Fic | GK | everything starts now
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | NC17 | AU
[ beta by the phenomenal pjvilar ]
the Midwest, 1879
1.
"Shit, fuck!"
Nate flung away the hammer and rested his aching head in his hands. Maybe he'd just leave fixing the steps for another day-one less uniformly unlucky. The house, while structurally sound, had definitely fallen into disrepair during the years it had sat empty, and the day's miscellaneous maintenance jobs had left Nate with a number of cuts, bruises, and a great deal of frustration. It was obviously one of those days. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, sticking the shirt to his skin, and he could feel beginnings of sunburn on his bare arms.
He registered the low, near inaudible sound of chuckling behind him at the same time as a tall shadow cast itself over where he was kneeling in the grass in front of the porch. Nate tensed-regretting for a second the hammer thrown out of sight in his fit of temper-before springing up and wheeling around.
Mid-motion, it caught up with him that a potential assailant wouldn't have announced their presence by laughing aloud at Nate's sorry attempts at craftsmanship; and as he whirled to a stop and actually saw the man standing on his lawn, he had to admit a rusty hammer wouldn't have made a damned difference anyway.
A cowboy, if his hat and attire were anything to go by. Solid muscles that stood out even through the man's shirt and vest. Powerful, and tall, too-he would tower at least a head above Nate.
Icy blue eyes had tracked Nate's initial aggressive spin around-alert, evaluative-but warmed in acknowledgement as Nate let his posture relax. Nate thought he saw a hint of amusement blended with surprise, as if the stranger couldn't imagine being physically challenged. Nate could easily understand why that might be.
"Good day," the man offered, his smooth voice cultivated in a way that was starkly at odds with his dusty, worn clothing, then quirked a brilliant and unexpected grin. "Is it the nails or the boards that are giving you trouble?"
Nate's answering smile was rueful. "I'm afraid problem's with the maker, not the materials. It's been a while since I've worked with lumber." He let his gaze sweep over the man again, from the scruffy boots up the powerful frame, taking in the pistol at his hip. From the corner of his eye he caught a splash of color behind the stranger and noticed for the first time the man's dark mount waiting by the trough on the fence farther back. Nate wondered how he had managed to miss the sound of someone arriving on horseback. "You on the way north to drive cattle?"
The man inclined his head. "Eventually. Ray and I made good time though and seem to find ourselves with a few days to kill before we're needed at the Dodgson ranch."
"Ray?"
The man pointed his thumb over his shoulder without looking back, and as if in answer, the horse whinnied and danced, tossing its head. Brad grinned wide again. "He's pretty excitable, but damned fast when need be."
Nate laughed, something warm and amused and intrigued uncurling in his chest.
The man took a step closer to Nate and offered his hand. "Brad Colbert."
"Nate Fick," Nate said as their palms slid together. Brad's grip was pleasantly firm; his hand seemed to envelop Nate's.
"Nate," the cowboy repeated, and Ray the horse made more noise in the background, stomping his hooves on the ground. "Well, Nate, what say you I give you a hand with your porch, and you put me up for the night on a haystack in the barn?" He tilted his chin in the direction of the derelict little building that had been part and parcel of the site when Nate had signed the contract making him the owner of the place.
Nate considered the man-Brad-ignoring the spike of heat in his stomach at the white easy grin and remembering to draw back from the handshake almost under the socially accepted time limit. He shook his head slightly, and Brad's expression went blank for a second before Nate said, smiling, "That barn is as draughty as the open prairie-and while I don't doubt your survival skills in the great wild, you're more than welcome to the house. Since I happen to have a guest room available."
"Deal." Brad's grin was back like it had never been gone. "And why don't you let me wield the hammer this time. You might end up losing it during your next tantrum."
+
Brad insisted in helping with the rest of the work Nate had planned for the day as well. Fixing the porch was followed by sanding the outdoors furniture Nate had put together the previous week.
"I hate sanding," he confessed when they were starting. At a complete lack of answer from Brad, Nate turned to see him staring in wide-eyed apprehension at the table and four chairs Nate had painstakingly marked and sawn and hammered into form.
"Good Lord, Nate, are these things supposed to bear human weight?"
"I had a manual; I'm assured they're sturdier than they look. Besides, not everyone's eight feet tall like you, you know."
Brad ignored the slur. "On second thought, your first concern should be filing a couple of those legs so that there's even a chance in hell of the one unlucky enough to wind up in one of these being able to stay upright and not tipping right across your porch railing."
"Brad, out of curiosity-were you actually going to help me or just criticize?"
After the ribbing he had received over his handiwork, Nate attempted paypack by having Brad weed the vegetable garden with him. If he was waiting for the cowboy to consider the task too menial he was proven wrong; Brad seemed perfectly content to shift through the soil with him, even whistling random tunes into the quiet of the falling dusk. Ray's neighing joined in, in a surreal parody of a duet. Nate had a feeling this was a familiar routine for the pair.
Brad didn't seem bothered by the uncomfortable crouching position either, while Nate's back was screaming for mercy. Gratefully, he called a halt at twilight, rolling his shoulder blades, stretching muscles not yet completely used to the farm work after so many years of carting around books, not boxes of fresh produce and tools and two-by-fours.
Nate turned towards Brad, catching the swivel of his chin as he looked off to the side. Pausing for a second, stupidly flustered, Nate cleared his throat. "I'll put something together for dinner, shall I? Coffee, too, if you'd like."
Brad faced him again, looking calm and pleased. "Sure. Sounds good, Nate. I'll just check on Ray first."
Nate nodded before going inside, leaving the door open for Brad to follow. Through the kitchen window he saw Brad ambling up to the horse, Ray pushing his great big head almost against Brad's face and Brad forcibly shoving his muzzle away. Brad's voice trickled faintly over the yard.
"…alright, alright, Daddy's back now; try and control yourself, you flea-ridden-"
Ray the horse threw its head back, snorting and whinnying in distress.
"Oh for fucks' sake-fine, no fleas here-what a pain in the ass you are." The words were belied by Brad's fingers stroking the thin warm skin behind Ray's ears. "Alright, boy. Good night." Brad gathered up his saddle bags from the ground and made as if to head off to the house, but Ray's teeth clamped on his sleeve, pinning him in place. "Jesus Christ, what now?"
Nate would swear Ray's black eyes cut straight towards him through the window before the horse stared imploringly at Brad again. Brad's mouth thinned, but Nate couldn't tell whether it was out of irritation or an effort to keep from smiling.
"Shut up, Ray," Brad said, extricating his sleeve and striding off.
+
Brad was polite and appreciative when thanking Nate for the dinner; much more so, Nate thought, than the vegetables and leftover pie really warranted. They took their mugs to the living room, Nate lighting kerosene lamps on the way, and sat down, stretching weary limbs. Brad gave a satisfied hum after taking the first sip of his black coffee and Nate had to stomp down on the rush of happiness over his guest for the night.
"So, what's your story, Nate?"
Nate blinked. "Sorry?"
"All alone up here, fixing the house? Sprucing things up? Is your fiancée following you soon?" Brad was smiling wide but only with his mouth. Nate's eyebrow lifted, caught off guard by the assumption even though it was the obvious one to make.
"No, just me," he said, and left it at that. Brad looked expectant for a second. When Nate didn't expand, he seamlessly redirected his study to the room at large, settling more heavily into the padded chair, the atmosphere relaxing once more. "The coffee's good," he murmured.
"Thanks." Nate felt the dangerous swell of warmth again. He could already tell that Brad Colbert would be very easy to get used to; a paradox of manners and sharp perceptiveness; biting humor and hard, aloof exterior.
The place hadn't felt empty to him when he'd arrived and he'd cherished the solitude throughout familiarizing himself with the upkeep of the house, even when the practical matters threatened to overwhelm him. Errand runs, taking the produce to the market, had provided all the social contact he had wanted or needed. Now, though-watching Brad reclining in his favorite chair, blue coffee mug almost swallowed by his fist and the faint golden lamplight offsetting the angles of his face-Nate got the first inkling of how different the empty space might feel after his guest had gone.
"What about you? Who are you running away from?" Nate intended the question as a joke, but for a second shutters seemed to slam in place in Brad's eyes. Then the smirk was back, if tighter than before, as Brad turned the tables.
"Ah, so that's what you did?"
"It wasn't, actually," Nate replied. "And it's rude to answer question with a question." Brad arched an incredulous eyebrow at his admonishment, making Nate laugh.
"Thank you for that piece of wisdom, Nathaniel," his guest mocked. "That's your whole name, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Yeah. It suits you."
Brad's smile was dangerously alluring. Nate sighed, ignoring the twist of want somewhere low in his stomach. He hadn't missed how deftly Brad had diverted the discussion away from his past but, despite being intrigued, wasn't about to press the issue. Quid pro quo-taking turns running into the jagged edges of the lines of privacy they'd each drawn, and knowing to let it go.
+
When it got late Brad scooped up his bags and followed close behind Nate as he led him up the stairs, showing him to the first room on the left.
"It's not much," Nate started, setting one of the lamps down; then took a second glance at the bed and Brad standing beside it. He snorted in dismay, a blush creeping up his neck. "Scratch that, it's hopeless. You might have been better off in the barn, least your feet wouldn't be hanging off the foot of the bed." He hadn't exactly been expecting guests, so the second bedroom had been a low priority. He especially hadn't been expecting guests this tall. The sense of hospitability drilled into him since boyhood was busy picking out every shortcoming in the tiny room, from the flaking paint to the faded duvet.
"Nate." Brad came closer, touched his arm. "Nate, it's fine. Don't worry about it."
Nate had to crane his neck to look up at him, and Brad's expression-shifted, his eyes darkening. Nate's breath caught, a wave of nervous anticipation stealing over him, but Brad was already releasing his arm, turning away to deposit his bags on a chair by the window.
"Alright then," Nate whispered. His voice was rougher than he expected. He cleared his throat and took a halting step back toward the hallway. "Good night, Brad."
"Sweet dreams, Nate." Brad's hands rose to his chest as he started to-started to unbutton his shirt, Nate realized; and in a moment would shrug it off, leaving only the white undershirt Nate had seen peeking from under the collar-
Nate's whole body flushed hot as he suddenly became aware of his stiffening cock. Right on its heels, breaking his momentary paralysis, came the reminder that he was still standing there, in the guest room, in full view should Brad turn.
He felt mortified and dirty. And so fucking aroused.
Abruptly, he spun on his heels and fairly jogged to the privacy of his own bedroom, slamming the door closed and leaning back against it. Eyes closing, he pushed his palm down hard on the swell in his pants, dragging the heel of his hand over himself, the friction so sweet he had to suck his lower lip between his teeth to keep quiet. Unconsciously, unwillingly, he thought about his guest, thought about the wide, muscled shoulders, the calloused fingers, the hollow of Brad's throat, the icy blue stare.
The back of Nate's head knocked against the wooden door as he shuddered, the barrage of filthy impossible images filling his head: Brad pushing him down, rough and powerful, just forcing Nate on his stomach on the floor and working at the buttons of his pants, his hand trapped uncomfortably between the cold unforgiving floor boards and Nate's squirming movements, twisting away, twisting back-maybe Brad would, he would probably get impatient, snarl at Nate, and yank the pants down Nate's hips until he had him naked, and them he would knee apart Nate's legs and touch him, put his long slim fingers-
Nate was coming, harder than he had in he couldn't remember how long, pulse after pulse until he was gasping for breath, eyes screwed shut, his dick so sensitive it was painful. His thighs were shaking and he felt dizzy. He also felt relaxed for the first time the whole day. Weary, loose-limbed and vaguely ashamed now that he was coming down, Nate pushed off the door, on legs that threatened to buckle under him; crawled on top of his bed and fell asleep within minutes.
