Fic | GK | predators (the best are the ones who don't look like they're hunting), 3/3

[lickingbeads]

part 1
part 2

When they walk into the apartment it's filled with a dozen guys Nate's never seen before. Most of them remind him of Brad, something in their stance or the look in their eyes that doesn't say vampire as much as simply danger.

A short guy with a shaved blond head stands up, smirking. "Hey, everyone, check it out. The Iceman brought lunch."

Nate feels the direction of Brad's attention shifting subtly beside him. If he gets near the guy he'll probably slam him three feet into the plaster of the wall, and then the planning will be delayed as they dig him out, and they can't afford that.

Nate looks at the group at large and says airily, smiling, "Sorry, exclusive offer to Brad alone." He locks eyes with the blond vampire. "You should've got your own, but you were probably too much of a stingy piece of shit to do that."

The vampires burst out laughing, jeers of ohh! and right on the nuts, fucker flying around as the initial speaker looks caught somewhere between irritation and puzzlement.

Walt passes the guy on his way over to them and knocks their shoulders hard together. "Nate is so far out of your league, Chaffin, you wouldn't be able to see the bar you had to cross even if you had a fucking telescope. So watch your fucking mouth."

"Well, well," Ray grins as Walt stops in front of them. "Abusing our guests, swearing at them. I'm impressed, Walter."

"You're impressed by anyone who manages to walk and talk at the same time, since multitasking is beyond your retarded little trailer park brain," Walt says. Ray's grin widens.

Brad looks at them blandly. "Alright, children, that's enough stormy homosexual reunion bullshit. We've got work to do."

"Oh, dude, like you have room to talk!" Ray turns to Walt again, expression mock-horrified. "Homes, never, ever leave me alone with these two again, unless we're in a place with proper soundproofing. The things that carried over to my poor innocent ears last night, keeping me up-"

"Dog, you really stupid enough to admit you were jerking off while listening to the Iceman getting it on with his boyfriend?"

"Poke," Brad nods at the newcomer. Ray waggles his eyebrows at Nate. Boyfriend, he mouths. Nate resists the urge to flip him off. It's better than being called lunch, he supposes.

Poke is shaking his head. "Quite a stir you've managed to kick up, Colbert."

"Me? I've been enjoying a well-deserved break from the fucking knitting club that is the East Coast vampire community. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it."

The rest of the guys are all converging on them at this point. Nate senses Brad move infinitesimally closer to him. Brad's hand hovers over the small of his back, then brushes him just lightly before he lets it fall.

Someone makes a dry sound of impatience. "That's right, Brad. This must be such a huge fucking surprise for you, seeing as how you spent about a decade consistently humiliating Dave."

Brad grins wolfishly. "Of course I'm surprised, Doc. After all, he managed to find his balls, and it only took him this long."

Truthfully speaking, Nate finds himself the tiniest bit surprised at the obvious ease they all have with each other. As self-contained as Brad acts, content with a house up in the secluded woods of New Hampshire and only keeping in touch with Ray and Walt as far as Nate can tell, he hasn't thought about the amount of history Brad must share with others.

Nate becomes conscious suddenly of a lull in the conversation-next, of being the recipient of a dozen intent stares.

"Introductions, dog," Poke tells Brad pointedly. "Shouldn't you white people be fucking pros at all this proper manners and decorum shit?"

Brad rolls his eyes. "Guys, this is Nate. Nate, these are the cracked, bloodthirsty degenerates I've had the misfortune to be saddled with."

Nate nods. "Gents. Thanks for getting here on such short notice."

"Well, most of us owe Colbert here a favor or two," says a vampire with a faint Texan drawl. He offers his hand for Nate to shake. "Mike. Since introductions aren't one of Brad's strong suits."

There's a snort further away. "Favors? Yo, fuck that shit. Any motherfucker trying to claim they didn't bust it to get here just to see if there was any truth in what Person has been yapping about is fucking lying."

Brad turns an icy glare on Ray.

"Thank you, Q-Tip, you fucking retard," Ray hisses, inching behind Walt.

"What? I'm just saying, for once you weren't even exaggerating."

"Jesus, homes, shut the fuck up-"

Fifteen supposedly badass vampires and Nate feels like he has been dropped in the middle of a kindergarten group. Or a bunch of Marines. The first twinges of a headache are starting to make themselves known.

