Fic | GK | Patience
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | PG15 | AU
Huge green eyes stare at him seriously from the photograph.
The boy looks to be around five years old. In the picture he's standing on a lushly green backyard, half turned to look back over his shoulder. Almost as if his attention was caught by the whirr and click of the camera and this is the second in a series of photos. The solemn look is incongruous on a face that young.
"Please," the woman who shoved the photo at him is sobbing, "please, help us. The police are-they just don't-they'll be too late. I know they're useless, it happened to the Petersens-"
Brad doesn't like assignments involving children. He rarely takes any, and prospective clients tend to know enough of his reputation not to even ask.
She must really be desperate.
"Please," she says again. Her face is a blotchy red from crying, the smart jacket rumpled. Altogether, she looks nothing like the picture-perfect trophy wife Brad's seen in the news standing beside her husband the Congressman.
"He's-he's so little," her voice cracks and she hides her face in her hands, choked sobs muffled in her shaking palms.
Brad looks down at the photo again. He catches himself memorizing the kid's features before he really knows what he's doing.
Looks like he's taking the fucking job. "Alright, calm down. Tell me where he was taken."
+
At twilight the playground is, unsurprisingly, empty. Swings and the see-saw and spinaround are swathed in thick darkness cast by the great pines standing at the edges of the sand. To a human, the sight would probably seem ominous.
During daytime, the place must be packed. Full of children and families and hired help. Brad's simply too old to even pretend dismay at the ease with which a child can disappear in a crowd.
Brad closes his eyes, sniffs the cool air, hunting for hints of copper and sweetness. There are numerous scratches and little cuts soaked into the sand and grass, dabbed with tissue and covered with butterfly bandages. Brad sorts through the ordinary images to find something that smells wrong.
There.
The kidnappers didn't spill blood intentionally, but the boy stumbled as they were dragging and pushing him along. He scraped his knee. The few droplets are invisible in the cobblestoned path winding away from the back of the park. It's enough for Brad. One deep inhale gets him a direction, a hint of emotion and intention.
This is what the police can't do.
Brad takes off. No telling when the lure of a ransom stops being enough and the fuckheads get paranoid and do something stupid and irreversible.
+
The warehouse is dark, and the nearest sounds come from a pair of drunks staggering aimlessly in an alley nearby. Brad scales the tall fence and lands on the asphalt without a sound.
From inside the warehouse, he can hear three separate heartbeats. One is faster, lighter.
Brad picks the lock on the nearest door he finds, not detecting movement from the other side of it. Once he's inside, it's laughably easy to follow the sounds until he comes upon the one room that's lit by the few overhead lights that still work.
The fucking bastards never know what hit them. The first gets his neck snapped, and Brad's on the second one before his partner has finished falling to the ground.
The bodies thump into the dusty floor with identical sounds of muted defeat. Brad stares down coldly, telling himself he's making sure the perps are indeed taken care of. In truth, he's stalling. Next comes the part that gets him.
Bracing himself for panicked wailing, Brad forces himself to spin around. He's met with a wide-eyed gaze, even greener than in the photograph. There's no wailing. The kid's lower lip is trembling and he's perfectly still in the shadowed corner of the room, but that's all.
Brad crouches down, tries to make himself less threatening. After the gruesome demonstration of the past sixty seconds, the attempt may be futile.
"Hey, kid," he says. That's not quite right. The kid has a name, his mother kept repeating it amidst her hysterics.
"Nate," Brad amends. The boy blinks. He looks at Brad intently, as if searching for something.
"My name is Brad," Brad continues, feeling clumsy and inept when it comes to this-reassuring, comforting. Damage control. "You're alright, now. I'm going to take you home. Okay?"
The green eyes get a suspicious sheen, then. Brad sighs, opens up his arms. After a moment, the boy shuffles over. Apart from a single unsteady inhalation, he keeps silent. The tears never actually spill over.
Brad picks him up and Nate buries his hot face in Brad's neck. He's shivering, either from residual fear or the chill of the warehouse. Or both. Brad rubs his hand up and down the boy's back as he carries him to the car he left a couple of blocks over. Gradually the heartbeat starts slowing as Nate calms down. It's a hypnotic sound, strong and beautiful.
Nate falls asleep during the short walk. When they arrive at his car Brad tries to lower him into the passenger seat, but the moment cold air rushes between them Nate's eyelids flutter open and he whines quietly, just once.
"Okay. It's okay. Go back to sleep, Nate."
Jesus Christ. Brad thinks he might actually be crooning a bit. Shaking his head and thanking all known gods that Ray isn't there to see him acting like some goddamned green soft-hearted wannabe hippie, Brad walks over to the other side of the car and slides inside, Nate settling against his chest. Soft snuffles hit the side of his throat.
He drives to the Fick mansion one-handed, the other smoothing down the kid's hair. Brad tells himself it's to keep Nate sedate until he can get him home.
The Ficks are-Brad doesn't even know what to call it, two hundred years worth of vocabulary not yielding a term strong enough to describe the overwhelming relief of Nate's parents when Brad hands him over, unharmed at least on the surface. The amount of smeared mascara and hugs and kisses in the family reunion is off-putting, to say the least.
When Mrs. Fick turns to him, Brad takes a hasty step back, worried about accidentally winding up as the next stop in the parade of atrociously emotional PDAs.
"Thank you-thank you-" She breaks into a fresh volley of tears. Brad represses a sigh.
"Although money can never express our gratitude," Mr. Fick comes to stand next to his wife, winding an arm around her shoulders, "we are more than happy to reward such competence, such dedication to one's work. Twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Colbert, what do you think?"
Brad looks to the side, where the kid is now dozing in the lap of a nanny, or a maid, Brad doesn't know-thinks about services rendered and transformed into cash.
"I'd be best rewarded if you promised not to advertise my involvement in the case," he says, coolly polite. "I have no interest in being bombarded with demands to find every little person who goes missing for an hour in this city." He turns his back on the ecstatic parents, careful to keep his movements slow enough not to seem odd to the human eye.
+
"Brad, homes, what the fuck is this moping?"
Ray is lounging in the corner of Brad's black leather sofa. An untouched flute of A negative sits on the glass table in front of him. Ray always makes a point of demanding refreshments when he visits ("But it's not fresh, Brad, get it? Freshies?" "Your wit, Ray. It's undead the way you're undead. Meaning, it stinks.") yet he never touches them. In retaliation, Brad makes a point of using the most homosexual looking glassware he owns. On his bad days, he suspects Ray has never actually registered the jibe, and probably wouldn't care even if he did. After all, he talks about Walt and their exploits together (and sometimes that is a euphemism for their sex life) to anyone who will listen. Even to those who don't want to. Really don't want to.
"Don't know what you're talking about," Brad pronounces flatly.
"Moping, man. I can smell it," Ray nods his head sagely. "And Poke said you haven't picked up your latest stash, either."
"I've been busy."
"He's fucking mad, homes!" Ray is on a roll. "Kept ranting about the white… something screwing up his income. No self-respecting vamp drinks that nasty A neg if they can help it and you fucking know that, Brad. Poke said to remind you that he secures that shit just for you and if you're gonna bail on a mutually beneficial business arrangement-"
"I said I've been busy." Brad is fairly sure vampires aren't supposed to get headaches, but Ray Person is enough to rewrite the laws of physics and death. Or undeath. Whatever. "I'll stop by soon and Poke can cease to shed ruby tears over missing my presence."
"Bullshit, you've been busy," Ray counters, and his voice is more level now. Always a dangerous sign. "I know for a fact you ain't working on a case right now."
"Jesus Christ, Ray-what, you've bugged my office now? The regular stalking just not doing it for you anymore?"
The truth is Brad's been-well. On self-imposed guard duty, if one wants to get stupidly technical about it.
It's just, the Ficks weren't smart about it. Maybe the whole kidnap drama, complete with its happy ending, couldn't be kept out of the papers entirely, but the goddamn media orgy that followed the miraculous return of their son home should have been kept to a minimum. The whole thing is bound to give other baddies ideas. Tickle their professional pride, so to speak-entice them to make their own bid at the not inconsiderable ransom the Ficks are undoubtedly capable of.
So Brad's been hanging around a certain mansion, indistinguishable in the shadows, cataloguing steps and smells and heartbeats.
Ray grins suddenly-obviously reading Brad's mind, despite the fact that this is supposed to be another impossible feat and only exist in legend. "It's that kid, homes!"
Brad's jaw tightens. He knows he never should have told Ray about the case. But then, trying to keep something from Ray usually ends up being about as successful as a fledgling's vow to never kill for blood.
"Man, never would've thought I'd see the day. Iceman all obsessed with a human. If there was quality pussy involved, now that Ray-Ray could understand-but this kid? The hell, Brad? No, homes, wait," Ray's grin turns shrewd, "is this the itch for a quality snack, instead? I mean, I know what they say about the blood of kiddies and virgins, pure and tasty like nothing else-"
Brad tackles Ray into the wall without thinking, a snarl ripping out of his chest. He knows his pupils must be contracted in the automatic, physical reaction of extreme emotions or facing threat. The fury is a film of red over his vision.
Ray is smirking. "I take it the little Nathaniel isn't up for grabs?" Then he lets the smirk melt away, unmasking twinkling eyes and an honestly delighted grin. "Relax, Brad, I'm just jerking your chain! It's great that you have a hobby!"
Brad forces a swallow past the tightness in his throat, unclenches his fists from where they're gripping Ray's shirt. Steps back. His fangs are retracting and he cuts a contrite glance at Ray before moving off. He can't remember the last time he lost his temper. He doesn't think Ray's ever been the recipient of it-not like this.
Ray's wrong though. There's absolutely nothing positive about feeling protective over a human. Humans are frail and their lifespans are short. They live in a whole different world. Brad needs to square this shit away but he's not sure how. It's two hours after sundown and the need to go make sure everything's as it should be at the Fick residence is an irritation somewhere deep underneath his skin.