+
On the other side of the door, hand still half raised to knock but the original reason for coming to bother his host utterly forgotten, Brad Colbert was standing frozen to the spot, unable to move even after he heard the muffled, bitten-off whimpers replaced by soft exhales of sleep. His heart was beating too fast for the quiet of the night, hammering with a hint of desperation-like driving trail when something happened, something spooked the herd into a stampede and everything went to hell in seconds, leaving Brad caught between duty and instinct and self-preservation.
He was used to denying himself, secure in the knowledge that nothing was forever, that people got bored or changed their minds and you were a whole lot better off not giving a damn in the first place, or at least not getting in too deep.
Convictions had been all well and good until a pair of green eyes that seemed filled with decency and honesty, and full lips prone to being bitten in the most distracting of ways. Nothing about Nate-his frankness and quiet confidence and preposterous charm-gave Brad a reason to keep falling back on old habits. Nothing at all, except the niggling doubt that when the inevitable end came he might find out he was capable of hurting in ways he hadn't yet discovered.
Christ, he needed to sleep on this.
And he really needed to take care of the way his cock was straining against the front of his pants after hearing Nate gasp his way into his release with nothing but flimsy wood separating him from Brad.
2.
Nate woke up to the smell of coffee.
He couldn't believe himself. He knew how much noise the stairway made when anyone was moving between the floors, knew perfectly well that there wasn't a silent board anywhere, the wood much too old for stealth. Someone had been moving in his house and Nate hadn't so much as twitched an eyelid. And judging by the way the light slanted in, it was ages past the time he was supposed to have been up in any case. Brad must think him a damned layabout.
Brad. A surge in his blood. Nate was attacked by a vivid recollection of his aggressive fantasy the night before; of coming longer than he'd thought possible. The bone-melting satisfaction had undoubtedly been a deciding factor in his subsequent deep sleep. Nate flushed just thinking about going downstairs and facing his guest, certain the shameful interest was written all over his face.
Nate forced himself out of the bed, and groaned, realizing he had fallen asleep still wearing his day clothes, after coming in his pants. He felt sticky and stupid and even more out of sorts. Stumbling toward the wash basin in the corner, cursing himself, Nate set about getting changed and fit for company.
+
Brad was sitting at the table as Nate came down, steam rising from two chipped enamel cups set next to the Emerson essay he was leafing through. Nate quirked an eyebrow at Brad and was answered with another crooked grin. "I heard you getting up," his guest explained. "There's some eggs on the stove."
Nate turned away, hiding a smile that was too pleased, too revealing. He found plates and divided the breakfast between them. Brad was looking at him, he realized, as he plopped down on the opposite side. "What?"
"Nothing. Just," Nate grinned, bit his lip, "I don't think I remember the last time someone made me breakfast. Thank you."
Brad's features relaxed and he inclined his head, infinitesimally. "Of course."
Despite having silently acknowledged as much to himself the previous evening, Nate was still struck by the ease of having Brad there, in his home, complementing his morning routine, adding to it with his presence. It wasn't just another person being there that did it. It was Brad himself, calm and sure and so beautifully male.
For one moment of weakness, Nate allowed himself to imagine a string of mornings beginning just like the present one, with coffee and perfectly cooked eggs; and days of working next to someone under the burning sun; and the balmy surreal night, helping wash a broad back, falling to bed together, a muscled arm thrown over his waist.
He imagined it, and let it fill him with an almost unbearable yearning. And then he locked it away; filed it under unattainable.
+
Nate asked him about the job and Brad drew the route they would be taking for Nate on the back of one of the pages of the essay. Nate didn't mind. Emerson had been all the rage back in the East and Nate had bought the writings but hadn't been able to buy into the idea in the end. He suspected Brad's opinion was pretty much the same, and would probably have been expressed quite more colorfully: quixotic and fatuous may have made an appearance.
"The nearest railhead is reasonably close, so it shouldn't take more than two months to get the cattle there."
"Two months practically living in the saddle. That's reasonable, you say?"
Brad grinned. "Compared to the four-month drives? Yes, it is."
"Christ," Nate shook his head. "I don't think my ass could take it," he mused, only half conscious of actually speaking out loud.
There was a violent silence from Brad's side of the table. Nate replayed the words in his head, had to force down another blush as it clicked. Slowly he braved a look at Brad.
Brad was sitting very still, lips and jaw tight, nostrils flaring. Then his eyes caught Nate's and for a heartbeat Nate was willing to swear the moment wasn't just awkward because of his poorly chosen phrase, that Brad might have been open to-
It ended when they looked away from each other at the same time, Brad's voice rasping he'd help with the dishes. Nate told him he didn't have to. Brad stared him down and told Nate to get up, he was drying.
+
The sun had climbed high in its zenith when Brad got his things and said he'd have to get going.
Nate himself should have been hard at work hours ago but the morning had sped by while they talked, debated, playfully mocked each other's chosen line of work. Truth be told, he felt no great guilt about delaying work in favor of seeing off his guest properly. Of taking the morning's memories and storing them. He walked Brad out, standing by while he saddled Ray.
"Thank you again for making breakfast. Though I'm sure it was deplorable of me as a host to leave you to fend for yourself like that. I just-slept like a log last night. Best sleep I've had in weeks."
It almost looked like Brad's fair skin was pinking. Nate couldn't find anything in the words that should have caused him to do so.
"No problem, I told you." He was checking the saddle bags, adjusting the stirrup. Not facing Nate. Ray neighed loudly, a weird horsey laugh, and all of a sudden butted Brad, making him overbalance and almost collide with Nate. Nate's hands shot out on pure reflex, steadying Brad.
Brad was riled. "Goddamn waste of hay, leave off!"
Ray was in no way perturbed by the reproach and started shuffling alarmingly closer, forcing Brad to step backwards into Nate even more. He thought he could feel Brad's heat even through two layers of clothing. He might have made a sound of some sort.
Brad glanced at him, unreadable, then grabbed Ray's bridle and tugged, speaking sternly to the animal. "I'll sell you down the river if you don't behave," he hissed between his teeth.
Ray's huge black eyes stared back sorrowfully.
"Alright, we have an understanding."
"I see what you mean by excitable," Nate tried to joke, stroking Ray's neck. The horse nickered and twisted its head to blow warmly against Nate's face.
Brad shook his head ruefully. "I get it, Ray. You like Nate. Say your goodbyes now so we can get going and leave Nate in peace."
Nate watched Brad swing into the saddle. He allowed himself one last sweeping look over Brad's powerful frame, ending in the cool blue of his gaze. "Good luck with your job," he said.
"Luck?" Brad grinned, wide and half scornful, like the term was a completely foreign concept. "You take care of yourself, Nate. Take it easy with those hammers."
"Yeah." Nate tensed, teeth gnawing his lower lip; couldn’t make himself leave it at that. "Stop by for coffee if you're ever in the neighborhood."
Brad's expression smoothed out, hiding Nate didn't know which emotion. Perhaps merely surprise. "I will," he said after a pause. "See you, Nate."
+
You never ran out of things to do on a property, even one as relatively small as Nate's.
Lately he might have managed to make you believe otherwise though.
Nate didn't deliberately set out to create a distraction by throwing himself on yard and house maintenance. It was all stuff that had to be done anyway, and if he worked more intently and for longer hours, then it was because it was way past the time he should've had several things fixed and up and running. It was an entirely positive development. When he got a letter from his family, demanding to know when he was going to come to his senses and come back, he was able to write them back saying he didn't see any reason to, his search wasn't over yet.
The only time he noticed the passing of time at all was on the days when the work wasn't quite physically demanding enough, when it still left him with too much energy to think and wonder and pace.
Considering all he'd done was throw a casual, offhand suggestion in the air, it sure as hell felt a lot like he was waiting for something. Constantly.
The restlessness made for some interesting dreams, if he absolutely had to find something positive in occasionally feeling like a caged animal. He was beginning to think he should redefine the idea of erotic dreams into something that described how all-consumingly and physically your mind was able to bring forth the sort of pleasure that left you shattered and shaken and panting, time after time.
+
Nate's limbo came to head with a trail of blood one darkening night toward the end of the season.
"Nate Fick? Open up! Open up!"
It wasn't a voice he recognized, but it was full of urgency, not menace. Nate rushed to the front door, the wood reverberating with irregular pounding.
On the porch stood a muscled, olive-skinned man Nate had never seen. He was supporting someone very familiar, although looking distinctly unlike the recollections in Nate's head for the startling pallor of his skin and the make-shift red-stained bandages wrapped around his middle.
"Brad," he breathed. Brad's eyes struggled open, his not-quite-focused eyes and the sickly sheen of sweat over his brow galvanizing Nate into action, mind scrambling for every possible bit of general medical knowledge and kick-starting a series of immediate concerns. "Bring him in, put him on the couch," he barked. "What the hell happened? Who are you?"
The man was struggling with Brad's weight, helping him lie down as Brad drew in a pained hissing breath between his teeth. "Name's Antonio, or Poke if you prefer," he glanced back at Nate, "and I think most of the story can wait. The boy's been mad lucky. There's no bullets actually in him that would need digging out, but he does have a mean graze in the side."
Nate could only marvel at how matter-of-fact Poke was about the assessment, the worry displayed only in his heavily creased forehead and the lips pressed tightly together. Probably he hadn't been having dreams of a very personal nature about the damn cowboy currently bleeding on Nate's couch for weeks on end; a lack of that sort of investment might offer the capability for cooler rationality than Nate could boast of at the moment. Fuck that, he ground his teeth together. Focus.
"Alright. Let's check and clean the wound for now. Please bring some water from the kitchen, I'll find something we can use as fresh bandages-"
"Nate." They both jerked towards the sound of Brad's unsteady voice. He was making a fair attempt at his usual smirk, if you discounted the paleness of his skin and the way his eyes seemed to be slipping half-shut every few seconds.
"It's not quite the invitation for a cup of coffee you extended-"
Nate was speechless for a second. Brad's smirk gained in strength. That did it. "Oh, you're a real delight, Brad. A hoot. Now shut the fuck up so I can treat that fucking wound. And don't you fucking dare get a fever."
That made Brad blink. His lips widened into a prettier smile than Nate would have thought possible or sane under the circumstances. "Alright. Thanks, Nate."
Anytime, he could have said. Except he never wanted Brad to need his help like this again.
He stayed silent and went to fetch the fresh bandages.
+
Brad's side was a mess. The graze was deep, and judging from the way the first wrappings were drenched in blood, partly dried stiff and colored a rusty brown, had bled profusely and for some time. Nate cleaned the area carefully, inspecting it for signs of infection setting in. There was some redness around the gash, but the skin wasn't getting badly puffy. Yet.
"I'll redress this, and then you'll get some sleep. Understood?"
Brad had been mostly silent through Nate working on him. Sometimes he turned his head away and Nate could read pain in his eyebrows drawing together, in the tightness of his jaw. But after the worst passed he always turned back, studying Nate's face seemingly with the same level of care Nate was giving his wound.
"Can't say I've got any objections."
"Yes, I guess blood loss would make one compliant to the thought of a little bed rest," Nate jibed, worry manifesting as irritability. He turned to Poke who was hovering next to them, waiting to lend a helping hand. "And you will tell me what happened."
Poke grinned, shook his head. Then he addressed Brad. "Dawg, you didn't mention how pushy your guy was."
Brad grinned faintly back, eyes fluttering shut again. "I suspect it could be a new trend caused by recent events."
"Hey. Didn't I tell you to shut your mouth and rest?"
"Pretty sure you're proving my point, Nate," Brad slurred, exhaustion overtaking him fast. Just before he nodded off he reached out a hand, long fingers encircling Nate's wrist.
Nate looked down in shock. Brad's fingers were warm, despite the amount of blood he'd lost. Nate willed himself to believe it meant Brad would be okay.