"The clock's ticking, guys," he says mildly, resisting the urge to massage his aching temples. "If you don't mind?"

"Damn right," Mike states empathically. "Every minute we waste here with your goddamn pissing contests gives McGraw a better chance to dig down and alert his associate. Get to it."

As vampires start wandering off to settle at their original positions around the room, Nate turns to Walt and Ray. "What's the closest place for coffee?" He sees Brad frown next to him.

"There's a DD round the corner," Walt starts, and is cut off by one of the younger vampires stepping into their circle.

"I can get it for you, Nate," he volunteers quickly. "Do you take it black?"

"Yo, Christeson, that's alright. I'm on it," Q-Tip says, elbowing into the group. "And I bet Nate's a latte kind of guy, am I right?"

"Fuck off, Stafford, I offered first-"

On Nate's other side, Ray starts laughing uncontrollably.

+

It's well past 2AM and Nate's debating a third coffee when Brad clicks his cell phone shut. "Scribe got the address."

There's a notable change in the atmosphere in the room. Not of tension as much as pure anticipation. Nate sees the guy Walt said was called Manimal knock fists with Chaffin and call out something that sounds unnervingly like get some.

Christ.

"It's about loyalty, brother," begins the Greek god who stops next to him, smiling widely. "No need to look so worried. Our boys have done this before."

Rudy, Nate remembers. His shadow Pappy is standing next to him, just as calm. Nate has exchanged a few words with most of them during the night. Considering Rudy's first words were I knew we'd cross paths again, Nathaniel, Nate remains a bit freaked out by him.

"We don't know their numbers," Nate says. "We don't know whether they're waiting for us."

Ray bounds up to them, swinging an arm around Nate's shoulders. "Dude, that's half the fun! Lighten the fuck up!"

Another three guys nearby are nodding sagely. "It's true, dawg," Lilley shrugs. "This is what we do, and we always come out on top."

"Retard strength," Garza says.

"Uh, yeah. Maybe in your case."

"See?" Ray beams at Nate. "Troops all squared away."

Nate would groan if it did any of them any good.

"When can we go and kill some fucking vampires?" Trombley's question is loud and makes several heads turn in their direction.

"You're a sick motherfucker, dog, hating on your own race," Poke announces.

Trombley blinks. "Huh?"

Fuck it. Nate groans, burying his face in his hands.

"Hey," a warm voice comes from behind him. Ray lets him go and turns around, grinning.

"Dude! I was just trying to cheer your boy up."

"Thanks. Now get lost."

"Now, now, Bradley, that just won't do. Where's the love? Where's the appreciation?"

"I didn't rip off your arm, did I?"

"…Excellent point, homes. I'll just go bother Walt for a bit."

Nate notices that most of the guys are imperceptibly turning away, the noise level suddenly picking up. He gives Brad an ironic look. "Wow, wonder why it seems like we're being given the illusion of privacy for a goodbye scene."

Brad's eyes are serious. "You know I can't have you there."

"Brad-" Nate frowns.

"No, listen. Listen." Brad's huge palm comes up to cover the back of Nate's neck. "I can't have you there."

Brad's thumb moves slowly over the path of the artery on his neck, and despite the situation and the crowd near them the touch sends a shiver down his body, makes Nate's stomach twist with want, low and heavy. Judging by the flare of Brad's nostrils as he inhales, quick and ragged, there's no hope of Nate's reaction having gone unnoticed.

Nate licks his lips. "How long before you have to leave?"

Brad's pupils contract and when he speaks his fangs are pushing into his lower lip, voice edgy. "About two minutes. Fucking hell, Nate."

Then Ray's back again. "Uh, homes. You know your Ray-Ray's all for this, no problem, but in case you don't want everyone else really fucking badly distracted out there, you might want to dial down the pheromones a bit, okay?"

"Shit." Nate feels the heat in his cheeks. Ray looks doubtful, glancing around.

"Yeah, dude, that's not really helping. I think one of our baby vampires just started slobbering on himself."

"Jesus Christ-alright, fine, go get the bad guys." And without waiting for Ray's jokes or Brad's relief or one more fucking macho cheer from the goddamn adrenaline junkies gathered in the apartment, Nate grabs Brad and licks up into his mouth until Brad's hands are tight around him and their tongues are tangling together sleekly, wet and strong and electric, like they have all the time in the world for this.