Maybe it'll blow over. Maybe he feels invested because, since he bothered to retrieve the kid once, something happening to Nate now would be negative interest on the investment of his time.
The reasoning sounds weak even in his own head.
Ray steps around him, serene and unruffled. "Come on, homes. Let's paint the city red. Walt knows this ridiculous Goth place where the chicks get off on being bitten. …Paint the city red, get it?"
The side of Brad's mouth twitches at Ray's moronic nasal laugh. He should go with them.
He can't. "Another night, Ray," he promises. He tries to mean it.
+
Nate has nightmares.
Not every night, and Brad doesn't know whether they are about the kidnapping or just normal night terrors. Kids have bad dreams, right?
Brad doubts Nate's parents know. He doesn't cry out, just keeps tossing and turning restlessly until finally coming awake abruptly, gulping for air. He always goes back to sleep after a moment. Brad reluctantly admires the kid's need to face his fears.
Tonight Brad's been leaning on the oak at the back of the yard for a while when he registers the change in Nate's movements. His lips tighten. Fuck it.
By the time his boots hit the floor of Nate's room he's already having second thoughts. Fuck that, he's sure it would be an epically stupid fucking move to involve himself even further. This is why he doesn't do spur of the moment decisions, goddamnit.
He could make a one-eighty, right now, except Nate is an uneasily shifting coil of tense limbs under the duvet, and his bangs are plastered to his forehead-
Brad drops on his knees next to the bed. His hand hesitates three inches above Nate's head, but at a soft whimper he lets it fall, covering moist reddish curls.
Nate stills immediately. It's almost disturbing.
It's also acceptable, as far as methods go. Brad absolutely would have drawn the line at singing.
+
Brad leaves the house at oh dark hundred. As soon as he drops down on the backyard the hair at the back of his neck is standing up. His fangs descend so fast they prick his lip. The smell of another vampire close by is unmistakable.
Brad feels vindicated in coming up across a real threat at last, all his watching over Nate justified. He can't wait to rip the intruder to shreds, to alleviate his frustration.
When he circles round the house and sees the vampire waiting in the shadows at the walkway, the fight floods out of him.
"Brad, brother."
Jesus Christ. Maybe he'll make a detour by the docks, engage in a bit of voluntary clean-the-city ops. Bound to be someone whose ass he can kick without feeling bad about it there.
"Rudy," he nods. He doesn't know how old Rudy is exactly. Clearly past the magic line when vamps either go insane or mentally rise to some higher plane of being, in any case. Sometimes Brad's not sure which one happened to Rudy.
"Your pack has gained a new member."
Brad doesn't think you can call a company of one a pack. He doesn't do nests. "Fuck, Rudy, you should know by now not to take a word Ray says seriously. I have enough of that deluded blood and cock-sucking abomination of nature without considering him my family, even though Walt might make a neat brother-in-law-"
"I'm not talking about Ray, brother. You've marked someone. I can smell him on you."
Brad freezes.
No. Fuck, no.
"Like hell. I'm not going to turn him, I wouldn't-"
"One doesn't necessarily equal the other, Brad."
"Doesn't matter," Brad says, jaw tight. "We crossed paths. I'm just looking out for the kid. Temporarily. That's all."
Rudy smiles, wide and unsettling. "Of course, Brad."
:: 15 years later ::
Nate is feeling good. He would go as far as to say he's feeling extremely happy at the moment.
It's too bad it's probably the booze talking. Also, the overwhelming happiness keeps getting interrupted by irregular waves of nausea.
He starts to get up from the table.
"Nate, man, where're you going?" The pub is noisy as fuck but the hand grabbing his forearm helps him focus on his friend's voice.
"I thought I might call it a night," Nate says, trying hard not to slur. He's having trouble focusing his eyes.
"Fuck that! Come on, let's get another pitcher."
"Rob," Nate says very seriously. "My tongue is numb."
"Who the fuck cares? The semester's over! I'm gonna be numb from my ass up to my eyeballs until I give up," Rob vows with the solemnity of the exceptionally wasted.
"More power to you." Nate glances around, fuzzily searching for inspiration. Rob's not going to let him pussy out and leave unless he can distract him with something. "Hey, man, look-isn't that Helen at the bar?"
Rob swivels around and drops Nate's arm in the process. "I said something about a pitcher, didn't I," he muses, eyes glazed.
"That you did," Nate agrees emphatically. "Have fun."
Rob's halfway to the bar, pushing through the throng of people, and doesn't hear him. Nate takes off, snickering to himself.
+
The air helps with clearing his head a bit. He's nowhere near sobriety but at least he doesn't feel like puking anymore.
He's walking through a park barely a mile from the apartment he shares with Rob when suddenly there's a wiry, dark-haired man standing in his path, smiling wide with lips pressed together. Nate only barely manages to stop before stumbling into him. He might make a surprised sound of some sort. He could have sworn there wasn't a soul to be seen anywhere. But then, he is still pretty drunk.
"Sorry," he says with an apologetic nod of his head, taking a sideways step to get past the guy.
The stranger takes a mirroring step, blocking Nate.
"You got a light?" He asks, still with that huge close-lipped smile. He looks sort of manic, now that Nate thinks of it. Young-ish, too. Must be high as fuck, celebrating the end of the term.
"No, sorry," Nate tells him. "Not a smoker." He takes another step to the left, ready to continue on his way.
The guy blocks him again. Nate frowns, not sure whether he should be getting irritated or alarmed. The stranger is skinny, and shorter than him, and Nate's sure he could take him even in his current state, except there's something off about this guy-
Nate is just leaning towards mildly unnerved when he feels a brush of cooler, displaced air against his neck.
"Ray," comes a low, tight voice from behind Nate, "you need to get going. Now."
Right, Nate's had enough of people appearing out of nowhere. The hair at the back of his neck is standing up. He takes a hasty step off to the side, turning so that he can face both of the weirdoes.
The newcomer is-tall. Taller than Nate, and with the lean, compact build of a fighter. More than that, his eyes-he's looking at the shorter guy with the coldest stare Nate's ever seen outside of old Western movies.
Nate is starting to give serious thought to being just a little bit worried. Mentally he curses himself for those last couple of shots of Tequila.
"Just looking for someone with a lighter, Brad," the first guy-Ray?-pronounces, something challenging in his smirk.
Nate thinks he sees the tall man's nostrils flare. He opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask what the hell, because this is in no way like the ordinary drunken run-ins he's used to, but he gets cut off.
"Look elsewhere," this guy Brad growls.
"Aw, come on, Brad, don't be like that. Haven't we talked about this? Sharing is caring, especially with your dearest, oldest pal Ray-Ray-"
Nate's head is aching. He's drunk and annoyed and tired and he's not sure but he thinks somewhere in this Ray character's running off at the mouth there's a dirty joke there he should take serious offence at. He opens his mouth again, but suddenly Brad is in Ray's face, backing him up a few steps until they are standing almost hidden in the shadow of the American elm growing next to the pathway.
"Look. Elsewhere," Nate hears Brad repeat, except now his voice sounds even lower, a strange harsh timber to it. A shiver runs down Nate's spine.
"Christ, Brad," Ray's voice echoes in the shadow, "you're too fucking easy. You're also a sad motherfucker. If I hadn't come out tonight and helped you along, it would've taken you the next ten years to-"
"Ray."
There's an almost palpable chill in the air.
"Fine."
Nate blinks, and when he opens his eyes Brad's turning back around. Nate can't see Ray anywhere. He's forced to revise his opinion of the motormouth. Not your average pothead, then, but a messed up trainee ninja of some sort instead.
"What the fuck," he starts. "Brad, is it? Mind telling me what that was all about? Some stupid dare?"
"My apologies," Brad says. Nate can't catch his eyes. He's staring hard somewhere in the vicinity of Nate's ear or neck. His jaw is working. He must be embarrassed because of his friend.
Nate sighs. "Okay, whatever." He's willing to let the whole odd episode lie in order to get back to his room and into bed. He needs to crash.
The man standing stiffly in front of him really is something else, though. It's a pity about the way they ran into each other. Difficult to work in an invitation for a date at three in the morning when you're irate and reeking of alcohol.
Nate tips his head in a silent offer of it's alright or maybe goodnight, crazy handsome, and goes to pass by the man.
Two cool fingers land on the back of his hand.
"You shouldn't wander around alone at night when you're this drunk, Nate," Brad says, softly admonishing.
Nate's body is switching between hot and cold, abrupt and inexplicable. "I'm not wandering, I'm getting home," he chokes out. "Besides, it's none of your business."
Brad's lips don't move, but Nate hears his voice clearly nevertheless, a warmer cadence insisting that's where you're wrong. Nate blinks again, can't decide if he's having a drunken hallucination or just reaping the benefits of weeks-long lack of sleep and chronic caffeine poisoning that are the norm during exams.
One side of Brad's mouth lifts, white teeth revealed by the tight little grin. "Best be on your way, then," he says, the light touch disappearing from Nate's hand. Nate starts moving, takes a few jerky steps in the direction of the campus. That's when it clicks. He whirls around.
"Hey, I didn't tell you my na-"
The pathway is empty.
So is the park, as far in any direction as Nate can see. He inhales very slowly, and turns back around.
He sort of wants to let his steps quicken into a jog but makes himself maintain a normal, sedate pace. He's sure he will wake up in the morning and none of this will look as fucking bizarre as it does right now. Maybe he'll even have forgotten the whole thing.
His luck usually isn't that good.
+
Rob's already in the kitchen when Nate shuffles in and straight up to the coffeemaker in the morning. The thing about Rob is that once past a certain level of intoxication he won't be able to sleep more than three hours that night. It makes his hangovers that much more excruciating.
He shoots a nasty look at Nate from where he's slumped on the table keeping his head together with his palms.
"So, man, you saw Helen at the bar yesterday, right?" Rob grits out.
