Fic | GK | predators (the best are the ones who don't look like they're hunting), 1/3
Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | AU | NC17
Sequel to Patience
Nate is pretty religious about coffee. Brad realized Nate was also sadly addicted back when he was still living in Baltimore, all of seventeen years old and starting to get piercing headaches if forced to go without his morning dosage.
Brad is enough of a man to admit that seeing Nate in pain makes him want to kill something, which is why he almost wishes Nate would wean himself off caffeine. On the other hand there's the way Nate closes his eyes for the first sip, tongue lapping at milk froth over hot espresso, and makes this noise, this half sigh, half groan, that has Brad fisting his hands in abject, helpless want.
Somewhere between the second and the third time they got together for Nate to work through his list of ancient legend and pop-culture inspired questions about vampires, Brad found himself purchasing a coffee maker for his house bearing the most homosexual name an unsentient kitchen appliance could ever hope to have, the Prima Donna ESAM 6600 by De'Longhi. At the time he wasn't sure what the fuck he was doing, other than giving Ray ample mocking material.
Now, though? Brad's mentally fucking applauding himself for what was obviously one of the best ideas he's ever had.
From the doorway, he watches as Nate leans drowsily on the kitchen counter with his elbows, waiting for his cup to be ready. He's staring at the shiny steel body of the coffee machine with what can only be described as a ridiculously infatuated expression on his face.
Brad comes up behind him noiselessly, drapes himself over Nate's back, trapping him in place. He lets his fingers curl into loose circles around Nate's wrists.
Nate turns his head just enough to reveal pleased green eyes and upturned lips. "Morning," he says, voice scratchy with sleep.
Brad swallows. "Morning," he says belatedly, brushing Nate's lips with his own. Nate lengthens the kiss immediately, licks the corner of Brad's mouth, his bottom lip, then nips it lightly. Brad's fingers spasm, his hold on Nate's wrists tightening. He forces himself to relax his grip. Nate smiles against his mouth, like he's happy about every goddamn loss of control he can induce in Brad.
Nate Fick will be the end of him, Brad is assured of that. Not that he has any intention of doing anything about the matter.
Nate draws back a little. He tilts his head at the coffee maker. "What," he grins, "couldn't afford the Nespresso Crystal Edition?"
Brad noses the space behind Nate's ear, the hollow just underneath it. Both places have some of the thinnest, warmest skin anywhere on a human body. The blood thrumming loudly so close by is almost secondary to the way Nate smells.
"Thought it'd be a bit too bling for you," he says at last, absent-minded.
Nate stills. He twists his head to stare at Brad. "You actually considered it?"
Brad is about to shrug and say something dismissive about preferring to pay for quality, if only to get Nate to lose the horrified expression, when he catches a stray sound and his head snaps up.
Nate tenses up right alongside him, reacting to his body language with barely a thought. "Unwanted guests?" He asks, tone level.
Brad keeps listening. It's-of course. Christ. The fight floods out of him, only to be replaced by irritation. "In a manner of speaking," he says, grinding his teeth.
Nate grins, instantly making the connection. "Let me guess. Ray?"
"At least he brought Walt with him. He'll have the dubious honor of making sure Ray behaves himself-as much as ever he can," Brad mutters. He lets his head drop onto the back of Nate's neck just for a second, inhaling deep, reminding himself of what's waiting after Ray and Walt leave. It only makes him more furious about the interruption.
There's a polite knock at the front door. Walt, obviously, since the concept of manners is as alien to Ray as notions of tact or restraint.
Brad makes himself straighten up and step away. Nate throws him an encouraging look over his shoulder before reaching over to reverently grab the white ceramic coffee cup now that the ESAM6600 has finished its class-A roast. Brad snorts and goes to open the door.
"Ray," he puts every last bit of the displeasure he's feeling into the wide fake smile. And if his fangs happen to be out, well. "And Walt. You guys get lost and ended up here all the way from Boston?"
"Hey, Brad." Walt at least has the good grace to look embarrassed at showing up uninvited. Maybe that would be okay under other circumstances, if Brad was alone, but-anyway.
Ray shares no such concerns. "Dude, it's been weeks since I've heard from you. I needed Walt to come witness the domestication of the Iceman. Besides," he cranes his neck to gawk past Brad, "Nate loves my ass, you and I both know he misses me every moment I'm not here. Where the fuck have you stashed him, homes, keeping him a prisoner in the bedroom?"
Ray doesn't give Brad time to tell him to shut the fuck up and go fuck himself before the pest goes on, "Ah, nope, nevermind. Catching that scent now-"
Brad snarls. He can't really help it.
Ray eyes him, decidedly unimpressed. "Come on," he grabs Walt by the arm and pushes past Brad, "I'll introduce you to Nate. Nate!" He hollers into the house. "It's your favorite vampire godmother, Ray-Ray!"
Brad hears Nate chuckle at the announcement, and can't decide whether that makes him want to throw their guests out even more. He marches back into the kitchen, his continued black mood ensuring it's almost painful to retract his fangs.
Ray is making the introductions, in his own distinctive way. Interestingly enough, Walt is looking-reserved.
"So you're the human Ray's been talking non-stop about for the last six weeks," he comments, with a tight, courteous smile.
Brad gets it at the same time Ray does, if his sudden retarded beaming is anything to go by. Well, that answers that question, about how the fuck Walt's put up with Ray all this time, and whether their arrangement is actually as no-strings-attached as it sometimes seems like. Love really is blind. More than that, it must be one hundred percent deaf.
Nate doesn't give any visible sign of reacting to the subtle challenge, only gives Walt one of his brilliant, open grins.
"Non-stop? Considering both Ray's attention span and his unfortunate predilection for morally dubious yet inventive tirades about everything that pops into his head, you don't mind if I find that hard to believe," he says, green eyes lit with amusement.
Brad can actually see the second Walt melts, just like that. Not that Brad's one to talk when it comes to staying resolute under the power of Nate's smile. He'd like to believe he's not totally transparent, all the time, though. Not like Walt's looking, part dumbfounded but mostly charmed, like he's seconds away from doing something ridiculous like cooing, or petting his and Ray's new favorite human.
Brad walks up to the counter and stops next to Nate, ignoring the arch glance from Ray telling him he knows exactly what Brad's doing, cementing his claim, and that he still finds it hilarious as fuck. Then Nate takes a long sip of his coffee. He probably thinks he's suppressing all sounds of pleasure and delight, but with three sets of vampire hearing-the muted groan comes across as even more pornographic for being nearly inaudible.