+

There's a predictable number of comments after they clear the building and head off to southwest.

Chaffin hasn't pushed his luck, but Brad thinks he's making suggestions to Manimal about which questions to ask.

"Seriously, man, how does it work? Every day? How much of his blood can you take?"

The taste of Nate's mouth is still burning him up from the inside and the last thing he needs is to be constantly reminded of him as he's trying to concentrate on their current mission.

"The topic," he says tightly, spinning around and halting the entire procession, "is not open to discussion. Is that clear?"

Someone mutters, "Lucky bastard," and Brad might be about to snap when Mike steps up and tells everyone to shut up and stop acting like fucking frat boys obsessed with pussy.

After that, it's more like it's supposed to, moving single file in the darkness as they get closer to their objective, silent like so many shadows, and lethal.

The building, when they get to it, is predictably derelict, practically screaming old-school vampire hangout.

"Maybe it's fortified from the inside," Garza whispers.

"Yeah," Poke snorts. "And maybe McGraw shoots RPGs out of his asshole. Get real, dog."

"Guess we'll find out in a moment," Brad says, "Fan out, gentlemen."

In thirty seconds they flank the building from three sides. Brad counts another fifteen, for everyone to ready their supplies, before he flicks the switch on the lighter. In the next three seconds the answering flames appear in the darkness.

"Go," Brad orders, low, and the fires flicker and shift and then swell into small whooshing explosions, before the Molotov cocktails sail through the air, on all three sides of the building, and crash in through its windows.

+

"Well, this is certainly the sorriest fucking ambush I've ever been involved in," Tim says sardonically, looking down at their captive.

They had to go in for Dave, after most of his cronies fled the scene, rats abandoning a ship, somewhat singed but mostly unharmed. ("They do say the work ethic of any job is established from the top," Ray had announced, and been told to shut the fuck up by at least three individual voices. Trombley had wanted to pursue the stray vampires; Rudy, in all kindness, told him this wasn't the way of the Tao.)

"Colbert, Jesus Christ," McGraw blubbers, rocking back and forth on his knees on the ground. "I'm not ready to face the true death. Not yet. Not like this!"

Brad tamps down the impatient noise that wants to escape his throat. The thing is, McGraw really is too damn pathetic to even be killed. A disgrace for vampires everywhere.

Intimidation tactics, however, should never be discounted. The one thing they can still do, filled with excess energy as they are after gearing up for a battle that never materialized, is gather information. Forcefully, if need be.

"You should have thought of that before teaming up with someone with bigger brains and less to lose than yourself," Brad says, voice cold, face blank.

"But this isn't how it was supposed to go! He said-"

There's a crack, thunderous like the breaking of a glacier, and Dave McGraw topples forward in perfect silence. In the next moment the outline of his body seems to dry and curl up, spreading inwards until the whole dusty phantom shape crumbles to the asphalt in piles of ashes.

The polished wooden bullet gleams innocently up at them from the dust.

"Fall out!" Brad calls out the warning louder than necessary, old human instincts taking over. Ray is closest to him, and behind him, Walt, and he propels them to move, trusting the rest to put two and two together and disappear as fast as they can.

Consequently, what their retreat (although Ray will insist on calling it swift tactical relocation) lacks in dignity, it makes up for in efficiency.

It's not quite so speedy, though, that no other shots could have been fired.

There are none.

+

Lilley is looking stunned, leaning against the wall back in the apartment and shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Dude, that didn't make any fucking sense."

"No shit," Chaffin snorts.

"I didn't get to stake anybody," Trombley complains.

"Way to focus on the essential, you fucking psycho," Q-Tip mutters.

Nate is standing next to Brad, his shoulder just brushing Brad's arm, as he listens to the guys recount the story. His lips are faintly bruised, like he's had his teeth worrying at them the whole time they were gone.

"Hold on," Nate holds up a hand, and everyone falls silent, expectant. "McGraw says, but this isn't how it was supposed to go. And then he's shot."

"Well, he kept on talking, after that," Garza adds. "Something,uh-"

Brad looks at Nate, and gets it. "He was cut off," he says. "He was going to say something about his associate."