"Yeah, I think so. You found her?" Nate briefly wonders whether the wide-eyed look of innocence is taking it over the top.
"I didn't, no. Heard from her friends she wasn't out all night, had to stay in because of a migraine."
Nate smirks. "Must've been wrong then. Sorry, my bad."
"You little fucking shit. You have a fun rest of the night, bailing out on us like that?"
Nate is about to respond, say something equal parts ribbing and placating, when a flash from his way home last night turns into a flash from his dreams that morning.
He hasn't dreamed about the warehouse in ages. In years.
And despite his chemically induced sleep, it wasn't even a nightmare-not like those real recollections about the cold and the two loud looming figures he sometimes had after the incident and which stopped suddenly only a few months afterwards.
This time he only dreamed about the third person, the huge dark shape that looked like a man but moved with lethal feline speed. Nate has always remembered what the man said to him, even when his face has been faded by time.
That morning the memory of the face re-surfaces, easy and precise like it's been close to being unlocked the whole time. The thing is, the face is an exact match to another he's seen fairly close-up very, very recently, right up to the glacial eyes.
Nate doesn't quite fumble the coffee mug in his hands to shatter onto the floor in a melodramatic chick flick move, but it's a close damn thing.
+
All through the day Nate tells himself he's being an idiot. Poor lighting, a relative or a random doppelganger, Nate's memory plain playing tricks on him-the possibilities are endless. And every one of them a lot likelier than the chances of the Brad of last night being that Brad-and looking exactly like he did fifteen years ago. No, Nate's subconscious must have gotten confused, helped along by the booze he'd consumed.
The memory feels so solid though. Nate calls his dad.
"The P.I.? Sure, I remember. Brad Colbert. He must have had the top billing in this city, even before your case, he was that good. Picky, too, when it came to jobs. We were damn lucky he decided to help us, son, you can't begin to imagine."
"So is he still working in Baltimore?"
"I don't think so, no. Haven't heard a word in passing about him in a decade at least, I think. Why do you ask?"
"I-no reason, really. How's work?"
When Nate gets off the phone he doesn't feel like any less of an idiot. If P.I. Brad Colbert really was that good, though, there should be some mentions about him in old issues of The Baltimore Sun. Maybe even a snapshot. Anything to put his overactive imagination to rest.
+
"Homes, you weren't exaggerating. The kid does smell delicious."
"Shut the fuck up."
"And damn easy on the eyes, too. There's really something about the severity of a buzzcut coupled with a mouth like that, right? I mean, my gums were itching and I wasn't even thirsty."
"You really like playing with your sorry excuse for a rotten, unhallowed, stupid, fucked-up life, don't you?"
"Nah, man, it's just that you look so fucking cute when you're livid."
"Stop talking about him or I'll end you. I mean it."
"Whatever, homes. Do you even realize how much of a pussy and a moron you're being? You fucking followed him to New Hampshire and you're still not going to do anything?"
"I didn't follow him; it was time for a change of scenery before my clients noticed I wasn't getting any older."
"And NH was just a happy coincidence, is that it?"
"…Regardless. Keeping my distance is the only option."
"Oh, okay. Well, I might believe you. But what if Nate doesn't?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"My tingling spider-sense tells me he's running a database search on 'Brad Colbert' right now."
"Ray-"
"Okay, okay! Jesus. Actually, a Dartmouth College IP address just triggered the alarm system me and Walt hacked into place for certain keyword queries in any archives dating back 11 years or more."
"…Shit."
"Yeah. Man, that was pretty quick. It gets you hot, doesn't it? How smart this kid is?"
"Ray. Shut the fuck up. Or I'll end you."
"Promises, promises."
+
By the time he leaves the campus library the sun's already going down. Out of perverse curiosity Nate cuts through the park again. He thinks he sees someone walking a terrier on the other side of the copse of loosely planted trees but mostly the park is deserted.
The wind picks up with a sudden gust. Nate halts. When he turns around and sees Brad Colbert standing just behind him he can't quite muster up any shock.
He looks just like he did in the photo accompanying the old newspaper article Nate found. He looks just like he did last night.
"I hear you've been checking up on me," Brad comments placidly.
Nate stares. He could ask, how in hell, but he thinks it's probably implied. Instead, he digs in his back pocket for the print-out and shoves it at Brad. The P.I. is captured in the corner of a shot from a crime scene, three years prior to the case he accepted from Nate's parents.
Eighteen freaking years. Nobody ages that well.
"Go on. Tell me that's your uncannily similar-looking father. Tell me the photo is too grainy and I'm seeing things."
Brad studies the article, then folds the paper back up and hands it to Nate. "No, that's me."
"That's-" Nate half raises his hands in exasperation, shifting impatiently. "Now you're just fucking with me, right?"
Brad's eyes crease at the corners. "What do you want me to say?"
Nate's not sure he knows himself. "Were you cryogenically frozen?"
Brad rolls his eyes. "No."
"Are you on experimental drug trials?"
Brad smirks. "No." The smirk fades. "Wait, would that have been a credible option?"
A short, surprised laugh escapes Nate's throat. Brad looks stunned for a second. Then he glances away, clears his throat.
"Nate, I only found you tonight to tell you you should forget this whole thing. It's regrettable Ray accosted you yesterday, but-"
"And what exactly do you think are the odds of that happening?"
Brad's mouth tightens. Annoyance is an unfairly attractive expression on the man.
"I wish you would."
"Yeah, and I wish you'd tell me how it's possible for a person not to have aged a day in nearly two decades. I mean, unless you've gone the Faustus route, in which case I feel really sorry for you, the only immortals I know of are angels and vampires and other cultural myths-"
Nate is looking straight at him so he sees the exact moment Brad's whole countenance changes, but it doesn't make any sense. It's pure luck he's reaching out before he even knows what he's doing, because when he grasps Brad's arm the muscles are hard and tense and Nate's pretty sure Brad was just about to do his disappearing act.
Brad jerks a bit, like he's surprised by the touch. His gaze moves from Nate's fingers clamped around his forearm up to Nate's face.
"Vampires don't exist," Nate says stupidly.
Brad's mouth twists into a wide, insincere smile.
When he parts his lips, Nate can see light catching on two long, sharp canines that weren't there a moment ago.
+
"You went for the cold-blooded killer intimidation act? Dude, you fucking idiot! Wait until I tell Walt about this. He'll give you his sad, disappointed puppy dog eyes, and I won't even try to help you by distracting him because you deserve it."
"Shut up. I thought it was for the best."
"Sure, homes. And now you're doomed to an eternity of pining. And when I say eternity, I mean it literally. And Walt and I are equally doomed to endure your unnecessary fucking drama and epic sulking until the end of time. Jesus Christ. So what did College Boy do after you showed him some fang? Did he take off running?"
"…He said he still wasn't completely convinced and that I should take him out for coffee tomorrow and tell him more."
"What-Brad! Dude! You threaten to eat the kid and get a date instead! That is some true Iceman luck. Although Poke would say it's just your superior white Hebrew ass power. Seriously, man, I love your Nate already. He has some fucking balls, for a human."
"Don't talk about his-just don't talk about him, Ray."
"Or you'll end me, right, Brad?"
"Shut up."
"Yeah, I've heard that one before."
+
"Really, Nate. Is it that you're lacking basic self-preservation instincts, or are you just stupid?"
Brad is sitting across from him at their customary booth, two cooling coffees on the table between them. Brad hasn't touched his, again. It's their third coffee date (although Brad actually calls them The Fick Inquisition) and Brad always orders for them both, despite the fact that his lack of interest in any ordinary food or drink has been firmly noted down in the column titled vampire myths: confirmed that Nate mentally keeps to amuse himself.
"Well, I am thinking of joining the Marines, so it could be the former," he quips.
Brad drags a hand over his face. "Of course you are." He sounds almost weary.
"What," Nate smiles, bites his lip. "You got something against the military? Don't approve of the killing?"
"I've got something against you being in the military," Brad snaps.
Nate stares at him. He's meeting Nate's eyes squarely, although he looks like he's regretting the outburst already. Still. He's not really hiding a thing.
"Yeah," Nate says slowly. "That's why I don't really feel worried in your company like you keep trying to assure me I should."
Brad shakes his head, but his lips are twitching.
The first time they got together, Nate asked all the standard questions, all of them apparently laughable-questions about coffins and crucifixes and sunlight. He's progressed to making Brad tell him about how and when he was turned.
Brad maintains the air of long-suffering calm, but then again, he's not really trying to get away, either. And when they get kicked out at the closing time and Nate declares they're doing this again the next evening, Brad only makes the most transparent attempt at dissuading him.
"Why don't you come to my place tomorrow, then," he taunts with a mocking twist of his lips that reveals just one of his fangs, shooting out as Nate watches. "We wouldn't be bothered by pesky things like opening hours."
"Nice try, Brad," Nate rolls his eyes. He pauses. "Your place, though, now that you mention it-"
For a split second Brad looks beautifully caught off guard. Nate has to suppress a surge of hot satisfaction at the rare expression. Too quickly, Brad schools his face. "There's no winning with you, Nate, is there?"
Nate says nothing, the grin breaking out an answer enough. He thinks Brad might be fighting a smile.
"Fine. You're going to need your car."
+
Nate goes for his usual run in the morning. After he gets back he stops in front of a mirror on his way to the shower and stares at the vein in his neck standing out in stark relief, bulging with blood under sweaty skin. If he looks hard enough he can see the elevated rhythm of his pulse, feel it beating in time with the tired pounding he feels in his skull.
He thinks about Brad unenthusiastically telling him that, yes, there were humans who knew about them, and no, some of them didn't mind being bitten. He thinks about the immediate, tense shake of Brad's head when Nate asked whether he did that as well. "Used to, sometimes" he'd said shortly. "The blood bank's less complicated."