Walt looks at Ray with wide eyes.
I told you so, Ray mouths, gloating.
Walt blinks. Can we share? he mouths back.
"Jesus Christ, guys!" Brad snaps. "Show some fucking manners!"
"I also told you about him, didn't I," Ray tips his head in Brad's direction with a pitying grimace. "No fucking sense of humor whatsoever. You didn't believe me. Homes, that makes me so sad."
Walt almost pulls off sincere contrition. "Ray, I fully acknowledge my mistake. When you're right, you're right. We've lost the Iceman."
Nate looks up at them, milk froth sticking to his upper lip. "What did I miss?"
+
"There was actually something we needed to talk to you about," Ray says when they've all trailed Nate, now properly caffeinated, to the living room and swarmed the couches. Brad registers the fleeting look he and Walt share between them. Apprehensive. Something Brad won't like, then.
Nate is sitting cross-legged next to him. He's wearing shorts with a tank top, the clothes he tends to throw on after getting up if he's not driving back for one of his classes. Brad can feel the heat from all the bared skin across the inch of empty space between their bodies. He wonders whether he should signal Ray to shut up, have him wait until Nate's left for his morning run. If it's genuinely bad news, something Brad needs to take care of, he'd rather Nate wasn't involved, didn't know about it at all.
Too late. Nate shoots an inquisitive glance at Ray. Brad wants to growl again. Fucking reprobate moron, spewing around lines like that, when anyone who's met him for longer than three minutes knows it would require a minor catastrophe to make Ray Person even remotely serious.
Brad tries anyway. "Nate, you go on for your run if you want to. Something tells me we're about to be bored to tears in a minute."
Nate turns to look at him like he can't believe Brad's stupidity hasn't caused him to wink out of existence. "Smooth, Brad," he says, sarcasm heavy in the tone. "You do know I'm twenty, not twelve, right? And what have I told you about making decisions for me?"
Brad hears Ray muffle a laugh into his palm. Walt's lips are white and bloodless from how hard he's pursing his mouth together.
He would plan his revenge on the fucking trailer park rejects, but his thoughts are sort of derailed by the hand Nate puts on his thigh, not too high to be inappropriate for company but close enough to his crotch for tendrils of heat to start curling in his stomach. Nate gives him a look that's half mild forgiveness and half don't push your luck, I'm warning you.
"Ray?" Nate says, unruffled and attention firmly on the matter at hand. "Go on."
Ray's thrilled grin is suggesting he'd rather keep watching the show, complete with popcorn and possibly with a leisurely jack to top it all off, but apparently the hint of command in Nate's voice is enough to get even his pervy little mind back on track.
Brad doesn't know whether to be proud or disturbed as hell. Mostly he just wants to grab Nate and take him back to the bedroom and suck his cock until he's hoarse, until he's so far past needy and suffering that he'll have lost all control over his movements and his words and will need Brad to take him over the edge and then keep him together as he shudders through his release.
Brad could swear he used to be better at policing himself. He wrenches his thoughts away from the taste of Nate's skin, from last night, from Nate's sounds.
Ray is talking. "It's Captain America, homes. He wants you out of the picture for good."
Brad relaxes instantly. "That's it? So fucking what?"
Walt shakes his head. "It's Captain America, but from what we're hearing he's way too confident to be operating alone."
Brad's not buying it. "The fucking loser's been holding a grudge for the last forty years, why would anyone be helping him now? It's not like he has anything to offer in exchange that any vampire who could be considered a threat to me couldn't easily acquire by themself."
"Maybe permanently getting rid of you is enough of an incentive."
Three pairs of eyes lock on Nate, zeroing in on the clear, calm voice. Brad quirks an eyebrow.
Nate shrugs. "Brad, it's pretty clear you're not above stepping on toes when you feel like it. You're bound to have made more than a few enemies in the last two hundred years."
Ray smirks faintly. "Bingo," he mutters. Walt's looking plain worried.
Be that as it may, Brad still isn't convinced. "The timing doesn't make sense," he says. "For all intents and purposes, I've been out of the picture for the last decade. Why now?"
"Uh, yeah, homes, about that." Ray's actually looking nervous now. "The current rumor circulating among the East Coast vamps is, Brad Colbert's in New Hampshire at the moment. Someone must've gone digging deeper than normal."
Brad's hands crack into fists. He squashes the reflexive glance to his left on the sofa. Ray and Walt's concerned peeks at Nate are obvious enough.
"Alright," he says, tone not betraying anything. "Thanks for letting me know."
Ray and Walt know the words are as good as an order to drop the subject. Nate, naturally, has no such compunction to follow Brad's wishes, but he seems content to let the topic rest as well. Brad has a second to thank his lucky stars before Nate pushes himself off of the sofa with a pleasant smile.
"Got to leave for my run before it gets too hot," he announces. "Nice to meet you, Walt. Ray, always a pleasure." The smile quirks into a grin.
Something that uncomfortably resembles panic bursts across Brad's palms in swathes of blood-tinted sweat.
Ray gapes from Brad to Nate in alarm. "Uh, dude, actually, now that we've got the business out of the way, me and Walt were about to get going, head back to Boston. So we won't keep Brad from, um, joining you."
"Running, with him?" Nate's chuckles are light and amused, like he doesn't know exactly what Ray is doing. "I'm not that much of a masochist. I only need to pass the physical fitness test for OCS and, last I heard, no superhuman vampire speed was required." He nods. "Good day, gents."
Brad stares after him as he strides out, listens to his footfalls clear the porch and then hit the yard with a changed pace, setting out with an easy jog to warm up his muscles.
Brad's hearing is exceptional up to a klik, after that it gets more demanding. He's sure he could pick out Nate from two, two-and-half kliks, just by his heartbeat.
Nate's lazy Sunday runs are ten kliks at least.
Five kliks out, five kliks back.
Shit.
"New Hampshire was all we heard," Walt starts, cautious. "For all we know, they don't have anything concrete. Might take it for another rumor."
"Yeah, and even if that douchebag's really got his minions after you, they'll start searching near the southern state border line," Ray says. "Can't imagine even the Iceman willingly shacked up like this, away from civilization and surrounded by nothing but woodland, right? Densely populated areas mean anonymity means happy, well-fed vamps."
"I taught you that," Brad reminds, marginally calmer. Jesus. Ray and Walt playing mother-hen for him… his ego may never recover.
That would be unfortunate. If he gave a fuck.