"So McGraw was just a fucking bait," Tim grimaces. "Whoever it is, Colbert, he's playing with you."

"No, dog," Poke says. "He's drawing you out."

+

Wright looks like he can't decide whether to be merely nervous or really fucking alarmed to receive a visit only hours after their current business was supposedly concluded.

"Uh, hi," he stammers, blinking owlishly. "Everything go well? You need something else?"

"We need to know how you got the address, dipshit," Ray says, pushing past Brad. Brad doesn't suspect Wright of intentionally leading them into a trap, but if Ray needs to get his kicks playing good cop, bad cop, after the bust their night has been, who is Brad to deny him?

Besides, he's not feeling very compassionate at the moment.

Wright's laugh is stuttery and quizzical, like he doesn't quite get the joke but is certain there must be one. "Uh, the usual way?" He transfers his owlish stare to Brad. "You've never cared before."

Brad looks back levelly. "There was never someone ready and waiting before."

Scribe sits down heavily. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Ray says, grave for once. "So why don't you give us the step-by-step, homes."

+

At some point during the last stages of the dark the clouds have thickened. It rains when they make their way back, turning the air misty and opaque, and later Brad will think he really should have taken that for the premonition it was.

"Dude. I'm not sure whether this actually makes things better or worse," Ray says, glancing at him sideways, his expression asking plainly, how is this shit even real?

"I know what you mean, Ray."

There had been nothing unusual in Wright's contacts. Until there was. Nothing a human would pick up, even one as dedicated to the craft as Wright.

"At least you won't have to lose your shit with worrying about Nate anymore," Ray brightens up suddenly. "Because he knows he'll never get you on board if he takes away your favorite toy."

Brad pins Ray with a look. "Except if he decides I'll be more motivated by having something I-by having Nate threatened."

Ray smirks. "Nice save, Iceman."

There's a rush of wind before the raspy voice sounds at almost their shoulder. "Of course, it's an interesting theory."

They know, before spinning around, who they are going to face. The dismaying surprise is the guard of six behind the speaker.

"Godfather." Brad resists the instinct to offer a salute. That particular war, that allegiance, is so far into the past it meshes with his faded human memories.

He has a second to be sincerely thankful he finally used the favor Nate owed him.

"Fuck you, Brad, that was meant for something like a blowjob, or making me walk around your house naked before bending me over the kitchen table and fucking my brains out."

Brad's cock fills automatically, helplessly, at the image, at Nate's lips around the words. At the same time he wants to laugh at himself, thinking about the things he wanted to ask, almost did. "I'm using it for this."

"You're going to see a goddamn hacker, Brad. Tell me how I'll be in danger."

"It's my favor, Nate."

He'd known Nate would never go back on his word, even if he thought Brad wasn't being fair.

He's never loved Nate more, and only regrets he never said the words.

Ray's voice wakes him to the present. "Weren't you supposed to be dead? Like, um, really dead. If you follow, sir."

"Indeed, young Ray. Death is but a construct."

Ray stares. "So, homes, that means you…?"

Godfather's smile is small, calculated, and possibly the most disturbing thing Brad has seen in a long time.

"It means I'm here, now, and I have a use for you boys. Ferrando is very much back in the game, and he has found a mission. The mission."

"That's nice. Uh, sir." Ray tries to catch his eye, but Brad is staring straight ahead of him. The premonition is over him, hanging heavily. The rain picks up in a last ditch effort to drown the city before the sunrise saves it.

Godfather's expression is committed, zealous. "It is time," he starts, "for us to increase our presence. To move into a more-visible position."

Brad feels cold. "Open war. Against humans?"

He receives a satisfied nod. "You were always one of my best Sergeants, Brad. You know how things work. Violence of action. No one is better suited for war than you, and I want you in my troops."

Brad looks back over two centuries of watching from the sidelines, seeing every new generation of breathers make the same mistakes, shit piling on top of shit, until the only constants were greed and resentment and selfishness and hate.

Twenty years ago he might have felt the truth in Ferrando's words.

Twenty years ago, he wasn't sure there was anything in the world worth protecting.

"I think I'll pass," he tells Godfather.

Ferrando's face darkens. "Are you absolutely sure, Brad? I advise you to think again."