Nate's sure he should be feeling just a little bit more freaked out about the whole thing-not simply about the supernatural aspect of it, but the fact that the most attractive man he's ever met in his life has apparently been keeping tabs on him since he was five years old. He can't quite make himself feel upset. Something about the way Brad is around Nate, always hovering somewhere between amusement and care and wariness. And a healthy amount of superior mocking that Nate could almost buy if it weren't for the look in Brad's eyes.
"A blink," Brad had said, to Nate's incredulous question, Fifteen years?
The GPS in the car takes him to the address Brad wrote down for him. It's out of the way and Nate's glad he chose to get going well before twilight. The house is big but not ridiculously so. Nate thinks back on what his dad said about top billing. In Hanover, most of the cases must come from jealous wives or husbands suspecting their spouses of infidelity.
Nate's not expecting Ray to be the one opening the door for him, but after the initial surprise he finds himself grinning broadly. "Judging by the way you orchestrated this whole thing, I suppose I don't have to fear hearing warnings to keep away from the dangerous world of vampires from you as well as him, right?"
Ray stares at him for a beat, then turns to yell loudly back into the house. "Brad! Homes, he's pretty, delicious and he appreciates my bad-ass skills for devious fucking planning-I'm trading you Walt for him, alright?"
Nate hears the murmur of Brad's voice drift out from somewhere in the house but he can't make out the words. Ray turns back to him with a smirk. "I only shout because it irritates him. Oh, and in case you're interested, he said he'd rip my head off and desecrate my corpse if I didn't have you in the living room in ten seconds, unmolested."
Nate hopes his blush isn't too noticeable. Then he realizes Ray would smell the smallest increase in the flow of blood anyway. He has to conclude he's sort of fucked with these guys. Ray's amusement radiates off him.
Brad's sitting on a black leather sofa, idly watching a game when Nate and Ray round the corner. He gives Nate a nod and a tiny smile. Nate doesn't really register the tension in Brad until he sits down next to him and feels him relax all down his side.
Ray is staring at them. "Right, homes. One thing you should know, Nate, in case you happen to run into any more of us. And by that I mean, you'd better not. Mostly for their sake."
Brad frowns and opens his mouth to say something but Ray waves him quiet. "Shut up, it's just as well that I tell him, although Walt will kill himself laughing at the idea of me being the one to do this. Shit, I feel like I'm giving the sex talk to a bunch of kids." He faces Nate. "Nutshell: Vamps are territorial. That's just how it is. And Brad, well, Brad's the arche-fucking-type of that. What he said to me just now, about ripping my head off-maybe he didn't mean it exactly, but only because I've been his dearest bloodsucking buddy for almost two centuries. Unless I'd actually tried anything, of course, in which case he would have-"
"Thank you, Ray, that's enough. Wasn't it time for you to go?" Brad's gaze is wintry again and Ray rolls his eyes in response, throwing his hands in the air and clearing out.
"Thanks, Ray," Nate calls after him, putting the smile into his voice. Ray makes a quick spin at the doorway and gives him a salute with a wink. Nate hears the outer door slam closed a moment later.
He looks back at Brad, suspects he sees something like worry or embarrassment in the cracks of the cool expression. Nate draws his foot up underneath him and shifts so that he's facing Brad, his knee jabbing the back of the couch. He lets his hand fall on Brad's abdominals, feels hard muscles through the soft blue shirt. Brad tenses up.
"Nate, don't listen to Person. You don't owe me anything," he says tightly.
"On the contrary. I owe you my life, in case you've forgotten," Nate counters with a smile. "But that isn't why I'm here."
Brad doesn't ask the obvious. Nate didn't think he would. His smile widens. Two can play that game.
Nate twists back to lean against the couch. "What are we watching?"
:: july ::
Brad is staring at the ceiling in order to avoid seeing Nate.
He's not sure at which point Nate's frequent visits turned into sleepovers-in Brad's goddamned bed. Nate acts like it's a foregone conclusion, and Brad can't bring himself to admit the level of uneasiness Nate's presence in his bed causes.
It's still sweltering outside, and Nate has pushed the sheet down to his hips. It clings to his thighs, moulds into the shape of Nate's body. His brow is furrowed in discomfort even in sleep. Brad absently thinks of going to get something to help Nate cool down, sleep easier. A damp towel, maybe. Or ice cubes. Trailed down over his bare chest-Brad makes himself stop right there, draw in a slow breath of air he doesn't need.
Nate twitches next to him, makes a low impatient sound deep in his throat and rolls over jerkily, ending mostly on top of Brad.
Brad stills in alarm. Nate sighs with satisfaction, still unconscious.
Nate is-the truth is, Nate is sort of extraordinarily beautiful. Brad knows this. He can admit it. If it was only that, he could deal. If it was just the flush steady contact of Nate's heated skin, or the pink lips close enough to brush Brad's neck, or the leg thrown over his, letting him feel Nate's mostly soft cock pressed snug against his hip.
He could let Nate Fick use him as his own personal cold pack, and silently go out of his mind with arousal.
But there's also-Nate's wrist, resting on Brad's collarbone. And no matter how hard the tries to ignore it, he can feel the faint throb of Nate's pulse, and smell Nate, warm and alive and too fucking tempting.
Another minute, and his fangs will descend without him being able to do a goddamn thing about it.
Right. Time to get up and have a nice neutral pint of blood. And jerk off. Possibly multiple times.
He grabs Nate's thigh gently, lifts it just enough so that he can slide his leg from underneath. His lower body free, he takes Nate's arm, ready to repeat the move and inch his way out of bed. That's when Nate opens his eyes, staring straight at Brad with sleepy, dark green.
"Where're you going?"
His lips are puffy and the words come out garbled, like he's too lazy to pronounce the words right. Like he's too comfortable to wake up properly. Brad's whole body flushes.
"I'm-I thought I'd-"
Nate groans. "Please don't. It's so fucking hot. I think you being here might be the only way I'll be able to sleep in this humidity."
"I can get a good fan tomorrow," Brad tries. Nate's gaze intensifies, turns probing.
"Alright, Brad, what is it? I'm not gonna ask whether you've suddenly decided you object to me being in your bed because this," Nate's thigh blankets Brad's hip again, nudging his crotch and drawing attention to his unmistakable erection, "this pretty much speaks for itself."
The pleasure from the light contact shoots up his spine. Brad traps a wanting sound in his throat. "Nate, just let me-"
"No. Goddamnit, Brad, don't be a fucking princess. What the fuck is it?"
Well. Nate's just fucking asking for it, isn't he?
Faster than human eye could track, Brad flips them over, Nate flat on his back and Brad heavy on top of him. Nate's wrists are pinned down on either side of his skull, and Brad's thumb is rubbing back and forth over the faint blue veins on the right one.
"It's you, Nate," he whispers, voice rough. "It's you lying down to sleep on top of me, all careless and accessible, like you're not like a fucking treat dangled out in front of a beast."
Nate's breaths are coming faster. Brad only wishes it were from fear. As it is, Nate's hard cock is pushing against his stomach, leaking dampness through his briefs onto Brad's skin.
"Fucking Christ, Nate. You think this is hot, do you?"
"No, I-well, a little." Nate grins, rolling his hips.
"Stop." Brad knows his voice must be ice cold. His hold on Nate's wrists tightens. Nate stops, lips parting in surprise. Brad stares at him, a little wild, a little desperate.
"Those blood bags I have? You know what they taste like? They're like MREs. Flat. Sometimes disgusting."
He dips his nose into Nate's neck, inhales along the line of his jaw, under it, trailing the scent of Nate down to the carotid artery where it's the strongest.
"You know what you'd taste like?"
Brad raises his head back up, catches Nate's eyes again. Nate doesn't answer the rhetorical question. His eyes are a wide burning green. His cock pulses against Brad.
"You'd be like the last meal of a death-row convict. Unsurpassable."
Nate frowns, impatient. "But-"
"And I don't know whether I'd be able to stop."
"I trust you." Christ, Nate looks so earnest, saying that. Like there's no doubt in his mind.
"You shouldn't," Brad says frostily. And even with Nate's scent teasing his nostrils and stuck all over his hands and skin, right then it's the easiest thing he's ever done to draw back. He rolls out of bed and starts walking towards the kitchen. Behind him, he hears rustling, the drag of cloth over skin.
And then he hears Nate spit into his hand and start jacking himself. The smell in the air increases hundredfold. Brad stumbles into a stop.
"The reason I'm here," Nate gasps behind him. "You figure it out yet?"
Brad doesn't know what to say. Nate's voice is husky and low and wrecked. Brad's fangs are pushing against his lip.
"Stop fucking trying to make up my mind for me, Brad. Whether you'll bite me or not, I'm not going anywhere." Nate inhales noisily, with a hurting moan. "I like you, Brad." The wet sounds are picking up in speed. "And I really, really wish you were the one doing this to me right now."
Brad cracks. Jesus Christ, he's had over two hundred years to perfect the art of self-control, but Nate Fick jerking off for him, in his bed, is more than anyone, alive or undead, could take.
Brad turns around slowly. Nate is sprawled back, flushed and heavy-lidded and stripping his cock with a desperate, tight squeeze of his fist. Brad's dick gives an angry jolt.
He sees Nate take in his contracted pupils, descended fangs, and the erection tenting out his boxers. The other markers of his hunger don't even make Nate pause, but he licks his lips when he catches sight of the darkening patch in the fabric stretching over Brad's cockhead.
Brad growls, starts moving. "Let's get one thing straight," he forces out as he gets back on the bed, kneeing Nate's legs apart and settling between them, leaning over Nate. "I'm not one of those dickless pussy liberals you go to school with. I assure you, I am not going to date you. You'll be mine, and there'll be no going back. So you better be very, very sure."
Nate groans, low in his throat. "I'm sure," he says. "I'm really fucking sure."
"Good," Brad says, speaking against Nate's lips. Nate's mouth opens under his, wet and ready and so fucking sweet. "As long as we're clear."
now with a sequel: predators (the best are the ones who don't look like they're hunting)
Huge green eyes stare at him seriously from the photograph.
