each other, then?"
"We're neighbours," says Brad.
Nate's perspiring slightly, and his hands are stained with motor grease. Some of it has gotten on his white undershirt, and there are a couple of faint smudges on the side of his neck. It's not a bad look. Brad doesn't watch him go as he heads back to continue working on his car.
"This is a beautifully tuned machine," Wynn tells Brad, after they've examined the engine together. "Sometimes these things happen. Give me two days. I'll fix it up real good."
Brad nods. Two days is fair enough. They haggle over the price for a while but after the third time Wynn assures Brad that he's charging a very neighbourly fee indeed, they settle on a reasonable amount. When Brad asks about the nearest bus stop, Wynn waves it off.
"Don't bother with catching a bus. Nate'll give you a lift." He turns to Nate and beckons. "Come over here for a second, will you?"
Nate wanders over, wiping his hands on an equally grimy piece of cloth.
"I was thinking since you two know each other, you could give Brad here a ride home," says Wynn. "That okay?"
Nate looks from Wynn to Brad, a smile lighting his face. "Yeah. Sure." He pauses for a moment, before saying, "I don't have wheels on my car."
"Okay," says Brad.
"That's something you should know about me," Nate continues, completely straight-faced. They're looking at each other now; Nate's eyes are twinkling, and Brad can't help but begin to grin.
"Well, put the tyres on," says Wynn in mock exasperation.
"Hey," Nate says as they're cruising down Reseda Boulevard. "Do you want to see something?"
And it's perhaps precisely the sort of thing that Brad would do to impress someone, if he had someone to impress and didn't enjoy being alone on his bike so much. Because it's easy to be impressed, when the sunlight is glinting off the metal rim of Nate's speedometer and casting their faces in a warm glow; when they're cruising down the bank of the L.A. River beside the gleaming ribbon of water. Brad catches sight of the quiet exhilaration written on Nate's face, and experiences a disorienting jolt of affection.
"Hey," Brad says much later, when they're standing at a gorgeous little oasis watching the light glisten on the rippling surface of the water. "You're a pretty decent driver."
Nate huffs a laugh. "I'd like to see you do better."
"On my bike," says Brad, rising easily to the challenge. "Sure."
"Saturday?"
"Fine." He's not sure which of them is smoother. Perhaps that's a competition too.
"I'm not saying Mike Wynn doesn't do a good job," says Poke over the phone. "But dawg, that guy's got a bunch of real shady connections."
"Are you just throwing a bitch fit because I didn't bring my bike in to your garage?" asks Brad. The question is largely rhetorical.
"You wound me, brother," Poke tells him. "I'm just looking out for you. That new stock car he's fixing up in that garage - where do you think he got the dough for that fancy piece of crap? Sure as hell didn't fall from the motherfucking sky."
"And your point?"
"Mike Wynn's guys aren't just auto mechanics and stunt drivers. That's all I'm saying."
"All right," says Brad. "But that doesn't mean I'm taking my bike over to yours."
As promised, Brad gets his Yamaha R-1back two days later. For years Brad has laboured under the impression that he has managed to maximise every bit of horsepower from his bike.
When he takes it out for a spin that afternoon, it goes faster than ever.
Saturday morning finds Brad adjusting the headlight angles and checking tyre pressure half an hour before they're supposed to meet. Nate arrives when he's tweaking the suspension.
He's wearing his jacket again, the satin one with the scorpion on the back. On someone else, Brad thinks, it would be needlessly flashy. On Nate, however. Well.
"Nice jacket," says Brad.
"Nice bike," Nate replies.
Brad stands and picks up the extra helmet he brought along. "My orders came through," he says suddenly. "I have three weeks before I leave."
He's not sure why he mentions this now, of all times. He shouldn't find it necessary to bring it up, because this is just a fucking bike ride and Brad shouldn't be embarrassing himself like this.
If this affects Nate at all, he doesn't show it. Instead, he meets Brad's gaze squarely.
"You're not pussying out on giving me a ride, are you?"