He remembered Poke's presence a moment later. There was no room for thoughts of appropriateness in his mind; if the guy had a problem, he could take a hike, Brad's friend or not.
Nate looked up. Poke was watching them, unruffled.
"Know what," he drawled. "I wager the story can wait for another couple of hours."
Nate swallowed. "There's some food in the kitchen. You should eat. Rest a bit yourself."
Poke nodded, turned to go.
"Hey, Poke?" Dark eyes met his again, questioning. "Is Ray alright?"
Poke's face broke into the widest grin Nate had seen on him yet. He shook his head slowly. "Oh, dawg, if he wasn't a total goner before, he sure as hell will be now."
It was Nate's turn to blink. "Sorry?"
Poke continued smiling, frustratingly enigmatic. "Ray's fine. He's just outside with my beast Walter, probably sulking because he's anxious about Brad and trying to deal with it by harassing poor Walt."
+
He'd ordered Poke upstairs to make use of the guest bedroom. After Brad's grip on his wrist finally slackened, Nate removed himself to the nearby armchair. Ostensibly it was to try and sleep; in reality it was to stare at Brad, cataloguing every twitch, every frown, every sigh. He got up several times to check on Brad's temperature. He was warm but not alarmingly so.
It was the darkest hour of the night, and Nate was experiencing a stab of surrealism. He had two cowboys in his house; one of them had been shot. The one who Nate might or might not be a little bit in love with.
And to think that three months ago he had been enjoying a solitary, hassle-free life.
+
"So. The story?"
Poke was unchangingly serene the following morning. He'd made coffee and breakfast while Nate was busy taking care of Brad again, without him having to even ask. Nate was starting to suspect it was a cowboy thing.
"Really, the story is a short one," Poke started, settling into the armchair. Nate was perched next to Brad again. Brad opened his eyes, a pretense of getting more rest abandoned.
"Rustlers," Brad said succinctly.
"Revenge," Poke corrected. "We caught them, red-handed, on the outward journey, not farm from the railhead. Didn't have fresh horses under us, so the bastards got away. Well, minus the one Brad shot."
Brad's jaw tightened. "We would've taken him to be tried, but the bullet-he bled out."
"Doesn't matter, dawg. They'd have hanged him anyway."
Nate, silently, agreed with Poke. "And what happened to Brad?"
"We got all of the cattle to the destination and started making our way back. Brad here was in a real hurry, for some reason," Poke's smirk was full of insinuations; Brad's flat stare seemed to promise payback in the form of violence. Then both of them got serious again, obviously thinking ahead in the journey back.
"They were waiting for us. Just a day's ride from here. Must've been a stroke of dumb fucking luck the sonuvabitches got wind of us coming in this way."
Nate's fingernails were digging into his palms. He stared at Brad. "You rode for a day? With a bullet wound?"
"Graze," Brad reminded him, demure.
"A deep goddamn graze," Poke added helpfully. "But the boy was dead-set on reaching his original destination and there was no telling him otherwise."
Nate couldn't even process Poke's statement, too preoccupied with unadulterated terror at the thoughts of what might have happened, the many ways things could have gone even more wrong. He had the sudden urge to go stand outside and scream to high heavens about the monumental fucking idiocy of stubborn, cocky cowboys.
He pushed back on the hysteria. "How did you get away from them?"
"Get away, from those guys?" Poke snorted. "Do you actually know the Iceman, dawg? All three of 'em, dropped like flies. To say the boy here's a good shot would be a major understatement. Brad even getting hit, now that was just the initial advantage the ambush gave them."
Nate looked back down at Brad. "The Iceman, huh?"
Brad shrugged, smiling. "You track a few rustlers once and you've got a reputation for life."
Poke snorted again, muttering something under his breath about Iceman feats Nate wasn't sure he wanted to know more about. "Well, you're due another nap, Iceman," he ordered.
Brad watched him pointedly. "I will if you will."
"I'm not the one who was shot."
"I gotta say I agree with Brad. You look like you didn't sleep a wink all last night."
Nate flushed, feeling cornered and annoyed because of it. Brad and Poke managed to flash him near identical victorious smirks.
"Fine. Wake me up in a couple of hours." He got up and started to climb the stairs. Behind him he heard Poke start talking in a low voice.
"And before you get some more shut-eye, let me tell you what your boy Nate asked about the welfare of that unpredictable lump of horse meat no one in the world cares for or can stand to be in the company of except you…"
3.
Two days later Brad decided his graze wasn't in danger of getting dangerously infected and politely kicked Poke out on Nate's behalf. Of course, Nate had actually seemed to enjoy Poke's company, and Poke had clearly respected Nate from day one, despite making a token effort with offhand comments about bossy white boys. The fact might or might not have played a part in Brad's strengthening opinion about the house starting to feel crowded.
In any case, Poke had a family waiting for him. People that actually needed him. Brad would be perfectly fine without Poke there to help Nate babysit him during his road to recovery.
Well. For as much as Brad prided himself on being as independent and self-sufficient as it was possible to be, he couldn't deny he had been enjoying having Nate frequently close, even if it was only to check, clean and redress the wound.
During the interminable days and nights of drudging eastwards with their job, it had become clear pretty quickly that he wasn't getting a pair of green eyes out of his head. Was plagued with more than just the memory of the clear gaze. Somewhere down the road he came to a kind of agreement with himself; gave in.
Alone again in the house with Nate as the world outside fell dark and distant, listening to the calming sound of crickets, Nate's touch careful and warm on him, he couldn't remember why he'd even bothered trying to fight against this.
Nate, apparently, wasn't feeling the same serenity; he frowned, his hands still on Brad. "You should've found a doctor, Brad. Maybe this should have been stitched, I don't know. And you keep getting a low fever at night. I don't fucking know how-"
"Nate. Nate, shush. I don't know any doctors here. And I wouldn't have gone to anyone I can't trust."
Nate's eyes were dark green and worried, gleaming in the faint candle light.
"I'm fine," Brad told him once again, and the skin around Nate's eyes tightened.
"You're not fucking fine, Brad," he snapped. "Being shot is not the fucking definition of being fine, you fucker!"
Brad's shoulders were shaking in silent laughter; it was making his wound hurt like hell. He didn't care. "Since when do you curse so much, Nathaniel?" he teased gently, relieved in some profound way despite the pain and the exhaustion.
Nate didn't look the least bit amused; looked a bit like he might finish the job and kill Brad himself, actually, so Brad let his smile fade out. "I'll be alright, really. A few more days to recuperate and I'll be well enough to leave; indebted to you, of course-"
Nate made an indecipherable noise, something close to fury or frustration. Then his fingers were digging hard on Brad's shoulders and his lips were on Brad's.
Surprise jolted low in Brad's stomach. Right afterwards came the flood of desire - so intense it threatened to overwhelm reason and care. His hands flew up to grip Nate's body, thumbs creasing the shirt over his ribcage.
A second later and Nate was releasing him, was backing away. Brad couldn't process the sudden lack of physical contact; his lips were numb. Nate had imprinted himself on Brad and now he was pulling away. "Sorry, I'm sorry-"
"God damn it, Nate," Brad was aware of the fact he was growling but he wanted his message to sink in. "The only thing I want you to be sorry for is stopping, and you better be planning to rectify the situation right now."
Nate's teeth were sunk deep into his lip. Brad nearly groaned at the sight, wanting Nate closer, wanting to lick the indentation left behind.
"You're injured, recovering, I don't know what the hell I was thinking-"
Nate's eyes were down and he was shaking his head; wasn't listening. Brad wasn't going to put up with that, especially since it involved Nate looking guilty and tortured like he'd fucking been the one to shoot Brad in the first place.
He took Nate's hand before he had time to retreat too far and placed it square over his clothed dick, trapping it with his hand over Nate's.
Brad knew Nate felt he was hard, because he heard him draw in a shaky breath - but the knowledge came as an afterthought, through an instant haze of need, because despite the fact that he'd acted to soothe Nate's ridiculous overactive conscience his cock only registered Nate's palm covering him with the barest hint of pressure. Brad ground their hands down harder, hips arching up instinctually.
The pull was felt immediately over his torso and in the healing wound, making him hiss, pain lacing the pleasure.
"Brad," Nate's voice was pleading. He hadn't taken his hand away.
"Come on, Nate," Brad let his voice drop. "Do it, please."
Nate made a sound, then; his pupils were dilated, high cheekbones flushed with just a touch of heat. His lower lip looked red and tender from all the biting.
He was fucking gorgeous. Brad couldn't help shifting again.
"Just-don't move," Nate breathed. He dragged his palm over Brad once, hard; Brad's breath shuddered out of him. "Don't move, don't let me hurt you."
Nate climbed on his knees over him on the sofa, bracing himself with a hand next to Brad's pillow. He lowered his body close, breathing against Brad's lips; kept his weight off of Brad, hand still in motion between their bodies. Brad wanted the sensation of Nate's body crushing him, no space between them, but knew this was as much as he was going to get. This time. Brad's mouth fell open for Nate and their tongues tangled together. Nate's hand slipped inside his shorts, skin on bare skin, a tight perfect squeeze. Brad gasped, wrenching away to gulp for air. Nate didn't relent. His lips latched on to Brad's neck, sucking a trail of bruises down his throat.
Brad wanted to say something, needed to say something to make sure Nate would never stop. "Yeah," was about the extent of what he managed. A string of grunts and encouraging wordless praise and breathless Nates.
His hands were twisting in the material of Nate's shirt, fingertips sliding underneath it to catch on skin. He needed more. He let his palms slide on to the small of Nate's back, weighing him down. Nate sobbed as his cock pressed into Brad's hip, as hard as Brad was. His forehead came to rest on Brad's collarbone, sweaty hair brushing Brad's jaw. Brad swallowed convulsively. Christ, Nate felt good against him.
Nate was groaning and shuddering and Brad's bullet graze was trickling fresh blood, the air around him tinted with smells of iron and semen and Nate. The friction and the pain melded into one sensation; Brad felt alive and whole and frantically, astonishingly desperate for Nate's climax, for having Nate share his pleasure.
He felt Nate's orgasm, his cock pulsing against his hip, soaking through the cloth, and came in Nate's tight fist, spurt after another that Nate coaxed him through, hold gentling.
He might have blacked out for a moment. Nate's voice filtered in, speaking against Brad's lips, calling him ten kinds of bastard for tearing the wound open again.
+
He was well enough to start moving a little more only days later. Nate helped him upstairs, back to the guest bedroom. His back in particular was grateful for the firmer mattress. Another part of him was very approving of Nate sponging him down with a washcloth in lieu of a proper washing. The broad massaging strokes with the damp cloth tightened his nipples, made him hard, but then so did most touches Nate bestowed on him.
Nate seemed more on guard though, stupidly determined to keep a distance between them for the moment. Brad didn't push it, resigning himself to Nate's exaggeratedly protective streak. Restraining himself from propositioning Nate, though-it was probably more of an impediment to his recovery than anything they might have come up with together.
There were things apart from Brad that demanded Nate's attention. The lack of rains made him fret about the fate of his vegetables. They were fast running out of some of the more crucial supplies, such as coffee. And apparently parts of the yard were starting to remind a wild forestation for the long interval in scything.
There was also Ray. In addition to requiring an insane amount of oats and grass that he chewed with his mouth hanging open, dribbling bits of food and slobber everywhere, he got depressed and moody when on his own too long.
"It's like he understands me when I say you're doing a lot better," Nate said one afternoon after returning from a recreational, please-stop-taking-your-boredom-out-on-my-fence-it's-about-to-collapse ride into the town with Ray.
"Course he does," Brad muttered affectionately. "Ray is an extremely volatile, enormous pain in the ass, but he's not a complete idiot."