The boy looks to be around five years old. In the picture he's standing on a lushly green backyard, half turned to look back over his shoulder. Almost as if his attention was caught by the whirr and click of the camera and this is the second in a series of photos. The solemn look is incongruous on a face that young.
"Please," the woman who shoved the photo at him is sobbing, "please, help us. The police are-they just don't-they'll be too late. I know they're useless, it happened to the Petersens-"
Brad doesn't like assignments involving children. He rarely takes any, and prospective clients tend to know enough of his reputation not to even ask.
She must really be desperate.
"Please," she says again. Her face is a blotchy red from crying, the smart jacket rumpled. Altogether, she looks nothing like the picture-perfect trophy wife Brad's seen in the news standing beside her husband the Congressman.
"He's-he's so little," her voice cracks and she hides her face in her hands, choked sobs muffled in her shaking palms.
Brad looks down at the photo again. He catches himself memorizing the kid's features before he really knows what he's doing.
Looks like he's taking the fucking job. "Alright, calm down. Tell me where he was taken."
+
At twilight the playground is, unsurprisingly, empty. Swings and the see-saw and spinaround are swathed in thick darkness cast by the great pines standing at the edges of the sand. To a human, the sight would probably seem ominous.
During daytime, the place must be packed. Full of children and families and hired help. Brad's simply too old to even pretend dismay at the ease with which a child can disappear in a crowd.
Brad closes his eyes, sniffs the cool air, hunting for hints of copper and sweetness. There are numerous scratches and little cuts soaked into the sand and grass, dabbed with tissue and covered with butterfly bandages. Brad sorts through the ordinary images to find something that smells wrong.
There.
The kidnappers didn't spill blood intentionally, but the boy stumbled as they were dragging and pushing him along. He scraped his knee. The few droplets are invisible in the cobblestoned path winding away from the back of the park. It's enough for Brad. One deep inhale gets him a direction, a hint of emotion and intention.
This is what the police can't do.
Brad takes off. No telling when the lure of a ransom stops being enough and the fuckheads get paranoid and do something stupid and irreversible.
+
The warehouse is dark, and the nearest sounds come from a pair of drunks staggering aimlessly in an alley nearby. Brad scales the tall fence and lands on the asphalt without a sound.
From inside the warehouse, he can hear three separate heartbeats. One is faster, lighter.
Brad picks the lock on the nearest door he finds, not detecting movement from the other side of it. Once he's inside, it's laughably easy to follow the sounds until he comes upon the one room that's lit by the few overhead lights that still work.
The fucking bastards never know what hit them. The first gets his neck snapped, and Brad's on the second one before his partner has finished falling to the ground.
The bodies thump into the dusty floor with identical sounds of muted defeat. Brad stares down coldly, telling himself he's making sure the perps are indeed taken care of. In truth, he's stalling. Next comes the part that gets him.
Bracing himself for panicked wailing, Brad forces himself to spin around. He's met with a wide-eyed gaze, even greener than in the photograph. There's no wailing. The kid's lower lip is trembling and he's perfectly still in the shadowed corner of the room, but that's all.
Brad crouches down, tries to make himself less threatening. After the gruesome demonstration of the past sixty seconds, the attempt may be futile.
"Hey, kid," he says. That's not quite right. The kid has a name, his mother kept repeating it amidst her hysterics.
"Nate," Brad amends. The boy blinks. He looks at Brad intently, as if searching for something.
"My name is Brad," Brad continues, feeling clumsy and inept when it comes to this-reassuring, comforting. Damage control. "You're alright, now. I'm going to take you home. Okay?"
The green eyes get a suspicious sheen, then. Brad sighs, opens up his arms. After a moment, the boy shuffles over. Apart from a single unsteady inhalation, he keeps silent. The tears never actually spill over.
Brad picks him up and Nate buries his hot face in Brad's neck. He's shivering, either from residual fear or the chill of the warehouse. Or both. Brad rubs his hand up and down the boy's back as he carries him to the car he left a couple of blocks over. Gradually the heartbeat starts slowing as Nate calms down. It's a hypnotic sound, strong and beautiful.
Nate falls asleep during the short walk. When they arrive at his car Brad tries to lower him into the passenger seat, but the moment cold air rushes between them Nate's eyelids flutter open and he whines quietly, just once.
"Okay. It's okay. Go back to sleep, Nate."
Jesus Christ. Brad thinks he might actually be crooning a bit. Shaking his head and thanking all known gods that Ray isn't there to see him acting like some goddamned green soft-hearted wannabe hippie, Brad walks over to the other side of the car and slides inside, Nate settling against his chest. Soft snuffles hit the side of his throat.
He drives to the Fick mansion one-handed, the other smoothing down the kid's hair. Brad tells himself it's to keep Nate sedate until he can get him home.
The Ficks are-Brad doesn't even know what to call it, two hundred years worth of vocabulary not yielding a term strong enough to describe the overwhelming relief of Nate's parents when Brad hands him over, unharmed at least on the surface. The amount of smeared mascara and hugs and kisses in the family reunion is off-putting, to say the least.
When Mrs. Fick turns to him, Brad takes a hasty step back, worried about accidentally winding up as the next stop in the parade of atrociously emotional PDAs.
"Thank you-thank you-" She breaks into a fresh volley of tears. Brad represses a sigh.
"Although money can never express our gratitude," Mr. Fick comes to stand next to his wife, winding an arm around her shoulders, "we are more than happy to reward such competence, such dedication to one's work. Twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Colbert, what do you think?"
Brad looks to the side, where the kid is now dozing in the lap of a nanny, or a maid, Brad doesn't know-thinks about services rendered and transformed into cash.
"I'd be best rewarded if you promised not to advertise my involvement in the case," he says, coolly polite. "I have no interest in being bombarded with demands to find every little person who goes missing for an hour in this city." He turns his back on the ecstatic parents, careful to keep his movements slow enough not to seem odd to the human eye.
+
"Brad, homes, what the fuck is this moping?"
Ray is lounging in the corner of Brad's black leather sofa. An untouched flute of A negative sits on the glass table in front of him. Ray always makes a point of demanding refreshments when he visits ("But it's not fresh, Brad, get it? Freshies?" "Your wit, Ray. It's undead the way you're undead. Meaning, it stinks.") yet he never touches them. In retaliation, Brad makes a point of using the most homosexual looking glassware he owns. On his bad days, he suspects Ray has never actually registered the jibe, and probably wouldn't care even if he did. After all, he talks about Walt and their exploits together (and sometimes that is a euphemism for their sex life) to anyone who will listen. Even to those who don't want to. Really don't want to.
"Don't know what you're talking about," Brad pronounces flatly.
"Moping, man. I can smell it," Ray nods his head sagely. "And Poke said you haven't picked up your latest stash, either."
"I've been busy."
"He's fucking mad, homes!" Ray is on a roll. "Kept ranting about the white… something screwing up his income. No self-respecting vamp drinks that nasty A neg if they can help it and you fucking know that, Brad. Poke said to remind you that he secures that shit just for you and if you're gonna bail on a mutually beneficial business arrangement-"
"I said I've been busy." Brad is fairly sure vampires aren't supposed to get headaches, but Ray Person is enough to rewrite the laws of physics and death. Or undeath. Whatever. "I'll stop by soon and Poke can cease to shed ruby tears over missing my presence."
"Bullshit, you've been busy," Ray counters, and his voice is more level now. Always a dangerous sign. "I know for a fact you ain't working on a case right now."
"Jesus Christ, Ray-what, you've bugged my office now? The regular stalking just not doing it for you anymore?"
The truth is Brad's been-well. On self-imposed guard duty, if one wants to get stupidly technical about it.
It's just, the Ficks weren't smart about it. Maybe the whole kidnap drama, complete with its happy ending, couldn't be kept out of the papers entirely, but the goddamn media orgy that followed the miraculous return of their son home should have been kept to a minimum. The whole thing is bound to give other baddies ideas. Tickle their professional pride, so to speak-entice them to make their own bid at the not inconsiderable ransom the Ficks are undoubtedly capable of.
So Brad's been hanging around a certain mansion, indistinguishable in the shadows, cataloguing steps and smells and heartbeats.
Ray grins suddenly-obviously reading Brad's mind, despite the fact that this is supposed to be another impossible feat and only exist in legend. "It's that kid, homes!"
Brad's jaw tightens. He knows he never should have told Ray about the case. But then, trying to keep something from Ray usually ends up being about as successful as a fledgling's vow to never kill for blood.
"Man, never would've thought I'd see the day. Iceman all obsessed with a human. If there was quality pussy involved, now that Ray-Ray could understand-but this kid? The hell, Brad? No, homes, wait," Ray's grin turns shrewd, "is this the itch for a quality snack, instead? I mean, I know what they say about the blood of kiddies and virgins, pure and tasty like nothing else-"
Brad tackles Ray into the wall without thinking, a snarl ripping out of his chest. He knows his pupils must be contracted in the automatic, physical reaction of extreme emotions or facing threat. The fury is a film of red over his vision.
Ray is smirking. "I take it the little Nathaniel isn't up for grabs?" Then he lets the smirk melt away, unmasking twinkling eyes and an honestly delighted grin. "Relax, Brad, I'm just jerking your chain! It's great that you have a hobby!"
Brad forces a swallow past the tightness in his throat, unclenches his fists from where they're gripping Ray's shirt. Steps back. His fangs are retracting and he cuts a contrite glance at Ray before moving off. He can't remember the last time he lost his temper. He doesn't think Ray's ever been the recipient of it-not like this.
Ray's wrong though. There's absolutely nothing positive about feeling protective over a human. Humans are frail and their lifespans are short. They live in a whole different world. Brad needs to square this shit away but he's not sure how. It's two hours after sundown and the need to go make sure everything's as it should be at the Fick residence is an irritation somewhere deep underneath his skin.