Brad blinks. "Of course not."
"Good," Nate replies, lifting the helmet from Brad's hands.
And it's kind of all right, after that, even if Brad can't go as quickly as he wants to and the bike response slows under the weight of two people. Because Nate has his arms curled around Brad's waist and his chest pressed against Brad's back like it's the most natural thing to do, and when Brad turns corners Nate knows exactly how to shift his weight accordingly.
There is none of the solitude that Brad normally relishes about riding alone, and less of the adrenaline of hurtling at breakneck speed. It is a different rush altogether: the heady thrill of sharing this with someone, the keen realisation that something fits when it's the two of them. The expression on Nate's face when they dismount at Brad's favourite spot just off the highway.
His eyes are laughing and there's something so earnest and delighted and open that Brad cannot bring himself to look away.
"Hey," says Nate.
"Yeah?"
"You're a pretty decent driver."
Ray throws a party at Brad's apartment, because he's an asshole and because he and Brad are, in Ray's words, already "functionally housemates".
"We are not functionally anything unless there's rent involved, you cheap sister-fucking hick," is Brad's response, but he lets Ray continue after extracting a promise for there to be no country music involved.
The guys Ray invites are supposed to be people they both know. From the number of randoms who show up on the evening, Brad suspects that Ray simply asked them to bring anyone but kids.
"Not my party," Brad tells Ray when he heads out after the first forty-five minutes. Q-tip and Christeson have shit taste in music.
He's sitting on the floor in the corridor outside with a six pack of beer when Nate emerges from 405.
"Hey," says Brad. "Sorry about the noise."
"I should call the cops." Nate smiles wryly, leaning against the doorframe.
"I wish you would," replies Brad. "Let these retards know it's time to go the fuck home."
The door to Brad's apartment bursts open. It's Ray and Kocher, holding trash bags.
"What the fuck are you doing sitting out here, homes?" Ray cries, brandishing his bag of empty bottles.
"Having a civilised fucking conversation, Ray," Brad replies. "You should try it one day."
Kocher, in the meantime, is eyeing Nate warily, particularly the baseball jacket he has slung over his shoulder.
"Eric, this is Nate," says Brad. "Nate, Eric Kocher."
"New neighbour?" asks Kocher. His tone is neutral but he hasn't taken his eyes off Nate.
Nate shrugs. "I've been here a while."
"Eric, this is the guy I was telling you about," Ray exclaims, with the exuberance of the wildly inebriated. "The one who does car stunts!"
Kocher nods slowly. "You're a driver, then?"
"For the movies," says Nate carefully. "It's only part time."
"Nate!" Ray wanders over to sling an arm around Nate's shoulders, bottles clinking violently against each other. "I feel like we've been bad neighbours-"
"You are not my housemate, Ray," Brad interjects warningly.
"Fuck you, Brad. Nate, why don't you join us for a drink inside?"
Nate somehow manages to pat Ray placatingly on the arm while simultaneously slipping from his grasp. "I've got some things to do."
"At this time of the night?" asks Kocher with just the faintest note of hostility, but it's enough for Brad to feel the need to get to his feet.
"If this racket's still going on by the time you get back, feel free to join us," he tells Nate.
"Sure," Nate replies, giving Kocher a brief nod and waving to Ray before heading to the lift.
"Is there a problem?" asks Brad, when the lift doors close.
Kocher sets his trash bag down. "Are you friends with that guy?"
"Yes," Ray interjects loudly, "he is. And I'm just going to take out all the trash while you guys talk. Or engage in fisticuffs. Whatever the fuck it is you're planning to do."
Brad folds his arms across his chest. "Like I said. Is there a problem?"
"Look," says Kocher. "I hear things when I'm working at the races, all right? And they're saying there's a guy you can call if you're doing a job and you need a ride. Give him a time and place, and he gives you a five minute window."
Brad shrugs. "So this guy's a getaway driver?"