"Hold on," Ray's saying, suddenly agitated about something. "Physical test? OCS? Is Nate thinking of joining the military? A fucking wartime military? Brad!"
"I don't…" Brad starts, then trails off. "He's mentioned the Marines, I'm not sure-"
"You're not sure-Jesus fucking Christ, Brad, he's just gone out and is training for the selection process as we speak," Ray wails. "Has fucking him completely imploded your mind already? More importantly, sucking him?"
Brad isn't about to tell him the fucking only commenced the night before, and that he's still holding off on feeding from Nate. There are things Ray will give him shit over, and then there are things that will fry his brain out of sheer exasperation.
"If that's what he wants," Brad lies through his teeth. Walt sends him a pitying look Brad's sure fucking well violates vampire etiquette, seeing as Brad outranks both of the little bloodsuckers.
"Well, you're no fucking help," Ray bitches. He draws in a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. No worries, Ray-Ray's on top of this." There's a pause for dramatic effect. "Homes, how difficult do you think it would be for us to hide the blood bags at boot camp?"
+
"Guess Ray and Walt left alr-"
Nate's words are cut off as Brad crushes their mouths together, on him as soon as Nate opens the front door. He's been standing in wait since he recaught the fast, strong thrum of Nate's pulse on the edges of his hearing, his mind stuck on images from the previous night, of Nate breaking apart under him.
He looks exactly the same now. Sweaty, short of breath, with the flush of exertion on his skin. Brad is briefly concerned about developing an inconvenient sexual response to the sight of Nate in his running gear. His fingers creep up to cup the back of Nate's skull, trembling with the effort he's putting into keeping the touch light. Nate kisses him back hard, left-over adrenaline flowing seamlessly into their tongues aggressively tangling together.
Nate breaks off, panting. "You want to fuck me again?"
Brad is fairly sure the animal noise he makes is something he'd never allow out under any normal circumstances. He delves into Nate's mouth again, lets his hands slide down to Nate's ass and lifts him up. Nate gives a surprised hum but wraps his legs around Brad's middle, instinctive.
"Yes," Brad finds his voice, "yes, Nate, I want to fuck you again."
Nate's lips twist in amusement. "Better take me to bed then."
After two centuries of feeling more disgusted with humankind each consecutive year, finding someone like Nate seems more than a lucky streak. Seems fucking impossible.
He manages not to walk into any of the furniture despite the way Nate is wrapped around him and how he's doing his damnest to make Brad lose his mind by sucking on the tip of his tongue, wet and rhythmic. He never realized how interminable the way from the foyer to his bedroom is. It does make him conclude the house is filled with too goddamn many unnecessary square meters.
When he goes to lower Nate on his back on the messy sheets, Nate's fingers squeeze his shoulder. "Wait," he says. "I want to be on top. Let me down. Clothes off."
Brad hasn't taken orders from anyone in a very long time. There should be no reason for Nate's husky rapid-fire commands to make him slack-jawed with arousal.
He helps Nate slide down his body and watches him start to strip efficiently before following suit. Nate barely waits for him to discard the last piece of his clothing before he's pushing Brad back and making him scoot up closer to the headboard. Then he's settling in Brad's lap, mimicking the position Brad just held Nate in, only without clothes.
Brad can definitely get behind this idea. Nate's scent is almost too close, crowding Brad. His mouth fills with saliva, the bases of his fangs tingling madly. "You going to ride me, Nate?"
Nate's eyes are a bright, dangerous green and his smirk makes Brad's stomach tighten. "I'm going to ride you, Brad, and I'll take it so slow and make it last so long you'll be begging me to make you come," he says, voice low.
Brad's hold on Nate's naked hips tightens involuntarily.
"You know, it's not very smart to threaten those above you in the food chain," he says hoarsely.
"Who said anything about threats?" Nate leans over to grab the lube from the nightstand, breathing the words against Brad's lips as he slicks his fingers one-handed. "That was a promise."
The fucker winks at Brad at the same time as he reaches behind himself.
The way Nate looks, body flushed and eyes slipping half shut with pleasure as he stretches himself-Brad slides his hands lower until they're cupping Nate's ass, fingers dipping to brush against Nate's. "You sure I can't help you with that?"
Nate's breath hitches a little. "I'm good," he recovers quickly. "I've got you this time."
Brad has to lean in at that, has to kiss. Nate's tongue in his mouth sooths the itching, helps him keep his fangs retracted.
After another minute Nate separates their mouths with a smile, reaches for the lube again, spreads it over Brad's dick. The muscles in his thighs stand out as he positions himself and lets gravity bring him down, ass flush with Brad's balls. Brad clenches his jaw, swallows. The inside of his throat feels raw. Nate rolls his hips, experimental. He's warm and relaxed from the run. Brad can see no discomfort in his face.
Nate brings his arms up on either side of Brad's head to grip the headboard, finding leverage. There's a dare playing somewhere in the set of his lips, behind the breathless pleasure.
"I forgot to say," he grins, "I really appreciate the coffee maker." Then he starts to ride Brad, slow like he promised, a tease.
Brad's legs and ass flex, immediately wanting to move into a hard counterpoint. Fuck. There was a challenge on the table.
"No problem," he says, his voice mostly not cracking. "On a purely hypothetical note, what would the reward for a new car be?"
Nate laughs, short of breath and gorgeous in Brad's lap. Brad's hands smooth up and down his back, fingers feeling clumsy and heavy when they land on Nate's ass again, dragging white tracks on the skin and nudging him closer.
"I'm not really in need of a flashy car, Brad."
"What about what you said before? About making me beg before you let me come." Brad's blood is racing. "What if I make you come first?"
Nate's grin is all permissive humor. "Then, I guess you'd get a favor of your choice."
The game shouldn't inflame him further, since it was of his own devising, but it does. And Nate plays to win. He bends his elbows, bringing his scent closer, the skin and the sex and the blood, kissing and biting at Brad's jaw as he continues to move around him, slick and tight and so fucking hot.
It could go on for a long time, both of them lost to the warmth and the pleasure but determined not to give in first. Nate could match him for every heated, distracting touch, would intentionally tighten around Brad's dick for every dirty trick Brad attempted to play, every intentional nudge against Nate's prostate. And on top of all else there would be the devastating allure of Nate's gasps and bitten lips.
Brad needs to take his win right now, while a part of his mind is still somewhat functional.
His fangs shoot out, a fucking relief after the insistent burning pressure in his gums. Brad's palms smooth up Nate's shoulder blades, one ending up on the back of Nate's neck, fingertips rubbing against the buzz of Nate's hair. Brad crushes him closer. Brings his mouth to Nate's neck.