Maybe it'll blow over. Maybe he feels invested because, since he bothered to retrieve the kid once, something happening to Nate now would be negative interest on the investment of his time.
The reasoning sounds weak even in his own head.
Ray steps around him, serene and unruffled. "Come on, homes. Let's paint the city red. Walt knows this ridiculous Goth place where the chicks get off on being bitten. …Paint the city red, get it?"
The side of Brad's mouth twitches at Ray's moronic nasal laugh. He should go with them.
He can't. "Another night, Ray," he promises. He tries to mean it.
+
Nate has nightmares.
Not every night, and Brad doesn't know whether they are about the kidnapping or just normal night terrors. Kids have bad dreams, right?
Brad doubts Nate's parents know. He doesn't cry out, just keeps tossing and turning restlessly until finally coming awake abruptly, gulping for air. He always goes back to sleep after a moment. Brad reluctantly admires the kid's need to face his fears.
Tonight Brad's been leaning on the oak at the back of the yard for a while when he registers the change in Nate's movements. His lips tighten. Fuck it.
By the time his boots hit the floor of Nate's room he's already having second thoughts. Fuck that, he's sure it would be an epically stupid fucking move to involve himself even further. This is why he doesn't do spur of the moment decisions, goddamnit.
He could make a one-eighty, right now, except Nate is an uneasily shifting coil of tense limbs under the duvet, and his bangs are plastered to his forehead-
Brad drops on his knees next to the bed. His hand hesitates three inches above Nate's head, but at a soft whimper he lets it fall, covering moist reddish curls.
Nate stills immediately. It's almost disturbing.
It's also acceptable, as far as methods go. Brad absolutely would have drawn the line at singing.
+
Brad leaves the house at oh dark hundred. As soon as he drops down on the backyard the hair at the back of his neck is standing up. His fangs descend so fast they prick his lip. The smell of another vampire close by is unmistakable.
Brad feels vindicated in coming up across a real threat at last, all his watching over Nate justified. He can't wait to rip the intruder to shreds, to alleviate his frustration.
When he circles round the house and sees the vampire waiting in the shadows at the walkway, the fight floods out of him.
"Brad, brother."
Jesus Christ. Maybe he'll make a detour by the docks, engage in a bit of voluntary clean-the-city ops. Bound to be someone whose ass he can kick without feeling bad about it there.
"Rudy," he nods. He doesn't know how old Rudy is exactly. Clearly past the magic line when vamps either go insane or mentally rise to some higher plane of being, in any case. Sometimes Brad's not sure which one happened to Rudy.
"Your pack has gained a new member."
Brad doesn't think you can call a company of one a pack. He doesn't do nests. "Fuck, Rudy, you should know by now not to take a word Ray says seriously. I have enough of that deluded blood and cock-sucking abomination of nature without considering him my family, even though Walt might make a neat brother-in-law-"
"I'm not talking about Ray, brother. You've marked someone. I can smell him on you."
Brad freezes.
No. Fuck, no.
"Like hell. I'm not going to turn him, I wouldn't-"
"One doesn't necessarily equal the other, Brad."
"Doesn't matter," Brad says, jaw tight. "We crossed paths. I'm just looking out for the kid. Temporarily. That's all."
Rudy smiles, wide and unsettling. "Of course, Brad."
:: 15 years later ::
Nate is feeling good. He would go as far as to say he's feeling extremely happy at the moment.
It's too bad it's probably the booze talking. Also, the overwhelming happiness keeps getting interrupted by irregular waves of nausea.
He starts to get up from the table.
"Nate, man, where're you going?" The pub is noisy as fuck but the hand grabbing his forearm helps him focus on his friend's voice.
"I thought I might call it a night," Nate says, trying hard not to slur. He's having trouble focusing his eyes.
"Fuck that! Come on, let's get another pitcher."
"Rob," Nate says very seriously. "My tongue is numb."
"Who the fuck cares? The semester's over! I'm gonna be numb from my ass up to my eyeballs until I give up," Rob vows with the solemnity of the exceptionally wasted.
"More power to you." Nate glances around, fuzzily searching for inspiration. Rob's not going to let him pussy out and leave unless he can distract him with something. "Hey, man, look-isn't that Helen at the bar?"
Rob swivels around and drops Nate's arm in the process. "I said something about a pitcher, didn't I," he muses, eyes glazed.
"That you did," Nate agrees emphatically. "Have fun."
Rob's halfway to the bar, pushing through the throng of people, and doesn't hear him. Nate takes off, snickering to himself.
+
The air helps with clearing his head a bit. He's nowhere near sobriety but at least he doesn't feel like puking anymore.
He's walking through a park barely a mile from the apartment he shares with Rob when suddenly there's a wiry, dark-haired man standing in his path, smiling wide with lips pressed together. Nate only barely manages to stop before stumbling into him. He might make a surprised sound of some sort. He could have sworn there wasn't a soul to be seen anywhere. But then, he is still pretty drunk.
"Sorry," he says with an apologetic nod of his head, taking a sideways step to get past the guy.
The stranger takes a mirroring step, blocking Nate.
"You got a light?" He asks, still with that huge close-lipped smile. He looks sort of manic, now that Nate thinks of it. Young-ish, too. Must be high as fuck, celebrating the end of the term.
"No, sorry," Nate tells him. "Not a smoker." He takes another step to the left, ready to continue on his way.
The guy blocks him again. Nate frowns, not sure whether he should be getting irritated or alarmed. The stranger is skinny, and shorter than him, and Nate's sure he could take him even in his current state, except there's something off about this guy-
Nate is just leaning towards mildly unnerved when he feels a brush of cooler, displaced air against his neck.
"Ray," comes a low, tight voice from behind Nate, "you need to get going. Now."
Right, Nate's had enough of people appearing out of nowhere. The hair at the back of his neck is standing up. He takes a hasty step off to the side, turning so that he can face both of the weirdoes.
The newcomer is-tall. Taller than Nate, and with the lean, compact build of a fighter. More than that, his eyes-he's looking at the shorter guy with the coldest stare Nate's ever seen outside of old Western movies.
Nate is starting to give serious thought to being just a little bit worried. Mentally he curses himself for those last couple of shots of Tequila.
"Just looking for someone with a lighter, Brad," the first guy-Ray?-pronounces, something challenging in his smirk.
Nate thinks he sees the tall man's nostrils flare. He opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask what the hell, because this is in no way like the ordinary drunken run-ins he's used to, but he gets cut off.
"Look elsewhere," this guy Brad growls.
"Aw, come on, Brad, don't be like that. Haven't we talked about this? Sharing is caring, especially with your dearest, oldest pal Ray-Ray-"
Nate's head is aching. He's drunk and annoyed and tired and he's not sure but he thinks somewhere in this Ray character's running off at the mouth there's a dirty joke there he should take serious offence at. He opens his mouth again, but suddenly Brad is in Ray's face, backing him up a few steps until they are standing almost hidden in the shadow of the American elm growing next to the pathway.
"Look. Elsewhere," Nate hears Brad repeat, except now his voice sounds even lower, a strange harsh timber to it. A shiver runs down Nate's spine.
"Christ, Brad," Ray's voice echoes in the shadow, "you're too fucking easy. You're also a sad motherfucker. If I hadn't come out tonight and helped you along, it would've taken you the next ten years to-"
"Ray."
There's an almost palpable chill in the air.
"Fine."
Nate blinks, and when he opens his eyes Brad's turning back around. Nate can't see Ray anywhere. He's forced to revise his opinion of the motormouth. Not your average pothead, then, but a messed up trainee ninja of some sort instead.
"What the fuck," he starts. "Brad, is it? Mind telling me what that was all about? Some stupid dare?"
"My apologies," Brad says. Nate can't catch his eyes. He's staring hard somewhere in the vicinity of Nate's ear or neck. His jaw is working. He must be embarrassed because of his friend.
Nate sighs. "Okay, whatever." He's willing to let the whole odd episode lie in order to get back to his room and into bed. He needs to crash.
The man standing stiffly in front of him really is something else, though. It's a pity about the way they ran into each other. Difficult to work in an invitation for a date at three in the morning when you're irate and reeking of alcohol.
Nate tips his head in a silent offer of it's alright or maybe goodnight, crazy handsome, and goes to pass by the man.
Two cool fingers land on the back of his hand.
"You shouldn't wander around alone at night when you're this drunk, Nate," Brad says, softly admonishing.
Nate's body is switching between hot and cold, abrupt and inexplicable. "I'm not wandering, I'm getting home," he chokes out. "Besides, it's none of your business."
Brad's lips don't move, but Nate hears his voice clearly nevertheless, a warmer cadence insisting that's where you're wrong. Nate blinks again, can't decide if he's having a drunken hallucination or just reaping the benefits of weeks-long lack of sleep and chronic caffeine poisoning that are the norm during exams.
One side of Brad's mouth lifts, white teeth revealed by the tight little grin. "Best be on your way, then," he says, the light touch disappearing from Nate's hand. Nate starts moving, takes a few jerky steps in the direction of the campus. That's when it clicks. He whirls around.
"Hey, I didn't tell you my na-"
The pathway is empty.
So is the park, as far in any direction as Nate can see. He inhales very slowly, and turns back around.
He sort of wants to let his steps quicken into a jog but makes himself maintain a normal, sedate pace. He's sure he will wake up in the morning and none of this will look as fucking bizarre as it does right now. Maybe he'll even have forgotten the whole thing.
His luck usually isn't that good.
+
Rob's already in the kitchen when Nate shuffles in and straight up to the coffeemaker in the morning. The thing about Rob is that once past a certain level of intoxication he won't be able to sleep more than three hours that night. It makes his hangovers that much more excruciating.
He shoots a nasty look at Nate from where he's slumped on the table keeping his head together with his palms.
"So, man, you saw Helen at the bar yesterday, right?" Rob grits out.