"This guy is the best driver you'll find in this town. That's what they're saying," Kocher tells him. "What they're also saying is that he doesn't give a name, but he wears this jacket. A white satin baseball jacket with a scorpion on the back."
"And based on this you've concluded that my neighbour is this driver," Brad finishes. "Really."
"If he is-"
"If he is."
Kocher shakes his head. "If he is, he's trouble."
It's not like Kocher to be so emphatic about someone. But Kocher's a careful guy, Brad knows, and he's spent so much time dealing with all sorts in the area that it would be foolish not to listen to his advice. It is, however, difficult to reconcile Kocher's story with what Brad knows of Nate, all warmth and quiet wit, calm competence and a smile that can go from soft to mischievous in a second.
"I can handle myself," Brad says finally, simply.
Kocher shrugs. "I'm just looking out for you."
"Thank you," Brad tells him, meaning it. "You're not the first person to have said that."
He runs into Nate outside their apartment building the next day. The first thing that comes to mind is what Kocher told him. And then Nate smiles and says hello, and Brad pushes all of that aside.
"Good party?" asks Nate. He's pulling off a pair of leather gloves that Brad has never noticed before.
"Terrible."
"Pity." He stuffs the gloves into his back pocket.
"How do you feel about surfing?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "Surfing? Never tried."
"For fuck's sake, you live in California," says Brad.
At least Nate has the sense to look sheepish. Or perhaps not, because his tone is entirely playful when he says, "Planning on fixing that?"
They agree on a date and a time, and Brad spends the next few days doing his level best to ignore the building anticipation in his gut. He's not used to this at all, and it puts him on edge. His default response, consequently, is to head out on his bike until the mind-numbing speed clears his head.
It's like the whole town is restless, now. The heat ratchets up a few notches to an unbearable blaze, and even the shady guys in tacky sunglasses are eating ice creams now as they wander past Brad in supermarket parking lots, eyeing him as if they'd ever have even a decent chance against him in a fight. Brad sweats, and drinks, and doesn't think about Nate or the fact that he's leaving.
On the morning they're supposed to meet, Brad wakes up before his alarm clock goes. He brushes his teeth, gets his gear into a bag, makes himself some breakfast and nudges a sleeping Ray Person to one side so he can settle on his couch to wait.
Nate doesn't show.
Brad waits long enough that even Ray wakes up, rubbing his hands over his face and enquiring as to why the fuck Brad's watching television on mute.
"Didn't want to wake you," Brad says shortly.
"Always knew you had a thing for me, homes." Ray beams, swiping drool from his chin. "Just so you know, the feeling is mutual."
Brad scowls back at him. "If that’s a thinly veiled hint for me to make you breakfast, don't push your luck.
As Ray shuffles over to the kitchen and starts hunting around for food, Brad decides that patience is overrated and heads out into the corridor.
When he knocks on 405's door he is met with nothing but silence. Brad lingers outside for a few minutes, listening for any signs of movement. Nate's not in.
Ray is standing at the door when Brad returns to his own apartment. "Brad, Nate was on the phone for you. He hung up, though."
Fuck. "Did he say anything?"
"Hello," Ray yodels soulfully in the style of Lionel Richie.
"Ray."
"He said he was sorry and asked to take a rain check, homes," Ray tells Brad. "I asked him to call you back."
Brad schools his expression into one that is decidedly not disappointed. "Thanks," he says, returning to the couch to turn up the volume on a news report about a robbery gone wrong at a pawn shop.
"Hey Brad. Catch." Ray tosses him a can of beer.
On the screen, the newsreader informs them that there were no accomplices involved besides the man who was shot dead.
"Never too early, huh?" says Ray.
Brad shrugs and opens the beer.
Nate turns up at Brad's door two days later. He looks a little worse for wear; there's a bit of dirt on the sleeve of his baseball jacket and there are dark shadows under his eye. From the way he's holding his right arm, Brad suspects he's been hurt.
"I'm sorry," says Nate. There's something in his tone and his expression, something almost - hunted, Brad realises. When Nate says he's sorry it feels like he's apologising for a lot more than their trip to the beach.