Nate's heart gives an irregular jolt, and his breathing speeds up even more. "Brad," he moans, "fuck, that's-cheating-"
"I'm not doing anything," Brad counters roughly into the sweaty skin, tongue slipping out to trace the big vein.
"Fuck," Nate repeats softly. His dick twitches and leaks against Brad's stomach and he makes a hurting sort of keen as Brad opens his mouth wide, lips a wet ring over Nate's pulse point.
So close. He can't remember the last time he drank straight from a human, but he remembers the rush. And that was with no-one at all, just a food source. This is Nate. Nate's scent, so close and strong there under his tongue, making him crazy, his head filling with white noise. The bases of his canines are aching.
Too tempting. Too good. Too big a risk.
Brad rakes his fangs sharply down the side of Nate's throat and Nate jerks and comes with a long, harsh, surprised cry. Brad counts four seconds of clinging to his self-control before he loses it and follows Nate over.
They tumble down on the bed to lie side by side, breaths slowing and evening out. After a while, Brad props himself up on his elbow next to Nate and reaches out to brush against the spot on Nate's neck with his thumb. There are only two faint white lines, like scratches. No skin broken.
Nate stares at him, probably trying to aim for accusing but falling somewhere between lazy tolerance and bone-deep satisfaction.
"See?" Brad feels compelled to say something. To make light of it. "No cheating."
At that, Nate manages to muster up a real glare. "Only according to your rules, Colbert."
Brad smirks. "Something tells me you don't like losing, Nate." There's something very appealing about Nate looking this incensed with the flush of sex still to fade from his skin. His green eyes are almost sparking in irritation.
"Tell me one person who does," Nate mutters. Then the heat simmers down, the green turn serious and intense. "You're being stupid, you know."
"For the record, Nate, that thing about threats and natural hierarchies I mentioned before? You can add insults to the list."
Nate snorts but drops it. Brad doesn't make the mistake of assuming it's anything but a temporary reprieve.
"So what's the favor going to be?"
Brad stills. The reason for the bet is still there, his off-the-cuff idea about having at least something, just one thing, one chance for a veto, but now all of the requests he could make get stuck in his throat.
Don't go running without me anymore, not until I've dealt with things.
Don't join the Marines.
Move in here so I can take care of you all the time.
They are all selfish orders and totally out of line for a playful bet. Nate is twenty and in college and has plans and friends and routines and a passion for pushing himself, and he's not going to stop everything just because Brad watched him for so long and never thought he'd have this and can't bear the thought of not having it again.
Brad still has to grind his teeth together to keep from blurting out any of it.
And the fact is, the real, sensible thing to say would be go, get the hell away from me because one way or the other what I am will end up hurting you.
Brad cups Nate's jaw and leans in to kiss him so that he doesn't have to fake a smile. "I'll collect later," he murmurs against Nate's lips.
+
The streets of Boston are insanely packed for the weather they're having, as if all the spineless obese motherfuckers around them weren't better off back at their houses with the AC and the overstocked kitchen, vegetating in front of the 48-inch televisions they've bought to compensate for the lack of size in their dicks. It gets almost claustrophobic, strangers hemmed in together, smells mixing up and tangling together so that you can't even tell the cattle apart from each other anymore; sweaty backs and arms glistening and the air still rippling with the lingering evening heat.
You have to work harder to keep you guard up, to sense, to see. But they wouldn't still be here if they weren't good enough, the best.
There. A reflection in a shop window. Wrong, somehow. Shit.
"Don't look," Ray says suddenly, eyes kept straight ahead, on the bustle of people. None of the humans around them hear him speak or see his lips move.
Walt doesn't let himself tense because that could be a discernable tell. They keep moving in the flood of the crowd.
"Who? How many?"
Ray taps Walt's wrist, the low movement hidden by the bodies surrounding them, a signal for later. He adds a brief rub of his fingers, the whole choreography together spelling out not too bad probably, let's just disappear.
You learn a lot of ways to communicate with someone when you spend a couple of lifetimes together. It helps that Ray never feels as fulfilled as when relaying his freaky thought processes to others, and has pretty much conditioned Walt to getting his every tone and expression. And touch.
After rounding the next corner in the middle of the oblivious breathers it's easy enough to slip away into the first alley, to make it up to the roofs and be gone before the ones trailing them have a chance to realize they can't see their quarry any longer. Easy enough, that they conclude it must be McGraw's men, not those of his new associate, whoever that might be. They make for the industrial estates for the time being, just to make sure they aren't being followed. The importance of protecting the location of the nest has been hammered into them as one of the first lessons.
"It's a bit like being cast in a thriller, but I'm resisting all feelings of exhilaration," Ray declares with a straight face when they're in the clear, regrouping on top of a huge deserted brick building.
Walt rolls his eyes. "It's only been half a century since the last vampire wars. Are you honestly telling me you're bored already?"
"Homes, I was bored five minutes after that shit stopped."
"Well, this time it's not just our necks that are on the line, is it?"
Ray goes quiet. "Shit," he says after a minute, succinct. "We really need to give little Nathaniel the Killing Vamps 101 course before this vengeance bullshit takes off."
Walt laughs, uncomfortably. "Ray Person, you saying you really think Brad will let Nate anywhere near the action?"
They both fall silent, imagining the scenario. Then the snickering starts, in stereo.
"Man," Ray wheezes, wiping blood-tinted tears from his eyes, "just think about it, homes. Why don't you stake that bastard over there, honey, I'll take care of this one. Watch out for the fangs, though."
After a minute, the giggles die out. Walt sighs. "Fuck. Brad's really going to go ballistic, isn't he?"
Ray nods, biting his lip. "Sure is. Homes, this soulmates shit those two fuckers have got going on sucks ass in a situation like this."
"Now, now, Joshua Ray, no need to try and hide your inner romantic-we all know you're the type to get a little emotional in the face of true love."
"Hey, you shithead, that was one time, and besides, Disney doesn't count," Ray counters immediately. Walt grins. Ray rolls his eyes. "Whatever, homes. The Fox and the Hound is a fucking classic."
Then he dives for Walt, gripping the front of his shirt tightly and getting into a hard, involved kiss, fang clacking against fang.
"You take care of yourself, too, you bitch," he says, breathless against Walt's lips, blood up.
"You too, asshole," Walt says, leaning their foreheads together.