"Yeah, I think so. You found her?" Nate briefly wonders whether the wide-eyed look of innocence is taking it over the top.
"I didn't, no. Heard from her friends she wasn't out all night, had to stay in because of a migraine."
Nate smirks. "Must've been wrong then. Sorry, my bad."
"You little fucking shit. You have a fun rest of the night, bailing out on us like that?"
Nate is about to respond, say something equal parts ribbing and placating, when a flash from his way home last night turns into a flash from his dreams that morning.
He hasn't dreamed about the warehouse in ages. In years.
And despite his chemically induced sleep, it wasn't even a nightmare-not like those real recollections about the cold and the two loud looming figures he sometimes had after the incident and which stopped suddenly only a few months afterwards.
This time he only dreamed about the third person, the huge dark shape that looked like a man but moved with lethal feline speed. Nate has always remembered what the man said to him, even when his face has been faded by time.
That morning the memory of the face re-surfaces, easy and precise like it's been close to being unlocked the whole time. The thing is, the face is an exact match to another he's seen fairly close-up very, very recently, right up to the glacial eyes.
Nate doesn't quite fumble the coffee mug in his hands to shatter onto the floor in a melodramatic chick flick move, but it's a close damn thing.
+
All through the day Nate tells himself he's being an idiot. Poor lighting, a relative or a random doppelganger, Nate's memory plain playing tricks on him-the possibilities are endless. And every one of them a lot likelier than the chances of the Brad of last night being that Brad-and looking exactly like he did fifteen years ago. No, Nate's subconscious must have gotten confused, helped along by the booze he'd consumed.
The memory feels so solid though. Nate calls his dad.
"The P.I.? Sure, I remember. Brad Colbert. He must have had the top billing in this city, even before your case, he was that good. Picky, too, when it came to jobs. We were damn lucky he decided to help us, son, you can't begin to imagine."
"So is he still working in Baltimore?"
"I don't think so, no. Haven't heard a word in passing about him in a decade at least, I think. Why do you ask?"
"I-no reason, really. How's work?"
When Nate gets off the phone he doesn't feel like any less of an idiot. If P.I. Brad Colbert really was that good, though, there should be some mentions about him in old issues of The Baltimore Sun. Maybe even a snapshot. Anything to put his overactive imagination to rest.
+
"Homes, you weren't exaggerating. The kid does smell delicious."
"Shut the fuck up."
"And damn easy on the eyes, too. There's really something about the severity of a buzzcut coupled with a mouth like that, right? I mean, my gums were itching and I wasn't even thirsty."
"You really like playing with your sorry excuse for a rotten, unhallowed, stupid, fucked-up life, don't you?"
"Nah, man, it's just that you look so fucking cute when you're livid."
"Stop talking about him or I'll end you. I mean it."
"Whatever, homes. Do you even realize how much of a pussy and a moron you're being? You fucking followed him to New Hampshire and you're still not going to do anything?"
"I didn't follow him; it was time for a change of scenery before my clients noticed I wasn't getting any older."
"And NH was just a happy coincidence, is that it?"
"…Regardless. Keeping my distance is the only option."
"Oh, okay. Well, I might believe you. But what if Nate doesn't?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"My tingling spider-sense tells me he's running a database search on 'Brad Colbert' right now."
"Ray-"
"Okay, okay! Jesus. Actually, a Dartmouth College IP address just triggered the alarm system me and Walt hacked into place for certain keyword queries in any archives dating back 11 years or more."
"…Shit."
"Yeah. Man, that was pretty quick. It gets you hot, doesn't it? How smart this kid is?"
"Ray. Shut the fuck up. Or I'll end you."
"Promises, promises."
+
By the time he leaves the campus library the sun's already going down. Out of perverse curiosity Nate cuts through the park again. He thinks he sees someone walking a terrier on the other side of the copse of loosely planted trees but mostly the park is deserted.
The wind picks up with a sudden gust. Nate halts. When he turns around and sees Brad Colbert standing just behind him he can't quite muster up any shock.
He looks just like he did in the photo accompanying the old newspaper article Nate found. He looks just like he did last night.
"I hear you've been checking up on me," Brad comments placidly.
Nate stares. He could ask, how in hell, but he thinks it's probably implied. Instead, he digs in his back pocket for the print-out and shoves it at Brad. The P.I. is captured in the corner of a shot from a crime scene, three years prior to the case he accepted from Nate's parents.
Eighteen freaking years. Nobody ages that well.
"Go on. Tell me that's your uncannily similar-looking father. Tell me the photo is too grainy and I'm seeing things."
Brad studies the article, then folds the paper back up and hands it to Nate. "No, that's me."
"That's-" Nate half raises his hands in exasperation, shifting impatiently. "Now you're just fucking with me, right?"
Brad's eyes crease at the corners. "What do you want me to say?"
Nate's not sure he knows himself. "Were you cryogenically frozen?"
Brad rolls his eyes. "No."
"Are you on experimental drug trials?"
Brad smirks. "No." The smirk fades. "Wait, would that have been a credible option?"
A short, surprised laugh escapes Nate's throat. Brad looks stunned for a second. Then he glances away, clears his throat.
"Nate, I only found you tonight to tell you you should forget this whole thing. It's regrettable Ray accosted you yesterday, but-"
"And what exactly do you think are the odds of that happening?"
Brad's mouth tightens. Annoyance is an unfairly attractive expression on the man.
"I wish you would."
"Yeah, and I wish you'd tell me how it's possible for a person not to have aged a day in nearly two decades. I mean, unless you've gone the Faustus route, in which case I feel really sorry for you, the only immortals I know of are angels and vampires and other cultural myths-"
Nate is looking straight at him so he sees the exact moment Brad's whole countenance changes, but it doesn't make any sense. It's pure luck he's reaching out before he even knows what he's doing, because when he grasps Brad's arm the muscles are hard and tense and Nate's pretty sure Brad was just about to do his disappearing act.
Brad jerks a bit, like he's surprised by the touch. His gaze moves from Nate's fingers clamped around his forearm up to Nate's face.
"Vampires don't exist," Nate says stupidly.
Brad's mouth twists into a wide, insincere smile.
When he parts his lips, Nate can see light catching on two long, sharp canines that weren't there a moment ago.
+
"You went for the cold-blooded killer intimidation act? Dude, you fucking idiot! Wait until I tell Walt about this. He'll give you his sad, disappointed puppy dog eyes, and I won't even try to help you by distracting him because you deserve it."
"Shut up. I thought it was for the best."
"Sure, homes. And now you're doomed to an eternity of pining. And when I say eternity, I mean it literally. And Walt and I are equally doomed to endure your unnecessary fucking drama and epic sulking until the end of time. Jesus Christ. So what did College Boy do after you showed him some fang? Did he take off running?"
"…He said he still wasn't completely convinced and that I should take him out for coffee tomorrow and tell him more."
"What-Brad! Dude! You threaten to eat the kid and get a date instead! That is some true Iceman luck. Although Poke would say it's just your superior white Hebrew ass power. Seriously, man, I love your Nate already. He has some fucking balls, for a human."
"Don't talk about his-just don't talk about him, Ray."
"Or you'll end me, right, Brad?"
"Shut up."
"Yeah, I've heard that one before."
+
"Really, Nate. Is it that you're lacking basic self-preservation instincts, or are you just stupid?"
Brad is sitting across from him at their customary booth, two cooling coffees on the table between them. Brad hasn't touched his, again. It's their third coffee date (although Brad actually calls them The Fick Inquisition) and Brad always orders for them both, despite the fact that his lack of interest in any ordinary food or drink has been firmly noted down in the column titled vampire myths: confirmed that Nate mentally keeps to amuse himself.
"Well, I am thinking of joining the Marines, so it could be the former," he quips.
Brad drags a hand over his face. "Of course you are." He sounds almost weary.
"What," Nate smiles, bites his lip. "You got something against the military? Don't approve of the killing?"
"I've got something against you being in the military," Brad snaps.
Nate stares at him. He's meeting Nate's eyes squarely, although he looks like he's regretting the outburst already. Still. He's not really hiding a thing.
"Yeah," Nate says slowly. "That's why I don't really feel worried in your company like you keep trying to assure me I should."
Brad shakes his head, but his lips are twitching.
The first time they got together, Nate asked all the standard questions, all of them apparently laughable-questions about coffins and crucifixes and sunlight. He's progressed to making Brad tell him about how and when he was turned.
Brad maintains the air of long-suffering calm, but then again, he's not really trying to get away, either. And when they get kicked out at the closing time and Nate declares they're doing this again the next evening, Brad only makes the most transparent attempt at dissuading him.
"Why don't you come to my place tomorrow, then," he taunts with a mocking twist of his lips that reveals just one of his fangs, shooting out as Nate watches. "We wouldn't be bothered by pesky things like opening hours."
"Nice try, Brad," Nate rolls his eyes. He pauses. "Your place, though, now that you mention it-"
For a split second Brad looks beautifully caught off guard. Nate has to suppress a surge of hot satisfaction at the rare expression. Too quickly, Brad schools his face. "There's no winning with you, Nate, is there?"
Nate says nothing, the grin breaking out an answer enough. He thinks Brad might be fighting a smile.
"Fine. You're going to need your car."
+
Nate goes for his usual run in the morning. After he gets back he stops in front of a mirror on his way to the shower and stares at the vein in his neck standing out in stark relief, bulging with blood under sweaty skin. If he looks hard enough he can see the elevated rhythm of his pulse, feel it beating in time with the tired pounding he feels in his skull.
He thinks about Brad unenthusiastically telling him that, yes, there were humans who knew about them, and no, some of them didn't mind being bitten. He thinks about the immediate, tense shake of Brad's head when Nate asked whether he did that as well. "Used to, sometimes" he'd said shortly. "The blood bank's less complicated."