"What happened to your arm?" asks Brad.
Nate looks startled. "Just a scrape," he replies quickly. "I'm all right." He moves his arm to illustrate his point.
"Don't," says Brad.
"Can we talk?" asks Nate.
"I'm heading out, actually."
"I'll walk with you."
"Fine." Brad picks up his helmet.
"I drive for people," says Nate. "Within a five-minute window, they do whatever they have to, and I get them out of there."
"I know," Brad tells him. "Kocher warned me about you."
Nate laughs hollowly. "You should have listened."
They pause as they reach the lift. Brad pushes the call button before turning back to look Nate squarely in the eye.
"Nate. What happened to your arm?"
"There was a job. That pawn shop, two days ago. The guy who got shot was someone I was helping out," says Nate. "It was a set-up. There was way more money than they were told to expect, and there was a tail."
"But you got away?"
Nate nods grimly. "They sent people to take us out at the motel." Hanging implicit in that statement is the fact that Nate survived it.
"Nate-" Brad begins.
The lift doors slide open. There is an unfamiliar man in a tan suit standing inside, who smiles apologetically. "Wrong floor."
They enter in silence. As the lift begins to move, Brad sees Nate glance surreptitiously at the man. Before Brad can take a closer look at what might be a revolver under the man's jacket, however, Nate reaches backwards and curls his fingers around Brad's forearm.
Time slows in those moments - Nate nudges Brad towards the side of the lift, his other hand flying up to hover uncertainly by Brad's stomach as he turns round and leans in swiftly, softly for a kiss.
It is at this point, in this single fraction of a second that Brad realises that this is exactly what he wants, this is everything he wants. Nate's fingers on his skin and Nate's lips against his and Nate, gasping as Brad kisses back, like he's surprised that Brad would want him like this.
There is a long pause after Nate pulls away in which Brad can do nothing but look at him, take in the relief and the euphoria and the maddening hope in his eyes.
And then Nate blinks and takes a step back, and it's like he's closed off something within himself. Brad wants to reach for him, to pull him back into that singularly gorgeous revelation they have both just shared.
Except Nate is turning now towards the man in the tan suit, lightning fast as he grabs the back of the man's neck and brings his head crashing hard against the wall of the lift.
The man twists in Nate's grip, reaching inside his jacket for his gun, but Brad slams into him before he can even get to it, wrenching the man's arms behind his back and shoving him firmly to the floor.
Nate crouches down beside the man and pulls the gun from its holster, cocking it and pointing it at the man's head.
"So tell me," says Nate, while the man tries to struggle under Brad's weight. "Whose money do I have?"
The man shakes his head, trembling.
"Don't fuck around," Nate tells him sharply, nudging the gun harder into the man's temple. "Whose money do I have?"
"Godfather's," the man gasps. "You have Godfather's money."
One does not live in this town and hang about with guys like Poke and Kocher without hearing about Godfather. Brad knows he pulls most of the strings in the area. He also knows that people who cross Godfather don't get away.
It is clear from the look on Nate's face that he is fully aware of this.
"All right," says Nate. "Call him."
"I don't want the two million," Nate tells Brad. He's disassembling and assembling the pistol on Brad's coffee table, over and over again. "I just want to shake these guys and get away clean."
"I've got your six," says Brad.
Nate's head jerks up. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I don't want to drag you into this, Brad."
This is the thing - it has stopped being a choice for Brad. It stopped the moment Brad pressed one of Godfather's hitmen to the ground and held him there while Nate questioned him. Or perhaps the moment Nate pushed him gently into the corner of the lift and leaned in to kiss him, or any of the times Nate looked at Brad and smiled, eyes bright.
"Like I said," Brad tells Nate. "I've got your six."
Nate meets Godfather on his own turf, at a crowded Chinese restaurant called The Great Wall. Brad arrives five minutes earlier in a Chevy Impala that Wynn has fitted with a hundred and sixty horsepower engine. It still looks like a piece of shit, but it serves its purpose.