They stand on the rooftop of the abandoned factory building, watching the sun sink into a blood-red haze, and determinedly don't think about the coming battle for a while.
part 2
Sequel to Patience
Nate is pretty religious about coffee. Brad realized Nate was also sadly addicted back when he was still living in Baltimore, all of seventeen years old and starting to get piercing headaches if forced to go without his morning dosage.
Brad is enough of a man to admit that seeing Nate in pain makes him want to kill something, which is why he almost wishes Nate would wean himself off caffeine. On the other hand there's the way Nate closes his eyes for the first sip, tongue lapping at milk froth over hot espresso, and makes this noise, this half sigh, half groan, that has Brad fisting his hands in abject, helpless want.
Somewhere between the second and the third time they got together for Nate to work through his list of ancient legend and pop-culture inspired questions about vampires, Brad found himself purchasing a coffee maker for his house bearing the most homosexual name an unsentient kitchen appliance could ever hope to have, the Prima Donna ESAM 6600 by De'Longhi. At the time he wasn't sure what the fuck he was doing, other than giving Ray ample mocking material.
Now, though? Brad's mentally fucking applauding himself for what was obviously one of the best ideas he's ever had.
From the doorway, he watches as Nate leans drowsily on the kitchen counter with his elbows, waiting for his cup to be ready. He's staring at the shiny steel body of the coffee machine with what can only be described as a ridiculously infatuated expression on his face.
Brad comes up behind him noiselessly, drapes himself over Nate's back, trapping him in place. He lets his fingers curl into loose circles around Nate's wrists.
Nate turns his head just enough to reveal pleased green eyes and upturned lips. "Morning," he says, voice scratchy with sleep.
Brad swallows. "Morning," he says belatedly, brushing Nate's lips with his own. Nate lengthens the kiss immediately, licks the corner of Brad's mouth, his bottom lip, then nips it lightly. Brad's fingers spasm, his hold on Nate's wrists tightening. He forces himself to relax his grip. Nate smiles against his mouth, like he's happy about every goddamn loss of control he can induce in Brad.
Nate Fick will be the end of him, Brad is assured of that. Not that he has any intention of doing anything about the matter.
Nate draws back a little. He tilts his head at the coffee maker. "What," he grins, "couldn't afford the Nespresso Crystal Edition?"
Brad noses the space behind Nate's ear, the hollow just underneath it. Both places have some of the thinnest, warmest skin anywhere on a human body. The blood thrumming loudly so close by is almost secondary to the way Nate smells.
"Thought it'd be a bit too bling for you," he says at last, absent-minded.
Nate stills. He twists his head to stare at Brad. "You actually considered it?"
Brad is about to shrug and say something dismissive about preferring to pay for quality, if only to get Nate to lose the horrified expression, when he catches a stray sound and his head snaps up.
Nate tenses up right alongside him, reacting to his body language with barely a thought. "Unwanted guests?" He asks, tone level.
Brad keeps listening. It's-of course. Christ. The fight floods out of him, only to be replaced by irritation. "In a manner of speaking," he says, grinding his teeth.
Nate grins, instantly making the connection. "Let me guess. Ray?"
"At least he brought Walt with him. He'll have the dubious honor of making sure Ray behaves himself-as much as ever he can," Brad mutters. He lets his head drop onto the back of Nate's neck just for a second, inhaling deep, reminding himself of what's waiting after Ray and Walt leave. It only makes him more furious about the interruption.
There's a polite knock at the front door. Walt, obviously, since the concept of manners is as alien to Ray as notions of tact or restraint.
Brad makes himself straighten up and step away. Nate throws him an encouraging look over his shoulder before reaching over to reverently grab the white ceramic coffee cup now that the ESAM6600 has finished its class-A roast. Brad snorts and goes to open the door.
"Ray," he puts every last bit of the displeasure he's feeling into the wide fake smile. And if his fangs happen to be out, well. "And Walt. You guys get lost and ended up here all the way from Boston?"
"Hey, Brad." Walt at least has the good grace to look embarrassed at showing up uninvited. Maybe that would be okay under other circumstances, if Brad was alone, but-anyway.
Ray shares no such concerns. "Dude, it's been weeks since I've heard from you. I needed Walt to come witness the domestication of the Iceman. Besides," he cranes his neck to gawk past Brad, "Nate loves my ass, you and I both know he misses me every moment I'm not here. Where the fuck have you stashed him, homes, keeping him a prisoner in the bedroom?"
Ray doesn't give Brad time to tell him to shut the fuck up and go fuck himself before the pest goes on, "Ah, nope, nevermind. Catching that scent now-"
Brad snarls. He can't really help it.
Ray eyes him, decidedly unimpressed. "Come on," he grabs Walt by the arm and pushes past Brad, "I'll introduce you to Nate. Nate!" He hollers into the house. "It's your favorite vampire godmother, Ray-Ray!"
Brad hears Nate chuckle at the announcement, and can't decide whether that makes him want to throw their guests out even more. He marches back into the kitchen, his continued black mood ensuring it's almost painful to retract his fangs.
Ray is making the introductions, in his own distinctive way. Interestingly enough, Walt is looking-reserved.
"So you're the human Ray's been talking non-stop about for the last six weeks," he comments, with a tight, courteous smile.
Brad gets it at the same time Ray does, if his sudden retarded beaming is anything to go by. Well, that answers that question, about how the fuck Walt's put up with Ray all this time, and whether their arrangement is actually as no-strings-attached as it sometimes seems like. Love really is blind. More than that, it must be one hundred percent deaf.
Nate doesn't give any visible sign of reacting to the subtle challenge, only gives Walt one of his brilliant, open grins.
"Non-stop? Considering both Ray's attention span and his unfortunate predilection for morally dubious yet inventive tirades about everything that pops into his head, you don't mind if I find that hard to believe," he says, green eyes lit with amusement.
Brad can actually see the second Walt melts, just like that. Not that Brad's one to talk when it comes to staying resolute under the power of Nate's smile. He'd like to believe he's not totally transparent, all the time, though. Not like Walt's looking, part dumbfounded but mostly charmed, like he's seconds away from doing something ridiculous like cooing, or petting his and Ray's new favorite human.
Brad walks up to the counter and stops next to Nate, ignoring the arch glance from Ray telling him he knows exactly what Brad's doing, cementing his claim, and that he still finds it hilarious as fuck. Then Nate takes a long sip of his coffee. He probably thinks he's suppressing all sounds of pleasure and delight, but with three sets of vampire hearing-the muted groan comes across as even more pornographic for being nearly inaudible.
Walt looks at Ray with wide eyes.