That earned him an especially brilliant smile by Nate. Brad awarded himself a point, simultaneously refusing to listen to the part of his brain asking if he was actually competing against himself in making Nate happy.
As the wound scabbed over and even the mild fevers petered out, Nate stopped looking constantly worried-the green eyes were lit with relief and contentment instead. The evenings at the house were some of the calmest times in Brad's life thus far. Nate cooked, Brad struggled downstairs to watch him and listen to him talk. Sometimes after dinner Nate read aloud, cheap adventure story paperbacks alongside essays on philosophy and literary criticism and pieces of texts in Latin and Greek.
"This is what you used to do, isn't it? Study?"
"Yeah." Nate didn't seem surprised or upset that he'd guessed.
Brad deliberated. Everything about Nate, from his deep-seated politeness to his cadence of speech, spoke of a background of wealth. "Harvard?"
Nate smiled ruefully. "Right again." This time, he didn't deflect the question in Brad's expression. "It's nothing dramatic. I just-didn't fit in. Things were changing and I didn't like the direction the change took. I wanted something different. Something real. Something… meaningful."
Nate shrugged. He was absently shuffling a deck of cards, eyes on his hands. Brad could almost physically feel how hard Nate was trying to convey he didn't expect any confessions back.
"I was supposed to get married," he said, straightforward. "To a girl I'd known all my life. She married my oldest friend instead."
And the biggest revelation was, he didn't feel anything when he said it. He'd spent so long steering clear of the topic he hadn't had the opportunity to notice it didn't matter anymore.
Nate's face was setting in unhappy lines. Stupid man, thinking too much. Brad smiled at him, leaning closer, resting his elbows on the table. It left less than a handspan of space between the tips of their fingers.
"So I guess I went looking for something real and meaningful, too."
+
A morning unmarked by anything at all; Brad didn't even know the date, surfacing from dreams into a degree of consciousness. Afterwards he would check the calendar and it would stay seared into his memory for the rest of his life.
He heard light steps, felt Nate sitting down on the edge of the bed. Brad didn't open his eyes.
Nate obviously thought he was still asleep. His body heat moved closer as he bent over Brad; his lips were half open and he trailed them from Brad's forehead to his temple, mouthing something against his skin. Brad couldn't wonder what the words might have been, had to focus on not letting his breathing speed up, not moving, the involuntary quiver of his muscles hopefully passing unnoticed.
Nate didn't go further. With a last soft press of his lips to the top of Brad's head, he stood up and strode away; Brad listened to the creak of the staircase as Nate descended, strained to hear the click of the outer door closing before he let himself exhale, pushing his heated face against the white pillow, groaning, skin prickling with warmth and awareness. No way in hell he'd get back to sleep now.
+
Nate worked on the back of the yard all morning, straight through lunch. Wide swings of the scythe mirrored the glint of the sun, cutting grass where Ray's grazing hadn't extended.
Brad was in wait as he saw Nate finally heading back to the house; grabbed Nate's arm as soon as he came in through the door and dragged him in close, their bodies pressing together, fitting together.
Nate was laughing, surprised. "Brad, I'm sweaty as hell." His palms landed on Brad's waist in a gesture that felt shockingly uncomplicated and familiar.
"I know," Brad said. His voice was rough. He had crept downstairs mere minutes after Nate had left, feeling restless and short-tempered lying alone in the bed with Nate's phantom touches still burning him up, and had been staring at Nate almost the whole time, cursing his injury, feeling like dead weight. And then just looking, hands fisting and his stomach tight with want, as Nate leaned and bent over and moved back and forth over, even the rhythm of his walk a turn-on for Brad.
"I know," he repeated, softly; he cradled the back of Nate's head with his hands and nosed the line of Nate's jaw. Nate's sharp inhale into his ear made the desire spike up, pooling in his gut and in his spine equally. Brad's tongue slipped out, traced the underside of the bone, tasting cool clean sweat and Nate's skin underneath.
Brad's head was spinning. His hold on Nate tightened, directing and stilling him as Brad angled their faces closer, lips just rubbing together, open-mouthed. Nate was breathing more quickly, now; his hands were still light and cautious. He didn't say anything. The house was silent, the bright noon light streaming in, and it felt daring and novel and fucking perfect to be standing there with Nate, touching him, allowed to.
Nate's fingers twitched; Brad could practically feel the self-control, the checking of his touch. "You know, I won't break, Nate," he said, nipping at his lips. "I'm alright. More than alright."
Nate's mouth widened into a small smile against his; Brad only felt the expression. "Okay, Brad. Okay then," he ceded after a moment, nipping back, then opening up, going deeper, tongue darting out to entwine with Brad's. Brad felt the slick touch echoing throughout his whole body. He shuddered, groin pushing into Nate's.
Brad had been half-hard since Nate's barely-there kisses at dawn. Watching him for fucking hours had only made it worse. He didn't have a fucking clue if he could wait, if he could last now that he actually had Nate warm and gorgeous and smelling of sweat and grass and the sun against him.
His hands smoothed over Nate's neck and shoulders and arms; a long hard caress down Nate's back; anchoring his grip on the swell of Nate's ass and jerking him closer, feeling Nate's cock hard against his own. Nate's breath hitched and Brad buried his face in Nate's neck. "Come to bed with me," he said, voice choked. "Please."
Nate's reply was a moan, before he nodded, face flushed, and turned, pulling Brad with him. Brad's hands couldn't quite let go of him and they stumbled up the stairs, short of breath, dazed. Brad couldn't liken the anticipation and exhilaration to anything he'd ever felt.
When they got to the landing Brad turned to enter the room he had been sleeping in but Nate took hold of his arm, walking backwards to his own bedroom and tugging Brad along. He looked serious and excited and Brad couldn't even-he pulled Nate's body closer again, crushing him to his chest and taking his mouth in a series of open wet kisses, Nate's neck straining upwards to keep their lips locked together. The last shuffling steps to the bed were sheer torture.
"Want to," Nate was panting, "want to see you, Brad-"
Brad pulled off his shirt, then helped Nate's over his head as well; Nate's fingers were trembling against the front of Brad's pants, his knuckles accidentally nudging against the hard line of Brad's dick. The sparks from the contact resonated low in his stomach.
Too fucking much.
He shoved Nate on the bed, undid the buttons with hands no less unsteady than Nate's; dropped his pants before getting to work on Nate's and twisting them off down his legs. Nate's thighs were trembling, falling open to Brad as he climbed on the mattress to kneel in front of Nate.
A part of him wanted to hurry, wanted to take Nate, to immobilize him under his body and listen to Nate's voice hoarsen as Brad fucked into him.
He wanted to touch even more; wanted to claim more than Nate's body, wanted him to want this later, again and again. Needed him to want it for a long time. He put his hands on Nate's stomach and back, made him flip over, dragged his legs apart, fingers trailing the soft skin of Nate's inner thighs.
Nate's shoulders were tense, rising and falling with rapid breaths. Brad let his body cover Nate's; blew warm air behind his ear. Nate's forehead pressed forward onto the sheets as he moaned, the line of his bare neck a lovely portrait of submission. Brad kissed the bony knobs at the top of his spine and then bit down hard on the side of Nate's throat.
"Brad," Nate gasped, bucking underneath him. His arms shook, giving out, and he slumped into the bed. Brad let his body follow, crowding close, sucking on the mark left behind by his teeth.
"Do you want me inside?" His heart was pounding like hell.
"Yes," Nate answered immediately.
Thank you, Brad mouthed against the back of his neck. "Something slick," he said. "Do you have anything?" He let his fingers trail down Nate's back.
"Yes, there's," Nate stopped to swallow, peeking at Brad from the corner of his eye, "got Vaseline, the last errand run…"
Brad's fingers on Nate spasmed. The thought of Nate considering this a possibility, preparing for it-he crushed Nate's lips with his own again, delving in to lick all over Nate's mouth; then Nate retaliated and he had Nate's tongue in his mouth, eager and wet and smooth and sending shockwaves to his dick.
The Vaseline was on the little bureau next to Nate's bed. The snick of opening the jar sounded loud and strange. Brad scooped up the viscous material, rubbing it around on his fingertips. Nate was watching him over his shoulder. Brad was afraid to ask, but he had to. "You sure?"
Nate-cracked a beautiful grin at him. "Get on with it, Iceman."
Oh, the fucker.
Brad brought his finger against Nate, not quite pushing inside yet, just dipping to brush against the rim. Nate shivered; so fucking sensitive. Brad's dick and chest were aching. Slowly he eased in a finger, then another; started scissoring them. Nate groaned.
"Keep going," he commanded, husky, as Brad hesitated. Brad spread more Vaseline on his fingers, on Nate, and returned with three fingers.
Nate felt unbelievable; hot, and so tight Brad had huge doubts about this actually working. He had to help Nate relax. Inspired, he bent down, licking around the edges of Nate's hole where his fingers disappeared.
Nate's whole body jerked; a high keen escaped his throat. Brad had found a secret weapon. He wondered if he could make Nate come, just from this, from kissing and fingering his ass. He stabbed his tongue in, laving the area, counting conquest in every tremor running across Nate's back and thighs.
"You like this, Nate?" he taunted, delighted. "The sounds you're making for me…"
Nate's neck flushed. Brad could see his jaw locking as he ground his teeth together. "Enough," Nate forced out. He raised himself on his hands and knees, twisted his head to glance back at Brad.
"I thought you wanted to be inside of me."
And as Brad was still reeling from the flashing green gaze and the words and the utter desirability of what he had in front of him, Nate took a good long look at his cock through heated half-lidded eyes, fucking smirked and licked his lips and added, "You better use a lot of the slick."
He was going to wipe away that smirk if it was the last damned thing he did.
Spreading the Vaseline over his dick and not rubbing one off on the spot had to be one of the most challenging things he'd ever done. His cock was a tortured angry red, leaking at the tip even before he laid a hand on himself.
This was it. He knew he'd be ruined for anyone else even before steadying Nate's hips and lining himself up. Breaching Nate and being swallowed by his heat, inch by agonizing inch, was a mere confirmation.
"God, Brad," Nate gasped as Brad's pelvis was snug against him.
"Nate?"
"Feels like you're fucking splitting me in half." Nate's laugh was shaky. Brad screwed his eyes shut; drew in a deep measured breath, searching for control, readying himself. "Too much?"
"No. No," Nate reached a hand back, smoothing it down Brad's side, grasping his hip. Keeping him immobile. "I feel your heartbeat," he whispered. "Inside me."
Brad's head dropped onto Nate's shoulder. He felt Nate, too. Felt so fucking close to Nate.
Nate relaxed incrementally around him, told him to move and started pushing back to meet his thrusts. Brad put everything he had into every roll and stab of his hips.
He wasn't prepared for the way Nate tightened around him when he came. Nate's head twisted to the side and Brad thought he saw Nate's mouth open, but couldn't hear him, the rush of blood too loud in his ears.
Brad came so hard for a second he thought he was actually going to die.
+
Darkness and crickets. Nate's smell all over his skin. Stained, sweat-soaked sheets.
If Nate had taken this to his own bedroom in the belief it would make it easier to let Brad off the hook afterwards, let him slink off if need be, he was fucking deluded.
Brad rolled onto his side, chest flush with Nate's back. His fingers found the now-visible bruise high on Nate's neck, pressing down carefully until Nate hissed quietly. "Do you know what this is?"
Nate didn't answer for the longest time. Finally, he nodded, a nod like a question.
Brad nudged Nate to roll over until they were face to face, and mirrored the nod, sure enough for both of them. He kissed Nate, a kiss between good morning and everything starts now.
"Okay," Nate said.
"Okay," Brad confirmed.