Nate parks his own car a few lots left of Brad's. Brad watches him all the way until he disappears through the restaurant doors.
Nate's on his own when he's inside. That's what he insisted on. "Besides," Nate had added, "they're not going to do anything until I show Godfather the money." Brad hadn't argued, but he in turn had insisted on Nate wearing a microphone under his shirt.
"Wine?" Godfather's voice is a whispered rasp that's made doubly difficult to hear via the radio transmitter.
"No thanks," says Nate.
There is a long silence, punctuated by the sound of dishes being set down on the table.
"Look, kid, you've gotten my guys out of a tight situation more than a couple of times," Brad hears Godfather say. "Ferrando was looking forward to seeing his name on that stock car, see you win a few races. But you've cut yourself a wide swath out there."
"I don't want any of it."
"Nobody does," says Godfather. "The question is where that leaves us."
"You tell me," Nate replies.
"Did you bring the cash?"
"Yes."
"You need to understand that there are people Ferrando is involved with who have long memories," says Godfather. "Bringing in the money today, that's the right thing to do. In exchange, you get to walk away from me. But here's a suggestion. Mike Wynn says you drive. Fast. That's a start. Because for the rest of your life you're going to be looking over your shoulder."
He pauses, as if to let that sink in.
"Fine," says Nate. "Now do you want your money or not?"
In a little over a minute Brad sees Nate and Godfather leaving the restaurant, Nate leading the way towards his car. Brad watches as Nate opens the boot of the car, lifting out the grubby looking sports bag that contains two million dollars in cash.
"I guess we won't be seeing each other again," says Godfather.
Perhaps it's something in Godfather's tone, or the fact that he doesn't yet reach for the sports bag, but Brad's out of the car almost immediately, gun at the ready.
At exactly the same time, Godfather pulls out a switchblade and plunges it into Nate's stomach. As he pulls it out again Nate lurches away, and when Godfather tries to stab him again Nate grabs hold of his arm, twisting the blade from Godfather's grip.
Godfather brings his other hand up around Nate's neck, shoving him backwards, but it doesn't matter because Brad takes aim and fires two shots exactly. One hits Godfather in the shoulder. The second goes right to the head, spattering blood across the burning concrete as he crumples to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Nate slumps against the car, pressing a hand to his wound. He's slipping towards the ground when Brad reaches him and grabs his shoulders, steadying him. Blood is seeping through his shirt at an alarming rate, staining his jacket an ugly red.
"Can you stand?" asks Brad.
"Yeah," says Nate. "Give me the keys."
"You're not driving," Brad tells him.
Nate musters the energy to scowl at him. "Of course I fucking am."
They leave the cash. It belongs to Godfather, after all.
In Iraq, Brad dreams. When he closes his eyes he dreams of relentless California heat and sun-warmed dashboards, of Nate's smile the first time they spoke in a supermarket car park that they will never go back to. Of beaches and well-tuned car engines, of Nate's wrecked baseball jacket lying on the back of the car seat.
Nate writes letters that say nothing and everything. Sometimes they contain his race timings and a few lines assuring Brad that he's all right. Other times he writes longer letters, once memorably devoting three entire paragraphs to describe to Brad exactly how cold it is in Nova Scotia (fucking cold, balls freezing off, hitting the road as soon as there's a chance to). Wynn sets Nate up with people he knows, and Nate's good enough to find work almost anywhere.
He doesn't stop running, though. He can't.
The last thing Brad receives before he returns Stateside is a postcard of Oceanside Pier at night. The other side is blank apart from a car license number written in Nate's precise handwriting.
And beneath that, as a postscript: keys are under the left rear wheel.
End
A/N: Hey, Gen Kill. It's been a long time. ♥ This was pretty fun/tough to write. Also, exams. What exams? ;____; Some of the dialogue was taken from the movie, and some of it was also inspired by the earlier, more dialogue-heavy screenplay. These three songs from the Drive Soundtrack were basically all I listened to while writing this. They're ace.