Beside him, Ray's relaxed posture flows into a defensive stance, and Brad lets his fangs click out as he says, "Let me rephrase that, sir. Go to hell."

"Regrettable. Very regrettable," is all Ferrando says. His last gesture, before vanishing, is to motion for his guards to go on and rip them apart.

+

Nate's eyes snap open.

He's sure he wasn't asleep, just shutting out the room for a moment, tired and angry and restless.

He's sure he wasn't asleep, but he dreamed someone saying his name.

Not someone. Brad.

Nate. Nate. Nate.

And it's not a memory, because Brad's voice is warm but not amused or wanting or exasperated or surprised or pleased.

Nate, warm and soft and tense, like an apology.

Like a goodbye.

He's out of the chair, and out of the room, and maybe he shouts for help on his way out, or maybe the sound he makes is something wordless that translates more clearly and more immediately, because Walt and Stafford and Christeson are right behind him, and then the rest, and Nate knows the direction without knowing how.

Six blocks from the apartment, just six infinite blocks, and the scene they arrive on seems to be filled with nothing but blood, and then more blood, as the guys catch sight of it and fly past him, and the strangers are going down, powerless against the numbers and the sheer rage.

Nate falls on his knees in a puddle of rusty red. Brad's eyes are open, unseeing, and his skin is almost white.

Nate doesn't let himself lose it, because he can't fucking afford to. "Since you never bothered to give me a crash course, I'll just assume this is how this works," he bitches instead, tilting back Brad's head, palm encouraging the mouth to widen, and maneuvering the inside of his wrist close enough to thrust it up the sharp point of one of the still-extended fangs.

+

The first thing he sees is nothing.

He can't tell whether he has his eyes closed. He doesn't know-

Someone shifts next to him, and as soon as he remembers his senses, tries to use them, in the off chance he's still some version of alive-he smells Nate.

He swallows, and he tastes Nate.

Warm lips brush his jaw. "You awake?" You okay?

Brad is imagining things. He must be dead, but it seems like he wasn't headed for Hell after all.

Nate's lips linger at his jaw, followed by a nibble. "Brad?" Brad?, again with the echo, Nate's voice in stereo.

He feels the bite, though. He forces himself to breath out, to push his senses past Nate and get himself the fuck together.

The world filters in by sound and smell and sight, incrementally. The blaring horns decide it. It's real. They're still in Boston. It's late afternoon and the blinds are drawn. Nate is lying next to him, naked, and Brad can taste him.

His voice is uneven when he remembers to ask, "Is Ray okay?"

Nate's silky hair moves against his neck in a nod. "He wasn't nearly as badly hurt. Told us you covertly punched him out of the fight early so that they'd all concentrate on you." He feels Nate shiver.

"That sounds just like the kind of bullshit Person would come up with," Brad mutters. He turns his head, eyes locking with Nate's. "You broke the terms of our contract and left the apartment."

"I saved your life," Nate claims cheerfully. He sounds extremely self-satisfied. What Brad hears is a shaky repetition of thank you.

"I guess that makes us even," he says. Then, "Why can I hear some of your thoughts?"

Nate is closer suddenly, smiling against his mouth. "I don't know. Why was I able to hear yours?"

Brad remains quiet. Nate licks at his lip, kisses him. The sweetness of Nate's mouth becomes overlaid with the taste of his blood. Brad's dick twitches, filling out. He palms Nate's neck, rolls on top of him, pushes their groins together.

"Why am I naked, Nate?"

Nate grins, eyes bright clover-green. "I had to make sure you weren't injured anywhere else."

Brad laughs. He can't help it. Nate's is hard against him, and it turns Brad on even more, thinking about him pale and warm and naked and waiting for him to wake up.

"I always thought the first time you'd drink from me, you'd have your cock inside me," Nate murmurs. "I want you to do it, later, when you make me come. But I want you to do it right now, too. Make me feel it."

Brad shudders, drags his tongue up the side of Nate's neck, teases him with nothing but light contact, listens for the hitch in Nate's breathing. My life is already yours and it doesn't matter who says it, thinks it. Brad lets his fangs push out.

His fangs pierce Nate's pale neck, and his mouth floods with sunlight, bright and burning.

+

"It's not over, is it?"

"No. It's never over."