ETA: Now with brilliant, brilliant art by their_darkness:
Save it for the barn, Ray
[ beta by the phenomenal pjvilar ]
the Midwest, 1879
1.
"Shit, fuck!"
Nate flung away the hammer and rested his aching head in his hands. Maybe he'd just leave fixing the steps for another day-one less uniformly unlucky. The house, while structurally sound, had definitely fallen into disrepair during the years it had sat empty, and the day's miscellaneous maintenance jobs had left Nate with a number of cuts, bruises, and a great deal of frustration. It was obviously one of those days. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, sticking the shirt to his skin, and he could feel beginnings of sunburn on his bare arms.
He registered the low, near inaudible sound of chuckling behind him at the same time as a tall shadow cast itself over where he was kneeling in the grass in front of the porch. Nate tensed-regretting for a second the hammer thrown out of sight in his fit of temper-before springing up and wheeling around.
Mid-motion, it caught up with him that a potential assailant wouldn't have announced their presence by laughing aloud at Nate's sorry attempts at craftsmanship; and as he whirled to a stop and actually saw the man standing on his lawn, he had to admit a rusty hammer wouldn't have made a damned difference anyway.
A cowboy, if his hat and attire were anything to go by. Solid muscles that stood out even through the man's shirt and vest. Powerful, and tall, too-he would tower at least a head above Nate.
Icy blue eyes had tracked Nate's initial aggressive spin around-alert, evaluative-but warmed in acknowledgement as Nate let his posture relax. Nate thought he saw a hint of amusement blended with surprise, as if the stranger couldn't imagine being physically challenged. Nate could easily understand why that might be.
"Good day," the man offered, his smooth voice cultivated in a way that was starkly at odds with his dusty, worn clothing, then quirked a brilliant and unexpected grin. "Is it the nails or the boards that are giving you trouble?"
Nate's answering smile was rueful. "I'm afraid problem's with the maker, not the materials. It's been a while since I've worked with lumber." He let his gaze sweep over the man again, from the scruffy boots up the powerful frame, taking in the pistol at his hip. From the corner of his eye he caught a splash of color behind the stranger and noticed for the first time the man's dark mount waiting by the trough on the fence farther back. Nate wondered how he had managed to miss the sound of someone arriving on horseback. "You on the way north to drive cattle?"
The man inclined his head. "Eventually. Ray and I made good time though and seem to find ourselves with a few days to kill before we're needed at the Dodgson ranch."
"Ray?"
The man pointed his thumb over his shoulder without looking back, and as if in answer, the horse whinnied and danced, tossing its head. Brad grinned wide again. "He's pretty excitable, but damned fast when need be."
Nate laughed, something warm and amused and intrigued uncurling in his chest.
The man took a step closer to Nate and offered his hand. "Brad Colbert."
"Nate Fick," Nate said as their palms slid together. Brad's grip was pleasantly firm; his hand seemed to envelop Nate's.
"Nate," the cowboy repeated, and Ray the horse made more noise in the background, stomping his hooves on the ground. "Well, Nate, what say you I give you a hand with your porch, and you put me up for the night on a haystack in the barn?" He tilted his chin in the direction of the derelict little building that had been part and parcel of the site when Nate had signed the contract making him the owner of the place.
Nate considered the man-Brad-ignoring the spike of heat in his stomach at the white easy grin and remembering to draw back from the handshake almost under the socially accepted time limit. He shook his head slightly, and Brad's expression went blank for a second before Nate said, smiling, "That barn is as draughty as the open prairie-and while I don't doubt your survival skills in the great wild, you're more than welcome to the house. Since I happen to have a guest room available."
"Deal." Brad's grin was back like it had never been gone. "And why don't you let me wield the hammer this time. You might end up losing it during your next tantrum."
+
Brad insisted in helping with the rest of the work Nate had planned for the day as well. Fixing the porch was followed by sanding the outdoors furniture Nate had put together the previous week.
"I hate sanding," he confessed when they were starting. At a complete lack of answer from Brad, Nate turned to see him staring in wide-eyed apprehension at the table and four chairs Nate had painstakingly marked and sawn and hammered into form.
"Good Lord, Nate, are these things supposed to bear human weight?"
"I had a manual; I'm assured they're sturdier than they look. Besides, not everyone's eight feet tall like you, you know."
Brad ignored the slur. "On second thought, your first concern should be filing a couple of those legs so that there's even a chance in hell of the one unlucky enough to wind up in one of these being able to stay upright and not tipping right across your porch railing."
"Brad, out of curiosity-were you actually going to help me or just criticize?"
After the ribbing he had received over his handiwork, Nate attempted paypack by having Brad weed the vegetable garden with him. If he was waiting for the cowboy to consider the task too menial he was proven wrong; Brad seemed perfectly content to shift through the soil with him, even whistling random tunes into the quiet of the falling dusk. Ray's neighing joined in, in a surreal parody of a duet. Nate had a feeling this was a familiar routine for the pair.
Brad didn't seem bothered by the uncomfortable crouching position either, while Nate's back was screaming for mercy. Gratefully, he called a halt at twilight, rolling his shoulder blades, stretching muscles not yet completely used to the farm work after so many years of carting around books, not boxes of fresh produce and tools and two-by-fours.
Nate turned towards Brad, catching the swivel of his chin as he looked off to the side. Pausing for a second, stupidly flustered, Nate cleared his throat. "I'll put something together for dinner, shall I? Coffee, too, if you'd like."
Brad faced him again, looking calm and pleased. "Sure. Sounds good, Nate. I'll just check on Ray first."
Nate nodded before going inside, leaving the door open for Brad to follow. Through the kitchen window he saw Brad ambling up to the horse, Ray pushing his great big head almost against Brad's face and Brad forcibly shoving his muzzle away. Brad's voice trickled faintly over the yard.
"…alright, alright, Daddy's back now; try and control yourself, you flea-ridden-"
Ray the horse threw its head back, snorting and whinnying in distress.
"Oh for fucks' sake-fine, no fleas here-what a pain in the ass you are." The words were belied by Brad's fingers stroking the thin warm skin behind Ray's ears. "Alright, boy. Good night." Brad gathered up his saddle bags from the ground and made as if to head off to the house, but Ray's teeth clamped on his sleeve, pinning him in place. "Jesus Christ, what now?"
Nate would swear Ray's black eyes cut straight towards him through the window before the horse stared imploringly at Brad again. Brad's mouth thinned, but Nate couldn't tell whether it was out of irritation or an effort to keep from smiling.
"Shut up, Ray," Brad said, extricating his sleeve and striding off.
+
Brad was polite and appreciative when thanking Nate for the dinner; much more so, Nate thought, than the vegetables and leftover pie really warranted. They took their mugs to the living room, Nate lighting kerosene lamps on the way, and sat down, stretching weary limbs. Brad gave a satisfied hum after taking the first sip of his black coffee and Nate had to stomp down on the rush of happiness over his guest for the night.
"So, what's your story, Nate?"
Nate blinked. "Sorry?"
"All alone up here, fixing the house? Sprucing things up? Is your fiancée following you soon?" Brad was smiling wide but only with his mouth. Nate's eyebrow lifted, caught off guard by the assumption even though it was the obvious one to make.
"No, just me," he said, and left it at that. Brad looked expectant for a second. When Nate didn't expand, he seamlessly redirected his study to the room at large, settling more heavily into the padded chair, the atmosphere relaxing once more. "The coffee's good," he murmured.
"Thanks." Nate felt the dangerous swell of warmth again. He could already tell that Brad Colbert would be very easy to get used to; a paradox of manners and sharp perceptiveness; biting humor and hard, aloof exterior.
The place hadn't felt empty to him when he'd arrived and he'd cherished the solitude throughout familiarizing himself with the upkeep of the house, even when the practical matters threatened to overwhelm him. Errand runs, taking the produce to the market, had provided all the social contact he had wanted or needed. Now, though-watching Brad reclining in his favorite chair, blue coffee mug almost swallowed by his fist and the faint golden lamplight offsetting the angles of his face-Nate got the first inkling of how different the empty space might feel after his guest had gone.
"What about you? Who are you running away from?" Nate intended the question as a joke, but for a second shutters seemed to slam in place in Brad's eyes. Then the smirk was back, if tighter than before, as Brad turned the tables.
"Ah, so that's what you did?"
"It wasn't, actually," Nate replied. "And it's rude to answer question with a question." Brad arched an incredulous eyebrow at his admonishment, making Nate laugh.
"Thank you for that piece of wisdom, Nathaniel," his guest mocked. "That's your whole name, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Yeah. It suits you."
Brad's smile was dangerously alluring. Nate sighed, ignoring the twist of want somewhere low in his stomach. He hadn't missed how deftly Brad had diverted the discussion away from his past but, despite being intrigued, wasn't about to press the issue. Quid pro quo-taking turns running into the jagged edges of the lines of privacy they'd each drawn, and knowing to let it go.
+
When it got late Brad scooped up his bags and followed close behind Nate as he led him up the stairs, showing him to the first room on the left.
"It's not much," Nate started, setting one of the lamps down; then took a second glance at the bed and Brad standing beside it. He snorted in dismay, a blush creeping up his neck. "Scratch that, it's hopeless. You might have been better off in the barn, least your feet wouldn't be hanging off the foot of the bed." He hadn't exactly been expecting guests, so the second bedroom had been a low priority. He especially hadn't been expecting guests this tall. The sense of hospitability drilled into him since boyhood was busy picking out every shortcoming in the tiny room, from the flaking paint to the faded duvet.
"Nate." Brad came closer, touched his arm. "Nate, it's fine. Don't worry about it."
Nate had to crane his neck to look up at him, and Brad's expression-shifted, his eyes darkening. Nate's breath caught, a wave of nervous anticipation stealing over him, but Brad was already releasing his arm, turning away to deposit his bags on a chair by the window.
"Alright then," Nate whispered. His voice was rougher than he expected. He cleared his throat and took a halting step back toward the hallway. "Good night, Brad."
"Sweet dreams, Nate." Brad's hands rose to his chest as he started to-started to unbutton his shirt, Nate realized; and in a moment would shrug it off, leaving only the white undershirt Nate had seen peeking from under the collar-
Nate's whole body flushed hot as he suddenly became aware of his stiffening cock. Right on its heels, breaking his momentary paralysis, came the reminder that he was still standing there, in the guest room, in full view should Brad turn.
He felt mortified and dirty. And so fucking aroused.
Abruptly, he spun on his heels and fairly jogged to the privacy of his own bedroom, slamming the door closed and leaning back against it. Eyes closing, he pushed his palm down hard on the swell in his pants, dragging the heel of his hand over himself, the friction so sweet he had to suck his lower lip between his teeth to keep quiet. Unconsciously, unwillingly, he thought about his guest, thought about the wide, muscled shoulders, the calloused fingers, the hollow of Brad's throat, the icy blue stare.
The back of Nate's head knocked against the wooden door as he shuddered, the barrage of filthy impossible images filling his head: Brad pushing him down, rough and powerful, just forcing Nate on his stomach on the floor and working at the buttons of his pants, his hand trapped uncomfortably between the cold unforgiving floor boards and Nate's squirming movements, twisting away, twisting back-maybe Brad would, he would probably get impatient, snarl at Nate, and yank the pants down Nate's hips until he had him naked, and them he would knee apart Nate's legs and touch him, put his long slim fingers-
Nate was coming, harder than he had in he couldn't remember how long, pulse after pulse until he was gasping for breath, eyes screwed shut, his dick so sensitive it was painful. His thighs were shaking and he felt dizzy. He also felt relaxed for the first time the whole day. Weary, loose-limbed and vaguely ashamed now that he was coming down, Nate pushed off the door, on legs that threatened to buckle under him; crawled on top of his bed and fell asleep within minutes.