Nate's sure he should be feeling just a little bit more freaked out about the whole thing-not simply about the supernatural aspect of it, but the fact that the most attractive man he's ever met in his life has apparently been keeping tabs on him since he was five years old. He can't quite make himself feel upset. Something about the way Brad is around Nate, always hovering somewhere between amusement and care and wariness. And a healthy amount of superior mocking that Nate could almost buy if it weren't for the look in Brad's eyes.
"A blink," Brad had said, to Nate's incredulous question, Fifteen years?
The GPS in the car takes him to the address Brad wrote down for him. It's out of the way and Nate's glad he chose to get going well before twilight. The house is big but not ridiculously so. Nate thinks back on what his dad said about top billing. In Hanover, most of the cases must come from jealous wives or husbands suspecting their spouses of infidelity.
Nate's not expecting Ray to be the one opening the door for him, but after the initial surprise he finds himself grinning broadly. "Judging by the way you orchestrated this whole thing, I suppose I don't have to fear hearing warnings to keep away from the dangerous world of vampires from you as well as him, right?"
Ray stares at him for a beat, then turns to yell loudly back into the house. "Brad! Homes, he's pretty, delicious and he appreciates my bad-ass skills for devious fucking planning-I'm trading you Walt for him, alright?"
Nate hears the murmur of Brad's voice drift out from somewhere in the house but he can't make out the words. Ray turns back to him with a smirk. "I only shout because it irritates him. Oh, and in case you're interested, he said he'd rip my head off and desecrate my corpse if I didn't have you in the living room in ten seconds, unmolested."
Nate hopes his blush isn't too noticeable. Then he realizes Ray would smell the smallest increase in the flow of blood anyway. He has to conclude he's sort of fucked with these guys. Ray's amusement radiates off him.
Brad's sitting on a black leather sofa, idly watching a game when Nate and Ray round the corner. He gives Nate a nod and a tiny smile. Nate doesn't really register the tension in Brad until he sits down next to him and feels him relax all down his side.
Ray is staring at them. "Right, homes. One thing you should know, Nate, in case you happen to run into any more of us. And by that I mean, you'd better not. Mostly for their sake."
Brad frowns and opens his mouth to say something but Ray waves him quiet. "Shut up, it's just as well that I tell him, although Walt will kill himself laughing at the idea of me being the one to do this. Shit, I feel like I'm giving the sex talk to a bunch of kids." He faces Nate. "Nutshell: Vamps are territorial. That's just how it is. And Brad, well, Brad's the arche-fucking-type of that. What he said to me just now, about ripping my head off-maybe he didn't mean it exactly, but only because I've been his dearest bloodsucking buddy for almost two centuries. Unless I'd actually tried anything, of course, in which case he would have-"
"Thank you, Ray, that's enough. Wasn't it time for you to go?" Brad's gaze is wintry again and Ray rolls his eyes in response, throwing his hands in the air and clearing out.
"Thanks, Ray," Nate calls after him, putting the smile into his voice. Ray makes a quick spin at the doorway and gives him a salute with a wink. Nate hears the outer door slam closed a moment later.
He looks back at Brad, suspects he sees something like worry or embarrassment in the cracks of the cool expression. Nate draws his foot up underneath him and shifts so that he's facing Brad, his knee jabbing the back of the couch. He lets his hand fall on Brad's abdominals, feels hard muscles through the soft blue shirt. Brad tenses up.
"Nate, don't listen to Person. You don't owe me anything," he says tightly.
"On the contrary. I owe you my life, in case you've forgotten," Nate counters with a smile. "But that isn't why I'm here."
Brad doesn't ask the obvious. Nate didn't think he would. His smile widens. Two can play that game.
Nate twists back to lean against the couch. "What are we watching?"
:: july ::
Brad is staring at the ceiling in order to avoid seeing Nate.
He's not sure at which point Nate's frequent visits turned into sleepovers-in Brad's goddamned bed. Nate acts like it's a foregone conclusion, and Brad can't bring himself to admit the level of uneasiness Nate's presence in his bed causes.
It's still sweltering outside, and Nate has pushed the sheet down to his hips. It clings to his thighs, moulds into the shape of Nate's body. His brow is furrowed in discomfort even in sleep. Brad absently thinks of going to get something to help Nate cool down, sleep easier. A damp towel, maybe. Or ice cubes. Trailed down over his bare chest-Brad makes himself stop right there, draw in a slow breath of air he doesn't need.
Nate twitches next to him, makes a low impatient sound deep in his throat and rolls over jerkily, ending mostly on top of Brad.
Brad stills in alarm. Nate sighs with satisfaction, still unconscious.
Nate is-the truth is, Nate is sort of extraordinarily beautiful. Brad knows this. He can admit it. If it was only that, he could deal. If it was just the flush steady contact of Nate's heated skin, or the pink lips close enough to brush Brad's neck, or the leg thrown over his, letting him feel Nate's mostly soft cock pressed snug against his hip.
He could let Nate Fick use him as his own personal cold pack, and silently go out of his mind with arousal.
But there's also-Nate's wrist, resting on Brad's collarbone. And no matter how hard the tries to ignore it, he can feel the faint throb of Nate's pulse, and smell Nate, warm and alive and too fucking tempting.
Another minute, and his fangs will descend without him being able to do a goddamn thing about it.
Right. Time to get up and have a nice neutral pint of blood. And jerk off. Possibly multiple times.
He grabs Nate's thigh gently, lifts it just enough so that he can slide his leg from underneath. His lower body free, he takes Nate's arm, ready to repeat the move and inch his way out of bed. That's when Nate opens his eyes, staring straight at Brad with sleepy, dark green.
"Where're you going?"
His lips are puffy and the words come out garbled, like he's too lazy to pronounce the words right. Like he's too comfortable to wake up properly. Brad's whole body flushes.
"I'm-I thought I'd-"
Nate groans. "Please don't. It's so fucking hot. I think you being here might be the only way I'll be able to sleep in this humidity."
"I can get a good fan tomorrow," Brad tries. Nate's gaze intensifies, turns probing.
"Alright, Brad, what is it? I'm not gonna ask whether you've suddenly decided you object to me being in your bed because this," Nate's thigh blankets Brad's hip again, nudging his crotch and drawing attention to his unmistakable erection, "this pretty much speaks for itself."
The pleasure from the light contact shoots up his spine. Brad traps a wanting sound in his throat. "Nate, just let me-"
"No. Goddamnit, Brad, don't be a fucking princess. What the fuck is it?"
Well. Nate's just fucking asking for it, isn't he?
Faster than human eye could track, Brad flips them over, Nate flat on his back and Brad heavy on top of him. Nate's wrists are pinned down on either side of his skull, and Brad's thumb is rubbing back and forth over the faint blue veins on the right one.
"It's you, Nate," he whispers, voice rough. "It's you lying down to sleep on top of me, all careless and accessible, like you're not like a fucking treat dangled out in front of a beast."
Nate's breaths are coming faster. Brad only wishes it were from fear. As it is, Nate's hard cock is pushing against his stomach, leaking dampness through his briefs onto Brad's skin.
"Fucking Christ, Nate. You think this is hot, do you?"
"No, I-well, a little." Nate grins, rolling his hips.
"Stop." Brad knows his voice must be ice cold. His hold on Nate's wrists tightens. Nate stops, lips parting in surprise. Brad stares at him, a little wild, a little desperate.
"Those blood bags I have? You know what they taste like? They're like MREs. Flat. Sometimes disgusting."
He dips his nose into Nate's neck, inhales along the line of his jaw, under it, trailing the scent of Nate down to the carotid artery where it's the strongest.
"You know what you'd taste like?"
Brad raises his head back up, catches Nate's eyes again. Nate doesn't answer the rhetorical question. His eyes are a wide burning green. His cock pulses against Brad.
"You'd be like the last meal of a death-row convict. Unsurpassable."
Nate frowns, impatient. "But-"
"And I don't know whether I'd be able to stop."
"I trust you." Christ, Nate looks so earnest, saying that. Like there's no doubt in his mind.
"You shouldn't," Brad says frostily. And even with Nate's scent teasing his nostrils and stuck all over his hands and skin, right then it's the easiest thing he's ever done to draw back. He rolls out of bed and starts walking towards the kitchen. Behind him, he hears rustling, the drag of cloth over skin.
And then he hears Nate spit into his hand and start jacking himself. The smell in the air increases hundredfold. Brad stumbles into a stop.
"The reason I'm here," Nate gasps behind him. "You figure it out yet?"
Brad doesn't know what to say. Nate's voice is husky and low and wrecked. Brad's fangs are pushing against his lip.
"Stop fucking trying to make up my mind for me, Brad. Whether you'll bite me or not, I'm not going anywhere." Nate inhales noisily, with a hurting moan. "I like you, Brad." The wet sounds are picking up in speed. "And I really, really wish you were the one doing this to me right now."
Brad cracks. Jesus Christ, he's had over two hundred years to perfect the art of self-control, but Nate Fick jerking off for him, in his bed, is more than anyone, alive or undead, could take.
Brad turns around slowly. Nate is sprawled back, flushed and heavy-lidded and stripping his cock with a desperate, tight squeeze of his fist. Brad's dick gives an angry jolt.
He sees Nate take in his contracted pupils, descended fangs, and the erection tenting out his boxers. The other markers of his hunger don't even make Nate pause, but he licks his lips when he catches sight of the darkening patch in the fabric stretching over Brad's cockhead.
Brad growls, starts moving. "Let's get one thing straight," he forces out as he gets back on the bed, kneeing Nate's legs apart and settling between them, leaning over Nate. "I'm not one of those dickless pussy liberals you go to school with. I assure you, I am not going to date you. You'll be mine, and there'll be no going back. So you better be very, very sure."
Nate groans, low in his throat. "I'm sure," he says. "I'm really fucking sure."
"Good," Brad says, speaking against Nate's lips. Nate's mouth opens under his, wet and ready and so fucking sweet. "As long as we're clear."
now with a sequel: predators (the best are the ones who don't look like they're hunting)