I told you so, Ray mouths, gloating.
Walt blinks. Can we share? he mouths back.
"Jesus Christ, guys!" Brad snaps. "Show some fucking manners!"
"I also told you about him, didn't I," Ray tips his head in Brad's direction with a pitying grimace. "No fucking sense of humor whatsoever. You didn't believe me. Homes, that makes me so sad."
Walt almost pulls off sincere contrition. "Ray, I fully acknowledge my mistake. When you're right, you're right. We've lost the Iceman."
Nate looks up at them, milk froth sticking to his upper lip. "What did I miss?"
+
"There was actually something we needed to talk to you about," Ray says when they've all trailed Nate, now properly caffeinated, to the living room and swarmed the couches. Brad registers the fleeting look he and Walt share between them. Apprehensive. Something Brad won't like, then.
Nate is sitting cross-legged next to him. He's wearing shorts with a tank top, the clothes he tends to throw on after getting up if he's not driving back for one of his classes. Brad can feel the heat from all the bared skin across the inch of empty space between their bodies. He wonders whether he should signal Ray to shut up, have him wait until Nate's left for his morning run. If it's genuinely bad news, something Brad needs to take care of, he'd rather Nate wasn't involved, didn't know about it at all.
Too late. Nate shoots an inquisitive glance at Ray. Brad wants to growl again. Fucking reprobate moron, spewing around lines like that, when anyone who's met him for longer than three minutes knows it would require a minor catastrophe to make Ray Person even remotely serious.
Brad tries anyway. "Nate, you go on for your run if you want to. Something tells me we're about to be bored to tears in a minute."
Nate turns to look at him like he can't believe Brad's stupidity hasn't caused him to wink out of existence. "Smooth, Brad," he says, sarcasm heavy in the tone. "You do know I'm twenty, not twelve, right? And what have I told you about making decisions for me?"
Brad hears Ray muffle a laugh into his palm. Walt's lips are white and bloodless from how hard he's pursing his mouth together.
He would plan his revenge on the fucking trailer park rejects, but his thoughts are sort of derailed by the hand Nate puts on his thigh, not too high to be inappropriate for company but close enough to his crotch for tendrils of heat to start curling in his stomach. Nate gives him a look that's half mild forgiveness and half don't push your luck, I'm warning you.
"Ray?" Nate says, unruffled and attention firmly on the matter at hand. "Go on."
Ray's thrilled grin is suggesting he'd rather keep watching the show, complete with popcorn and possibly with a leisurely jack to top it all off, but apparently the hint of command in Nate's voice is enough to get even his pervy little mind back on track.
Brad doesn't know whether to be proud or disturbed as hell. Mostly he just wants to grab Nate and take him back to the bedroom and suck his cock until he's hoarse, until he's so far past needy and suffering that he'll have lost all control over his movements and his words and will need Brad to take him over the edge and then keep him together as he shudders through his release.
Brad could swear he used to be better at policing himself. He wrenches his thoughts away from the taste of Nate's skin, from last night, from Nate's sounds.
Ray is talking. "It's Captain America, homes. He wants you out of the picture for good."
Brad relaxes instantly. "That's it? So fucking what?"
Walt shakes his head. "It's Captain America, but from what we're hearing he's way too confident to be operating alone."
Brad's not buying it. "The fucking loser's been holding a grudge for the last forty years, why would anyone be helping him now? It's not like he has anything to offer in exchange that any vampire who could be considered a threat to me couldn't easily acquire by themself."
"Maybe permanently getting rid of you is enough of an incentive."
Three pairs of eyes lock on Nate, zeroing in on the clear, calm voice. Brad quirks an eyebrow.
Nate shrugs. "Brad, it's pretty clear you're not above stepping on toes when you feel like it. You're bound to have made more than a few enemies in the last two hundred years."
Ray smirks faintly. "Bingo," he mutters. Walt's looking plain worried.
Be that as it may, Brad still isn't convinced. "The timing doesn't make sense," he says. "For all intents and purposes, I've been out of the picture for the last decade. Why now?"
"Uh, yeah, homes, about that." Ray's actually looking nervous now. "The current rumor circulating among the East Coast vamps is, Brad Colbert's in New Hampshire at the moment. Someone must've gone digging deeper than normal."
Brad's hands crack into fists. He squashes the reflexive glance to his left on the sofa. Ray and Walt's concerned peeks at Nate are obvious enough.
"Alright," he says, tone not betraying anything. "Thanks for letting me know."
Ray and Walt know the words are as good as an order to drop the subject. Nate, naturally, has no such compunction to follow Brad's wishes, but he seems content to let the topic rest as well. Brad has a second to thank his lucky stars before Nate pushes himself off of the sofa with a pleasant smile.
"Got to leave for my run before it gets too hot," he announces. "Nice to meet you, Walt. Ray, always a pleasure." The smile quirks into a grin.
Something that uncomfortably resembles panic bursts across Brad's palms in swathes of blood-tinted sweat.
Ray gapes from Brad to Nate in alarm. "Uh, dude, actually, now that we've got the business out of the way, me and Walt were about to get going, head back to Boston. So we won't keep Brad from, um, joining you."
"Running, with him?" Nate's chuckles are light and amused, like he doesn't know exactly what Ray is doing. "I'm not that much of a masochist. I only need to pass the physical fitness test for OCS and, last I heard, no superhuman vampire speed was required." He nods. "Good day, gents."
Brad stares after him as he strides out, listens to his footfalls clear the porch and then hit the yard with a changed pace, setting out with an easy jog to warm up his muscles.
Brad's hearing is exceptional up to a klik, after that it gets more demanding. He's sure he could pick out Nate from two, two-and-half kliks, just by his heartbeat.
Nate's lazy Sunday runs are ten kliks at least.
Five kliks out, five kliks back.
Shit.
"New Hampshire was all we heard," Walt starts, cautious. "For all we know, they don't have anything concrete. Might take it for another rumor."
"Yeah, and even if that douchebag's really got his minions after you, they'll start searching near the southern state border line," Ray says. "Can't imagine even the Iceman willingly shacked up like this, away from civilization and surrounded by nothing but woodland, right? Densely populated areas mean anonymity means happy, well-fed vamps."
"I taught you that," Brad reminds, marginally calmer. Jesus. Ray and Walt playing mother-hen for him… his ego may never recover.
That would be unfortunate. If he gave a fuck.
"Hold on," Ray's saying, suddenly agitated about something. "Physical test? OCS? Is Nate thinking of joining the military? A fucking wartime military? Brad!"