+
On the other side of the door, hand still half raised to knock but the original reason for coming to bother his host utterly forgotten, Brad Colbert was standing frozen to the spot, unable to move even after he heard the muffled, bitten-off whimpers replaced by soft exhales of sleep. His heart was beating too fast for the quiet of the night, hammering with a hint of desperation-like driving trail when something happened, something spooked the herd into a stampede and everything went to hell in seconds, leaving Brad caught between duty and instinct and self-preservation.
He was used to denying himself, secure in the knowledge that nothing was forever, that people got bored or changed their minds and you were a whole lot better off not giving a damn in the first place, or at least not getting in too deep.
Convictions had been all well and good until a pair of green eyes that seemed filled with decency and honesty, and full lips prone to being bitten in the most distracting of ways. Nothing about Nate-his frankness and quiet confidence and preposterous charm-gave Brad a reason to keep falling back on old habits. Nothing at all, except the niggling doubt that when the inevitable end came he might find out he was capable of hurting in ways he hadn't yet discovered.
Christ, he needed to sleep on this.
And he really needed to take care of the way his cock was straining against the front of his pants after hearing Nate gasp his way into his release with nothing but flimsy wood separating him from Brad.
2.
Nate woke up to the smell of coffee.
He couldn't believe himself. He knew how much noise the stairway made when anyone was moving between the floors, knew perfectly well that there wasn't a silent board anywhere, the wood much too old for stealth. Someone had been moving in his house and Nate hadn't so much as twitched an eyelid. And judging by the way the light slanted in, it was ages past the time he was supposed to have been up in any case. Brad must think him a damned layabout.
Brad. A surge in his blood. Nate was attacked by a vivid recollection of his aggressive fantasy the night before; of coming longer than he'd thought possible. The bone-melting satisfaction had undoubtedly been a deciding factor in his subsequent deep sleep. Nate flushed just thinking about going downstairs and facing his guest, certain the shameful interest was written all over his face.
Nate forced himself out of the bed, and groaned, realizing he had fallen asleep still wearing his day clothes, after coming in his pants. He felt sticky and stupid and even more out of sorts. Stumbling toward the wash basin in the corner, cursing himself, Nate set about getting changed and fit for company.
+
Brad was sitting at the table as Nate came down, steam rising from two chipped enamel cups set next to the Emerson essay he was leafing through. Nate quirked an eyebrow at Brad and was answered with another crooked grin. "I heard you getting up," his guest explained. "There's some eggs on the stove."
Nate turned away, hiding a smile that was too pleased, too revealing. He found plates and divided the breakfast between them. Brad was looking at him, he realized, as he plopped down on the opposite side. "What?"
"Nothing. Just," Nate grinned, bit his lip, "I don't think I remember the last time someone made me breakfast. Thank you."
Brad's features relaxed and he inclined his head, infinitesimally. "Of course."
Despite having silently acknowledged as much to himself the previous evening, Nate was still struck by the ease of having Brad there, in his home, complementing his morning routine, adding to it with his presence. It wasn't just another person being there that did it. It was Brad himself, calm and sure and so beautifully male.
For one moment of weakness, Nate allowed himself to imagine a string of mornings beginning just like the present one, with coffee and perfectly cooked eggs; and days of working next to someone under the burning sun; and the balmy surreal night, helping wash a broad back, falling to bed together, a muscled arm thrown over his waist.
He imagined it, and let it fill him with an almost unbearable yearning. And then he locked it away; filed it under unattainable.
+
Nate asked him about the job and Brad drew the route they would be taking for Nate on the back of one of the pages of the essay. Nate didn't mind. Emerson had been all the rage back in the East and Nate had bought the writings but hadn't been able to buy into the idea in the end. He suspected Brad's opinion was pretty much the same, and would probably have been expressed quite more colorfully: quixotic and fatuous may have made an appearance.
"The nearest railhead is reasonably close, so it shouldn't take more than two months to get the cattle there."
"Two months practically living in the saddle. That's reasonable, you say?"
Brad grinned. "Compared to the four-month drives? Yes, it is."
"Christ," Nate shook his head. "I don't think my ass could take it," he mused, only half conscious of actually speaking out loud.
There was a violent silence from Brad's side of the table. Nate replayed the words in his head, had to force down another blush as it clicked. Slowly he braved a look at Brad.
Brad was sitting very still, lips and jaw tight, nostrils flaring. Then his eyes caught Nate's and for a heartbeat Nate was willing to swear the moment wasn't just awkward because of his poorly chosen phrase, that Brad might have been open to-
It ended when they looked away from each other at the same time, Brad's voice rasping he'd help with the dishes. Nate told him he didn't have to. Brad stared him down and told Nate to get up, he was drying.
+
The sun had climbed high in its zenith when Brad got his things and said he'd have to get going.
Nate himself should have been hard at work hours ago but the morning had sped by while they talked, debated, playfully mocked each other's chosen line of work. Truth be told, he felt no great guilt about delaying work in favor of seeing off his guest properly. Of taking the morning's memories and storing them. He walked Brad out, standing by while he saddled Ray.
"Thank you again for making breakfast. Though I'm sure it was deplorable of me as a host to leave you to fend for yourself like that. I just-slept like a log last night. Best sleep I've had in weeks."
It almost looked like Brad's fair skin was pinking. Nate couldn't find anything in the words that should have caused him to do so.
"No problem, I told you." He was checking the saddle bags, adjusting the stirrup. Not facing Nate. Ray neighed loudly, a weird horsey laugh, and all of a sudden butted Brad, making him overbalance and almost collide with Nate. Nate's hands shot out on pure reflex, steadying Brad.
Brad was riled. "Goddamn waste of hay, leave off!"
Ray was in no way perturbed by the reproach and started shuffling alarmingly closer, forcing Brad to step backwards into Nate even more. He thought he could feel Brad's heat even through two layers of clothing. He might have made a sound of some sort.
Brad glanced at him, unreadable, then grabbed Ray's bridle and tugged, speaking sternly to the animal. "I'll sell you down the river if you don't behave," he hissed between his teeth.
Ray's huge black eyes stared back sorrowfully.
"Alright, we have an understanding."
"I see what you mean by excitable," Nate tried to joke, stroking Ray's neck. The horse nickered and twisted its head to blow warmly against Nate's face.
Brad shook his head ruefully. "I get it, Ray. You like Nate. Say your goodbyes now so we can get going and leave Nate in peace."
Nate watched Brad swing into the saddle. He allowed himself one last sweeping look over Brad's powerful frame, ending in the cool blue of his gaze. "Good luck with your job," he said.
"Luck?" Brad grinned, wide and half scornful, like the term was a completely foreign concept. "You take care of yourself, Nate. Take it easy with those hammers."
"Yeah." Nate tensed, teeth gnawing his lower lip; couldn’t make himself leave it at that. "Stop by for coffee if you're ever in the neighborhood."
Brad's expression smoothed out, hiding Nate didn't know which emotion. Perhaps merely surprise. "I will," he said after a pause. "See you, Nate."
+
You never ran out of things to do on a property, even one as relatively small as Nate's.
Lately he might have managed to make you believe otherwise though.
Nate didn't deliberately set out to create a distraction by throwing himself on yard and house maintenance. It was all stuff that had to be done anyway, and if he worked more intently and for longer hours, then it was because it was way past the time he should've had several things fixed and up and running. It was an entirely positive development. When he got a letter from his family, demanding to know when he was going to come to his senses and come back, he was able to write them back saying he didn't see any reason to, his search wasn't over yet.
The only time he noticed the passing of time at all was on the days when the work wasn't quite physically demanding enough, when it still left him with too much energy to think and wonder and pace.
Considering all he'd done was throw a casual, offhand suggestion in the air, it sure as hell felt a lot like he was waiting for something. Constantly.
The restlessness made for some interesting dreams, if he absolutely had to find something positive in occasionally feeling like a caged animal. He was beginning to think he should redefine the idea of erotic dreams into something that described how all-consumingly and physically your mind was able to bring forth the sort of pleasure that left you shattered and shaken and panting, time after time.
+
Nate's limbo came to head with a trail of blood one darkening night toward the end of the season.
"Nate Fick? Open up! Open up!"
It wasn't a voice he recognized, but it was full of urgency, not menace. Nate rushed to the front door, the wood reverberating with irregular pounding.
On the porch stood a muscled, olive-skinned man Nate had never seen. He was supporting someone very familiar, although looking distinctly unlike the recollections in Nate's head for the startling pallor of his skin and the make-shift red-stained bandages wrapped around his middle.
"Brad," he breathed. Brad's eyes struggled open, his not-quite-focused eyes and the sickly sheen of sweat over his brow galvanizing Nate into action, mind scrambling for every possible bit of general medical knowledge and kick-starting a series of immediate concerns. "Bring him in, put him on the couch," he barked. "What the hell happened? Who are you?"
The man was struggling with Brad's weight, helping him lie down as Brad drew in a pained hissing breath between his teeth. "Name's Antonio, or Poke if you prefer," he glanced back at Nate, "and I think most of the story can wait. The boy's been mad lucky. There's no bullets actually in him that would need digging out, but he does have a mean graze in the side."
Nate could only marvel at how matter-of-fact Poke was about the assessment, the worry displayed only in his heavily creased forehead and the lips pressed tightly together. Probably he hadn't been having dreams of a very personal nature about the damn cowboy currently bleeding on Nate's couch for weeks on end; a lack of that sort of investment might offer the capability for cooler rationality than Nate could boast of at the moment. Fuck that, he ground his teeth together. Focus.
"Alright. Let's check and clean the wound for now. Please bring some water from the kitchen, I'll find something we can use as fresh bandages-"
"Nate." They both jerked towards the sound of Brad's unsteady voice. He was making a fair attempt at his usual smirk, if you discounted the paleness of his skin and the way his eyes seemed to be slipping half-shut every few seconds.
"It's not quite the invitation for a cup of coffee you extended-"
Nate was speechless for a second. Brad's smirk gained in strength. That did it. "Oh, you're a real delight, Brad. A hoot. Now shut the fuck up so I can treat that fucking wound. And don't you fucking dare get a fever."
That made Brad blink. His lips widened into a prettier smile than Nate would have thought possible or sane under the circumstances. "Alright. Thanks, Nate."
Anytime, he could have said. Except he never wanted Brad to need his help like this again.
He stayed silent and went to fetch the fresh bandages.
+
Brad's side was a mess. The graze was deep, and judging from the way the first wrappings were drenched in blood, partly dried stiff and colored a rusty brown, had bled profusely and for some time. Nate cleaned the area carefully, inspecting it for signs of infection setting in. There was some redness around the gash, but the skin wasn't getting badly puffy. Yet.
"I'll redress this, and then you'll get some sleep. Understood?"
Brad had been mostly silent through Nate working on him. Sometimes he turned his head away and Nate could read pain in his eyebrows drawing together, in the tightness of his jaw. But after the worst passed he always turned back, studying Nate's face seemingly with the same level of care Nate was giving his wound.
"Can't say I've got any objections."
"Yes, I guess blood loss would make one compliant to the thought of a little bed rest," Nate jibed, worry manifesting as irritability. He turned to Poke who was hovering next to them, waiting to lend a helping hand. "And you will tell me what happened."
Poke grinned, shook his head. Then he addressed Brad. "Dawg, you didn't mention how pushy your guy was."
Brad grinned faintly back, eyes fluttering shut again. "I suspect it could be a new trend caused by recent events."
"Hey. Didn't I tell you to shut your mouth and rest?"
"Pretty sure you're proving my point, Nate," Brad slurred, exhaustion overtaking him fast. Just before he nodded off he reached out a hand, long fingers encircling Nate's wrist.
Nate looked down in shock. Brad's fingers were warm, despite the amount of blood he'd lost. Nate willed himself to believe it meant Brad would be okay.
He remembered Poke's presence a moment later. There was no room for thoughts of appropriateness in his mind; if the guy had a problem, he could take a hike, Brad's friend or not.
Nate looked up. Poke was watching them, unruffled.
"Know what," he drawled. "I wager the story can wait for another couple of hours."
Nate swallowed. "There's some food in the kitchen. You should eat. Rest a bit yourself."
Poke nodded, turned to go.
"Hey, Poke?" Dark eyes met his again, questioning. "Is Ray alright?"
Poke's face broke into the widest grin Nate had seen on him yet. He shook his head slowly. "Oh, dawg, if he wasn't a total goner before, he sure as hell will be now."
It was Nate's turn to blink. "Sorry?"
Poke continued smiling, frustratingly enigmatic. "Ray's fine. He's just outside with my beast Walter, probably sulking because he's anxious about Brad and trying to deal with it by harassing poor Walt."
+
He'd ordered Poke upstairs to make use of the guest bedroom. After Brad's grip on his wrist finally slackened, Nate removed himself to the nearby armchair. Ostensibly it was to try and sleep; in reality it was to stare at Brad, cataloguing every twitch, every frown, every sigh. He got up several times to check on Brad's temperature. He was warm but not alarmingly so.
It was the darkest hour of the night, and Nate was experiencing a stab of surrealism. He had two cowboys in his house; one of them had been shot. The one who Nate might or might not be a little bit in love with.
And to think that three months ago he had been enjoying a solitary, hassle-free life.
+
"So. The story?"
Poke was unchangingly serene the following morning. He'd made coffee and breakfast while Nate was busy taking care of Brad again, without him having to even ask. Nate was starting to suspect it was a cowboy thing.
"Really, the story is a short one," Poke started, settling into the armchair. Nate was perched next to Brad again. Brad opened his eyes, a pretense of getting more rest abandoned.
"Rustlers," Brad said succinctly.
"Revenge," Poke corrected. "We caught them, red-handed, on the outward journey, not farm from the railhead. Didn't have fresh horses under us, so the bastards got away. Well, minus the one Brad shot."
Brad's jaw tightened. "We would've taken him to be tried, but the bullet-he bled out."
"Doesn't matter, dawg. They'd have hanged him anyway."
Nate, silently, agreed with Poke. "And what happened to Brad?"
"We got all of the cattle to the destination and started making our way back. Brad here was in a real hurry, for some reason," Poke's smirk was full of insinuations; Brad's flat stare seemed to promise payback in the form of violence. Then both of them got serious again, obviously thinking ahead in the journey back.
"They were waiting for us. Just a day's ride from here. Must've been a stroke of dumb fucking luck the sonuvabitches got wind of us coming in this way."
Nate's fingernails were digging into his palms. He stared at Brad. "You rode for a day? With a bullet wound?"
"Graze," Brad reminded him, demure.
"A deep goddamn graze," Poke added helpfully. "But the boy was dead-set on reaching his original destination and there was no telling him otherwise."
Nate couldn't even process Poke's statement, too preoccupied with unadulterated terror at the thoughts of what might have happened, the many ways things could have gone even more wrong. He had the sudden urge to go stand outside and scream to high heavens about the monumental fucking idiocy of stubborn, cocky cowboys.
He pushed back on the hysteria. "How did you get away from them?"
"Get away, from those guys?" Poke snorted. "Do you actually know the Iceman, dawg? All three of 'em, dropped like flies. To say the boy here's a good shot would be a major understatement. Brad even getting hit, now that was just the initial advantage the ambush gave them."
Nate looked back down at Brad. "The Iceman, huh?"
Brad shrugged, smiling. "You track a few rustlers once and you've got a reputation for life."
Poke snorted again, muttering something under his breath about Iceman feats Nate wasn't sure he wanted to know more about. "Well, you're due another nap, Iceman," he ordered.
Brad watched him pointedly. "I will if you will."
"I'm not the one who was shot."
"I gotta say I agree with Brad. You look like you didn't sleep a wink all last night."
Nate flushed, feeling cornered and annoyed because of it. Brad and Poke managed to flash him near identical victorious smirks.
"Fine. Wake me up in a couple of hours." He got up and started to climb the stairs. Behind him he heard Poke start talking in a low voice.
"And before you get some more shut-eye, let me tell you what your boy Nate asked about the welfare of that unpredictable lump of horse meat no one in the world cares for or can stand to be in the company of except you…"
3.
Two days later Brad decided his graze wasn't in danger of getting dangerously infected and politely kicked Poke out on Nate's behalf. Of course, Nate had actually seemed to enjoy Poke's company, and Poke had clearly respected Nate from day one, despite making a token effort with offhand comments about bossy white boys. The fact might or might not have played a part in Brad's strengthening opinion about the house starting to feel crowded.
In any case, Poke had a family waiting for him. People that actually needed him. Brad would be perfectly fine without Poke there to help Nate babysit him during his road to recovery.
Well. For as much as Brad prided himself on being as independent and self-sufficient as it was possible to be, he couldn't deny he had been enjoying having Nate frequently close, even if it was only to check, clean and redress the wound.
During the interminable days and nights of drudging eastwards with their job, it had become clear pretty quickly that he wasn't getting a pair of green eyes out of his head. Was plagued with more than just the memory of the clear gaze. Somewhere down the road he came to a kind of agreement with himself; gave in.
Alone again in the house with Nate as the world outside fell dark and distant, listening to the calming sound of crickets, Nate's touch careful and warm on him, he couldn't remember why he'd even bothered trying to fight against this.
Nate, apparently, wasn't feeling the same serenity; he frowned, his hands still on Brad. "You should've found a doctor, Brad. Maybe this should have been stitched, I don't know. And you keep getting a low fever at night. I don't fucking know how-"
"Nate. Nate, shush. I don't know any doctors here. And I wouldn't have gone to anyone I can't trust."
Nate's eyes were dark green and worried, gleaming in the faint candle light.
"I'm fine," Brad told him once again, and the skin around Nate's eyes tightened.
"You're not fucking fine, Brad," he snapped. "Being shot is not the fucking definition of being fine, you fucker!"
Brad's shoulders were shaking in silent laughter; it was making his wound hurt like hell. He didn't care. "Since when do you curse so much, Nathaniel?" he teased gently, relieved in some profound way despite the pain and the exhaustion.
Nate didn't look the least bit amused; looked a bit like he might finish the job and kill Brad himself, actually, so Brad let his smile fade out. "I'll be alright, really. A few more days to recuperate and I'll be well enough to leave; indebted to you, of course-"
Nate made an indecipherable noise, something close to fury or frustration. Then his fingers were digging hard on Brad's shoulders and his lips were on Brad's.
Surprise jolted low in Brad's stomach. Right afterwards came the flood of desire - so intense it threatened to overwhelm reason and care. His hands flew up to grip Nate's body, thumbs creasing the shirt over his ribcage.
A second later and Nate was releasing him, was backing away. Brad couldn't process the sudden lack of physical contact; his lips were numb. Nate had imprinted himself on Brad and now he was pulling away. "Sorry, I'm sorry-"
"God damn it, Nate," Brad was aware of the fact he was growling but he wanted his message to sink in. "The only thing I want you to be sorry for is stopping, and you better be planning to rectify the situation right now."
Nate's teeth were sunk deep into his lip. Brad nearly groaned at the sight, wanting Nate closer, wanting to lick the indentation left behind.
"You're injured, recovering, I don't know what the hell I was thinking-"
Nate's eyes were down and he was shaking his head; wasn't listening. Brad wasn't going to put up with that, especially since it involved Nate looking guilty and tortured like he'd fucking been the one to shoot Brad in the first place.
He took Nate's hand before he had time to retreat too far and placed it square over his clothed dick, trapping it with his hand over Nate's.
Brad knew Nate felt he was hard, because he heard him draw in a shaky breath - but the knowledge came as an afterthought, through an instant haze of need, because despite the fact that he'd acted to soothe Nate's ridiculous overactive conscience his cock only registered Nate's palm covering him with the barest hint of pressure. Brad ground their hands down harder, hips arching up instinctually.
The pull was felt immediately over his torso and in the healing wound, making him hiss, pain lacing the pleasure.
"Brad," Nate's voice was pleading. He hadn't taken his hand away.
"Come on, Nate," Brad let his voice drop. "Do it, please."
Nate made a sound, then; his pupils were dilated, high cheekbones flushed with just a touch of heat. His lower lip looked red and tender from all the biting.
He was fucking gorgeous. Brad couldn't help shifting again.
"Just-don't move," Nate breathed. He dragged his palm over Brad once, hard; Brad's breath shuddered out of him. "Don't move, don't let me hurt you."
Nate climbed on his knees over him on the sofa, bracing himself with a hand next to Brad's pillow. He lowered his body close, breathing against Brad's lips; kept his weight off of Brad, hand still in motion between their bodies. Brad wanted the sensation of Nate's body crushing him, no space between them, but knew this was as much as he was going to get. This time. Brad's mouth fell open for Nate and their tongues tangled together. Nate's hand slipped inside his shorts, skin on bare skin, a tight perfect squeeze. Brad gasped, wrenching away to gulp for air. Nate didn't relent. His lips latched on to Brad's neck, sucking a trail of bruises down his throat.
Brad wanted to say something, needed to say something to make sure Nate would never stop. "Yeah," was about the extent of what he managed. A string of grunts and encouraging wordless praise and breathless Nates.
His hands were twisting in the material of Nate's shirt, fingertips sliding underneath it to catch on skin. He needed more. He let his palms slide on to the small of Nate's back, weighing him down. Nate sobbed as his cock pressed into Brad's hip, as hard as Brad was. His forehead came to rest on Brad's collarbone, sweaty hair brushing Brad's jaw. Brad swallowed convulsively. Christ, Nate felt good against him.
Nate was groaning and shuddering and Brad's bullet graze was trickling fresh blood, the air around him tinted with smells of iron and semen and Nate. The friction and the pain melded into one sensation; Brad felt alive and whole and frantically, astonishingly desperate for Nate's climax, for having Nate share his pleasure.
He felt Nate's orgasm, his cock pulsing against his hip, soaking through the cloth, and came in Nate's tight fist, spurt after another that Nate coaxed him through, hold gentling.
He might have blacked out for a moment. Nate's voice filtered in, speaking against Brad's lips, calling him ten kinds of bastard for tearing the wound open again.
+
He was well enough to start moving a little more only days later. Nate helped him upstairs, back to the guest bedroom. His back in particular was grateful for the firmer mattress. Another part of him was very approving of Nate sponging him down with a washcloth in lieu of a proper washing. The broad massaging strokes with the damp cloth tightened his nipples, made him hard, but then so did most touches Nate bestowed on him.
Nate seemed more on guard though, stupidly determined to keep a distance between them for the moment. Brad didn't push it, resigning himself to Nate's exaggeratedly protective streak. Restraining himself from propositioning Nate, though-it was probably more of an impediment to his recovery than anything they might have come up with together.
There were things apart from Brad that demanded Nate's attention. The lack of rains made him fret about the fate of his vegetables. They were fast running out of some of the more crucial supplies, such as coffee. And apparently parts of the yard were starting to remind a wild forestation for the long interval in scything.
There was also Ray. In addition to requiring an insane amount of oats and grass that he chewed with his mouth hanging open, dribbling bits of food and slobber everywhere, he got depressed and moody when on his own too long.
"It's like he understands me when I say you're doing a lot better," Nate said one afternoon after returning from a recreational, please-stop-taking-your-boredom-out-on-my-fence-it's-about-to-collapse ride into the town with Ray.
"Course he does," Brad muttered affectionately. "Ray is an extremely volatile, enormous pain in the ass, but he's not a complete idiot."