"I don't…" Brad starts, then trails off. "He's mentioned the Marines, I'm not sure-"
"You're not sure-Jesus fucking Christ, Brad, he's just gone out and is training for the selection process as we speak," Ray wails. "Has fucking him completely imploded your mind already? More importantly, sucking him?"
Brad isn't about to tell him the fucking only commenced the night before, and that he's still holding off on feeding from Nate. There are things Ray will give him shit over, and then there are things that will fry his brain out of sheer exasperation.
"If that's what he wants," Brad lies through his teeth. Walt sends him a pitying look Brad's sure fucking well violates vampire etiquette, seeing as Brad outranks both of the little bloodsuckers.
"Well, you're no fucking help," Ray bitches. He draws in a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. No worries, Ray-Ray's on top of this." There's a pause for dramatic effect. "Homes, how difficult do you think it would be for us to hide the blood bags at boot camp?"
+
"Guess Ray and Walt left alr-"
Nate's words are cut off as Brad crushes their mouths together, on him as soon as Nate opens the front door. He's been standing in wait since he recaught the fast, strong thrum of Nate's pulse on the edges of his hearing, his mind stuck on images from the previous night, of Nate breaking apart under him.
He looks exactly the same now. Sweaty, short of breath, with the flush of exertion on his skin. Brad is briefly concerned about developing an inconvenient sexual response to the sight of Nate in his running gear. His fingers creep up to cup the back of Nate's skull, trembling with the effort he's putting into keeping the touch light. Nate kisses him back hard, left-over adrenaline flowing seamlessly into their tongues aggressively tangling together.
Nate breaks off, panting. "You want to fuck me again?"
Brad is fairly sure the animal noise he makes is something he'd never allow out under any normal circumstances. He delves into Nate's mouth again, lets his hands slide down to Nate's ass and lifts him up. Nate gives a surprised hum but wraps his legs around Brad's middle, instinctive.
"Yes," Brad finds his voice, "yes, Nate, I want to fuck you again."
Nate's lips twist in amusement. "Better take me to bed then."
After two centuries of feeling more disgusted with humankind each consecutive year, finding someone like Nate seems more than a lucky streak. Seems fucking impossible.
He manages not to walk into any of the furniture despite the way Nate is wrapped around him and how he's doing his damnest to make Brad lose his mind by sucking on the tip of his tongue, wet and rhythmic. He never realized how interminable the way from the foyer to his bedroom is. It does make him conclude the house is filled with too goddamn many unnecessary square meters.
When he goes to lower Nate on his back on the messy sheets, Nate's fingers squeeze his shoulder. "Wait," he says. "I want to be on top. Let me down. Clothes off."
Brad hasn't taken orders from anyone in a very long time. There should be no reason for Nate's husky rapid-fire commands to make him slack-jawed with arousal.
He helps Nate slide down his body and watches him start to strip efficiently before following suit. Nate barely waits for him to discard the last piece of his clothing before he's pushing Brad back and making him scoot up closer to the headboard. Then he's settling in Brad's lap, mimicking the position Brad just held Nate in, only without clothes.
Brad can definitely get behind this idea. Nate's scent is almost too close, crowding Brad. His mouth fills with saliva, the bases of his fangs tingling madly. "You going to ride me, Nate?"
Nate's eyes are a bright, dangerous green and his smirk makes Brad's stomach tighten. "I'm going to ride you, Brad, and I'll take it so slow and make it last so long you'll be begging me to make you come," he says, voice low.
Brad's hold on Nate's naked hips tightens involuntarily.
"You know, it's not very smart to threaten those above you in the food chain," he says hoarsely.
"Who said anything about threats?" Nate leans over to grab the lube from the nightstand, breathing the words against Brad's lips as he slicks his fingers one-handed. "That was a promise."
The fucker winks at Brad at the same time as he reaches behind himself.
The way Nate looks, body flushed and eyes slipping half shut with pleasure as he stretches himself-Brad slides his hands lower until they're cupping Nate's ass, fingers dipping to brush against Nate's. "You sure I can't help you with that?"
Nate's breath hitches a little. "I'm good," he recovers quickly. "I've got you this time."
Brad has to lean in at that, has to kiss. Nate's tongue in his mouth sooths the itching, helps him keep his fangs retracted.
After another minute Nate separates their mouths with a smile, reaches for the lube again, spreads it over Brad's dick. The muscles in his thighs stand out as he positions himself and lets gravity bring him down, ass flush with Brad's balls. Brad clenches his jaw, swallows. The inside of his throat feels raw. Nate rolls his hips, experimental. He's warm and relaxed from the run. Brad can see no discomfort in his face.
Nate brings his arms up on either side of Brad's head to grip the headboard, finding leverage. There's a dare playing somewhere in the set of his lips, behind the breathless pleasure.
"I forgot to say," he grins, "I really appreciate the coffee maker." Then he starts to ride Brad, slow like he promised, a tease.
Brad's legs and ass flex, immediately wanting to move into a hard counterpoint. Fuck. There was a challenge on the table.
"No problem," he says, his voice mostly not cracking. "On a purely hypothetical note, what would the reward for a new car be?"
Nate laughs, short of breath and gorgeous in Brad's lap. Brad's hands smooth up and down his back, fingers feeling clumsy and heavy when they land on Nate's ass again, dragging white tracks on the skin and nudging him closer.
"I'm not really in need of a flashy car, Brad."
"What about what you said before? About making me beg before you let me come." Brad's blood is racing. "What if I make you come first?"
Nate's grin is all permissive humor. "Then, I guess you'd get a favor of your choice."
The game shouldn't inflame him further, since it was of his own devising, but it does. And Nate plays to win. He bends his elbows, bringing his scent closer, the skin and the sex and the blood, kissing and biting at Brad's jaw as he continues to move around him, slick and tight and so fucking hot.
It could go on for a long time, both of them lost to the warmth and the pleasure but determined not to give in first. Nate could match him for every heated, distracting touch, would intentionally tighten around Brad's dick for every dirty trick Brad attempted to play, every intentional nudge against Nate's prostate. And on top of all else there would be the devastating allure of Nate's gasps and bitten lips.
Brad needs to take his win right now, while a part of his mind is still somewhat functional.
His fangs shoot out, a fucking relief after the insistent burning pressure in his gums. Brad's palms smooth up Nate's shoulder blades, one ending up on the back of Nate's neck, fingertips rubbing against the buzz of Nate's hair. Brad crushes him closer. Brings his mouth to Nate's neck.
Nate's heart gives an irregular jolt, and his breathing speeds up even more. "Brad," he moans, "fuck, that's-cheating-"
"I'm not doing anything," Brad counters roughly into the sweaty skin, tongue slipping out to trace the big vein.
"Fuck," Nate repeats softly. His dick twitches and leaks against Brad's stomach and he makes a hurting sort of keen as Brad opens his mouth wide, lips a wet ring over Nate's pulse point.
So close. He can't remember the last time he drank straight from a human, but he remembers the rush. And that was with no-one at all, just a food source. This is Nate. Nate's scent, so close and strong there under his tongue, making him crazy, his head filling with white noise. The bases of his canines are aching.
Too tempting. Too good. Too big a risk.
Brad rakes his fangs sharply down the side of Nate's throat and Nate jerks and comes with a long, harsh, surprised cry. Brad counts four seconds of clinging to his self-control before he loses it and follows Nate over.
They tumble down on the bed to lie side by side, breaths slowing and evening out. After a while, Brad props himself up on his elbow next to Nate and reaches out to brush against the spot on Nate's neck with his thumb. There are only two faint white lines, like scratches. No skin broken.
Nate stares at him, probably trying to aim for accusing but falling somewhere between lazy tolerance and bone-deep satisfaction.
"See?" Brad feels compelled to say something. To make light of it. "No cheating."
At that, Nate manages to muster up a real glare. "Only according to your rules, Colbert."
Brad smirks. "Something tells me you don't like losing, Nate." There's something very appealing about Nate looking this incensed with the flush of sex still to fade from his skin. His green eyes are almost sparking in irritation.
"Tell me one person who does," Nate mutters. Then the heat simmers down, the green turn serious and intense. "You're being stupid, you know."
"For the record, Nate, that thing about threats and natural hierarchies I mentioned before? You can add insults to the list."
Nate snorts but drops it. Brad doesn't make the mistake of assuming it's anything but a temporary reprieve.
"So what's the favor going to be?"
Brad stills. The reason for the bet is still there, his off-the-cuff idea about having at least something, just one thing, one chance for a veto, but now all of the requests he could make get stuck in his throat.
Don't go running without me anymore, not until I've dealt with things.
Don't join the Marines.
Move in here so I can take care of you all the time.
They are all selfish orders and totally out of line for a playful bet. Nate is twenty and in college and has plans and friends and routines and a passion for pushing himself, and he's not going to stop everything just because Brad watched him for so long and never thought he'd have this and can't bear the thought of not having it again.
Brad still has to grind his teeth together to keep from blurting out any of it.
And the fact is, the real, sensible thing to say would be go, get the hell away from me because one way or the other what I am will end up hurting you.
Brad cups Nate's jaw and leans in to kiss him so that he doesn't have to fake a smile. "I'll collect later," he murmurs against Nate's lips.
+
The streets of Boston are insanely packed for the weather they're having, as if all the spineless obese motherfuckers around them weren't better off back at their houses with the AC and the overstocked kitchen, vegetating in front of the 48-inch televisions they've bought to compensate for the lack of size in their dicks. It gets almost claustrophobic, strangers hemmed in together, smells mixing up and tangling together so that you can't even tell the cattle apart from each other anymore; sweaty backs and arms glistening and the air still rippling with the lingering evening heat.
You have to work harder to keep you guard up, to sense, to see. But they wouldn't still be here if they weren't good enough, the best.
There. A reflection in a shop window. Wrong, somehow. Shit.
"Don't look," Ray says suddenly, eyes kept straight ahead, on the bustle of people. None of the humans around them hear him speak or see his lips move.
Walt doesn't let himself tense because that could be a discernable tell. They keep moving in the flood of the crowd.
"Who? How many?"
Ray taps Walt's wrist, the low movement hidden by the bodies surrounding them, a signal for later. He adds a brief rub of his fingers, the whole choreography together spelling out not too bad probably, let's just disappear.
You learn a lot of ways to communicate with someone when you spend a couple of lifetimes together. It helps that Ray never feels as fulfilled as when relaying his freaky thought processes to others, and has pretty much conditioned Walt to getting his every tone and expression. And touch.
After rounding the next corner in the middle of the oblivious breathers it's easy enough to slip away into the first alley, to make it up to the roofs and be gone before the ones trailing them have a chance to realize they can't see their quarry any longer. Easy enough, that they conclude it must be McGraw's men, not those of his new associate, whoever that might be. They make for the industrial estates for the time being, just to make sure they aren't being followed. The importance of protecting the location of the nest has been hammered into them as one of the first lessons.
"It's a bit like being cast in a thriller, but I'm resisting all feelings of exhilaration," Ray declares with a straight face when they're in the clear, regrouping on top of a huge deserted brick building.
Walt rolls his eyes. "It's only been half a century since the last vampire wars. Are you honestly telling me you're bored already?"
"Homes, I was bored five minutes after that shit stopped."
"Well, this time it's not just our necks that are on the line, is it?"
Ray goes quiet. "Shit," he says after a minute, succinct. "We really need to give little Nathaniel the Killing Vamps 101 course before this vengeance bullshit takes off."
Walt laughs, uncomfortably. "Ray Person, you saying you really think Brad will let Nate anywhere near the action?"
They both fall silent, imagining the scenario. Then the snickering starts, in stereo.
"Man," Ray wheezes, wiping blood-tinted tears from his eyes, "just think about it, homes. Why don't you stake that bastard over there, honey, I'll take care of this one. Watch out for the fangs, though."
After a minute, the giggles die out. Walt sighs. "Fuck. Brad's really going to go ballistic, isn't he?"
Ray nods, biting his lip. "Sure is. Homes, this soulmates shit those two fuckers have got going on sucks ass in a situation like this."
"Now, now, Joshua Ray, no need to try and hide your inner romantic-we all know you're the type to get a little emotional in the face of true love."
"Hey, you shithead, that was one time, and besides, Disney doesn't count," Ray counters immediately. Walt grins. Ray rolls his eyes. "Whatever, homes. The Fox and the Hound is a fucking classic."
Then he dives for Walt, gripping the front of his shirt tightly and getting into a hard, involved kiss, fang clacking against fang.
"You take care of yourself, too, you bitch," he says, breathless against Walt's lips, blood up.
"You too, asshole," Walt says, leaning their foreheads together.
They stand on the rooftop of the abandoned factory building, watching the sun sink into a blood-red haze, and determinedly don't think about the coming battle for a while.
part 2