That earned him an especially brilliant smile by Nate. Brad awarded himself a point, simultaneously refusing to listen to the part of his brain asking if he was actually competing against himself in making Nate happy.
As the wound scabbed over and even the mild fevers petered out, Nate stopped looking constantly worried-the green eyes were lit with relief and contentment instead. The evenings at the house were some of the calmest times in Brad's life thus far. Nate cooked, Brad struggled downstairs to watch him and listen to him talk. Sometimes after dinner Nate read aloud, cheap adventure story paperbacks alongside essays on philosophy and literary criticism and pieces of texts in Latin and Greek.
"This is what you used to do, isn't it? Study?"
"Yeah." Nate didn't seem surprised or upset that he'd guessed.
Brad deliberated. Everything about Nate, from his deep-seated politeness to his cadence of speech, spoke of a background of wealth. "Harvard?"
Nate smiled ruefully. "Right again." This time, he didn't deflect the question in Brad's expression. "It's nothing dramatic. I just-didn't fit in. Things were changing and I didn't like the direction the change took. I wanted something different. Something real. Something… meaningful."
Nate shrugged. He was absently shuffling a deck of cards, eyes on his hands. Brad could almost physically feel how hard Nate was trying to convey he didn't expect any confessions back.
"I was supposed to get married," he said, straightforward. "To a girl I'd known all my life. She married my oldest friend instead."
And the biggest revelation was, he didn't feel anything when he said it. He'd spent so long steering clear of the topic he hadn't had the opportunity to notice it didn't matter anymore.
Nate's face was setting in unhappy lines. Stupid man, thinking too much. Brad smiled at him, leaning closer, resting his elbows on the table. It left less than a handspan of space between the tips of their fingers.
"So I guess I went looking for something real and meaningful, too."
+
A morning unmarked by anything at all; Brad didn't even know the date, surfacing from dreams into a degree of consciousness. Afterwards he would check the calendar and it would stay seared into his memory for the rest of his life.
He heard light steps, felt Nate sitting down on the edge of the bed. Brad didn't open his eyes.
Nate obviously thought he was still asleep. His body heat moved closer as he bent over Brad; his lips were half open and he trailed them from Brad's forehead to his temple, mouthing something against his skin. Brad couldn't wonder what the words might have been, had to focus on not letting his breathing speed up, not moving, the involuntary quiver of his muscles hopefully passing unnoticed.
Nate didn't go further. With a last soft press of his lips to the top of Brad's head, he stood up and strode away; Brad listened to the creak of the staircase as Nate descended, strained to hear the click of the outer door closing before he let himself exhale, pushing his heated face against the white pillow, groaning, skin prickling with warmth and awareness. No way in hell he'd get back to sleep now.
+
Nate worked on the back of the yard all morning, straight through lunch. Wide swings of the scythe mirrored the glint of the sun, cutting grass where Ray's grazing hadn't extended.
Brad was in wait as he saw Nate finally heading back to the house; grabbed Nate's arm as soon as he came in through the door and dragged him in close, their bodies pressing together, fitting together.
Nate was laughing, surprised. "Brad, I'm sweaty as hell." His palms landed on Brad's waist in a gesture that felt shockingly uncomplicated and familiar.
"I know," Brad said. His voice was rough. He had crept downstairs mere minutes after Nate had left, feeling restless and short-tempered lying alone in the bed with Nate's phantom touches still burning him up, and had been staring at Nate almost the whole time, cursing his injury, feeling like dead weight. And then just looking, hands fisting and his stomach tight with want, as Nate leaned and bent over and moved back and forth over, even the rhythm of his walk a turn-on for Brad.
"I know," he repeated, softly; he cradled the back of Nate's head with his hands and nosed the line of Nate's jaw. Nate's sharp inhale into his ear made the desire spike up, pooling in his gut and in his spine equally. Brad's tongue slipped out, traced the underside of the bone, tasting cool clean sweat and Nate's skin underneath.
Brad's head was spinning. His hold on Nate tightened, directing and stilling him as Brad angled their faces closer, lips just rubbing together, open-mouthed. Nate was breathing more quickly, now; his hands were still light and cautious. He didn't say anything. The house was silent, the bright noon light streaming in, and it felt daring and novel and fucking perfect to be standing there with Nate, touching him, allowed to.
Nate's fingers twitched; Brad could practically feel the self-control, the checking of his touch. "You know, I won't break, Nate," he said, nipping at his lips. "I'm alright. More than alright."
Nate's mouth widened into a small smile against his; Brad only felt the expression. "Okay, Brad. Okay then," he ceded after a moment, nipping back, then opening up, going deeper, tongue darting out to entwine with Brad's. Brad felt the slick touch echoing throughout his whole body. He shuddered, groin pushing into Nate's.
Brad had been half-hard since Nate's barely-there kisses at dawn. Watching him for fucking hours had only made it worse. He didn't have a fucking clue if he could wait, if he could last now that he actually had Nate warm and gorgeous and smelling of sweat and grass and the sun against him.
His hands smoothed over Nate's neck and shoulders and arms; a long hard caress down Nate's back; anchoring his grip on the swell of Nate's ass and jerking him closer, feeling Nate's cock hard against his own. Nate's breath hitched and Brad buried his face in Nate's neck. "Come to bed with me," he said, voice choked. "Please."
Nate's reply was a moan, before he nodded, face flushed, and turned, pulling Brad with him. Brad's hands couldn't quite let go of him and they stumbled up the stairs, short of breath, dazed. Brad couldn't liken the anticipation and exhilaration to anything he'd ever felt.
When they got to the landing Brad turned to enter the room he had been sleeping in but Nate took hold of his arm, walking backwards to his own bedroom and tugging Brad along. He looked serious and excited and Brad couldn't even-he pulled Nate's body closer again, crushing him to his chest and taking his mouth in a series of open wet kisses, Nate's neck straining upwards to keep their lips locked together. The last shuffling steps to the bed were sheer torture.
"Want to," Nate was panting, "want to see you, Brad-"
Brad pulled off his shirt, then helped Nate's over his head as well; Nate's fingers were trembling against the front of Brad's pants, his knuckles accidentally nudging against the hard line of Brad's dick. The sparks from the contact resonated low in his stomach.
Too fucking much.
He shoved Nate on the bed, undid the buttons with hands no less unsteady than Nate's; dropped his pants before getting to work on Nate's and twisting them off down his legs. Nate's thighs were trembling, falling open to Brad as he climbed on the mattress to kneel in front of Nate.
A part of him wanted to hurry, wanted to take Nate, to immobilize him under his body and listen to Nate's voice hoarsen as Brad fucked into him.
He wanted to touch even more; wanted to claim more than Nate's body, wanted him to want this later, again and again. Needed him to want it for a long time. He put his hands on Nate's stomach and back, made him flip over, dragged his legs apart, fingers trailing the soft skin of Nate's inner thighs.
Nate's shoulders were tense, rising and falling with rapid breaths. Brad let his body cover Nate's; blew warm air behind his ear. Nate's forehead pressed forward onto the sheets as he moaned, the line of his bare neck a lovely portrait of submission. Brad kissed the bony knobs at the top of his spine and then bit down hard on the side of Nate's throat.
"Brad," Nate gasped, bucking underneath him. His arms shook, giving out, and he slumped into the bed. Brad let his body follow, crowding close, sucking on the mark left behind by his teeth.
"Do you want me inside?" His heart was pounding like hell.
"Yes," Nate answered immediately.
Thank you, Brad mouthed against the back of his neck. "Something slick," he said. "Do you have anything?" He let his fingers trail down Nate's back.
"Yes, there's," Nate stopped to swallow, peeking at Brad from the corner of his eye, "got Vaseline, the last errand run…"
Brad's fingers on Nate spasmed. The thought of Nate considering this a possibility, preparing for it-he crushed Nate's lips with his own again, delving in to lick all over Nate's mouth; then Nate retaliated and he had Nate's tongue in his mouth, eager and wet and smooth and sending shockwaves to his dick.
The Vaseline was on the little bureau next to Nate's bed. The snick of opening the jar sounded loud and strange. Brad scooped up the viscous material, rubbing it around on his fingertips. Nate was watching him over his shoulder. Brad was afraid to ask, but he had to. "You sure?"
Nate-cracked a beautiful grin at him. "Get on with it, Iceman."
Oh, the fucker.
Brad brought his finger against Nate, not quite pushing inside yet, just dipping to brush against the rim. Nate shivered; so fucking sensitive. Brad's dick and chest were aching. Slowly he eased in a finger, then another; started scissoring them. Nate groaned.
"Keep going," he commanded, husky, as Brad hesitated. Brad spread more Vaseline on his fingers, on Nate, and returned with three fingers.
Nate felt unbelievable; hot, and so tight Brad had huge doubts about this actually working. He had to help Nate relax. Inspired, he bent down, licking around the edges of Nate's hole where his fingers disappeared.
Nate's whole body jerked; a high keen escaped his throat. Brad had found a secret weapon. He wondered if he could make Nate come, just from this, from kissing and fingering his ass. He stabbed his tongue in, laving the area, counting conquest in every tremor running across Nate's back and thighs.
"You like this, Nate?" he taunted, delighted. "The sounds you're making for me…"
Nate's neck flushed. Brad could see his jaw locking as he ground his teeth together. "Enough," Nate forced out. He raised himself on his hands and knees, twisted his head to glance back at Brad.
"I thought you wanted to be inside of me."
And as Brad was still reeling from the flashing green gaze and the words and the utter desirability of what he had in front of him, Nate took a good long look at his cock through heated half-lidded eyes, fucking smirked and licked his lips and added, "You better use a lot of the slick."
He was going to wipe away that smirk if it was the last damned thing he did.
Spreading the Vaseline over his dick and not rubbing one off on the spot had to be one of the most challenging things he'd ever done. His cock was a tortured angry red, leaking at the tip even before he laid a hand on himself.
This was it. He knew he'd be ruined for anyone else even before steadying Nate's hips and lining himself up. Breaching Nate and being swallowed by his heat, inch by agonizing inch, was a mere confirmation.
"God, Brad," Nate gasped as Brad's pelvis was snug against him.
"Nate?"
"Feels like you're fucking splitting me in half." Nate's laugh was shaky. Brad screwed his eyes shut; drew in a deep measured breath, searching for control, readying himself. "Too much?"
"No. No," Nate reached a hand back, smoothing it down Brad's side, grasping his hip. Keeping him immobile. "I feel your heartbeat," he whispered. "Inside me."
Brad's head dropped onto Nate's shoulder. He felt Nate, too. Felt so fucking close to Nate.
Nate relaxed incrementally around him, told him to move and started pushing back to meet his thrusts. Brad put everything he had into every roll and stab of his hips.
He wasn't prepared for the way Nate tightened around him when he came. Nate's head twisted to the side and Brad thought he saw Nate's mouth open, but couldn't hear him, the rush of blood too loud in his ears.
Brad came so hard for a second he thought he was actually going to die.
+
Darkness and crickets. Nate's smell all over his skin. Stained, sweat-soaked sheets.
If Nate had taken this to his own bedroom in the belief it would make it easier to let Brad off the hook afterwards, let him slink off if need be, he was fucking deluded.
Brad rolled onto his side, chest flush with Nate's back. His fingers found the now-visible bruise high on Nate's neck, pressing down carefully until Nate hissed quietly. "Do you know what this is?"
Nate didn't answer for the longest time. Finally, he nodded, a nod like a question.
Brad nudged Nate to roll over until they were face to face, and mirrored the nod, sure enough for both of them. He kissed Nate, a kiss between good morning and everything starts now.
"Okay," Nate said.
"Okay," Brad confirmed.
ETA: Now with brilliant, brilliant art by their_darkness:
Save it for the barn, Ray