GK Fic: Tennessee Waltz (B/N, NC-17) 1/4
Master Post
“I feel you should be aware, sir, that I fucking hate country music.”
Nate cocked an eyebrow at the towering man standing before his desk. The towering, blond, muscled, and thoroughly delectable man before his desk. Not that that was important, of course. Ice-blue eyes regarded him impassively, but Nate thought he detected just the tiniest glimmer of humor behind the deadpan delivery.
Nate let the eyebrow be his reply, waiting to see if there was more. Sure enough:
“I thought you should know that before you decided whether to hire me or not,” Colbert explained.
“Well, Mr. Colbert,” Nate said, leaning back in his chair and employing his own not inconsiderable poker face, “I guess that depends on whether your hatred for Walt’s musical stylings extends to letting him get shot.”
Colbert’s gaze didn’t waver a jot, but his eyes sharpened at Nate’s words, seeming to really see him for the first time. After a moment, the corner of Colbert’s mouth twitched infinitesimally, but Nate saw it. Ha, his theory was proved.
“It is my considered opinion, sir, that shooting popular entertainers is generally a punishment far disproportionate to their crimes - even for country music singers.” Colbert grinned, suddenly, and Nate felt his dick twitch so hard in shocked answer to that gorgeous smile that he almost jumped in his seat.
Jesus, get a grip, he thought sternly to himself. He couldn’t understand why the hell this man was having such a visceral effect on him. He was hot as fuck, sure, but there was no shortage of ridiculously hot men in this business. His own client had every country girl in America creaming her panties over his boyish clean-cut aw-shucks looks - and no few of the country boys, either, whether they admitted it or not - but Nate had never responded this way to Walt. Or to anyone, really.
“That’s good to hear,” Nate replied to Colbert’s comment, and Christ he actually sounded a little hoarse. He really needed to actually find time to get laid at some point. “Well, Mr. Colbert, you came very highly recommended by Mike Wynn, so as far as I’m concerned the job’s yours if you think your ears can take it.”
“Brad.”
Nate blinked. “Sorry?”
“If we’re going to work together,” and those damn lips drew up in a crooked half-smile that was somehow even sexier than the grin before it, “you should call me Brad.”
“Brad,” Nate repeated, hoping he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. “I’m Nate, then. Welcome aboard.”
He smiled as neutrally as he could manage, stood, and held out a hand. He told himself it was just his overheated imagination that Brad’s eyes darted to Nate’s own lips for a bare instant, before reaching over the desk to clasp Nate’s hand. Brad’s palm was warm and dry and interestingly callused, and it was also just Nate’s fucking imagination that the other man held the handshake for just a split second too long.
Nate suddenly realized that as Walt’s bodyguard, Brad was (obviously) going to be in Walt’s company pretty much constantly. And since Walt tended to freeze up and shut down in stressful situations - like, say, the last stretch of recording a new album, like, say, right now - and Nate was perforce obliged to more or less babysit him 24/7 in order to get it done, that meant Brad was also, by extension, going to be in Nate’s company pretty much constantly, too.
Shit.
+
“Shit!” Walt yelled, tearing off his headphones and hurling them to the floor. For a second Nate thought he might actually jump up and down on them, but he didn’t. Which was good, considering the headphones were worth about a thousand dollars and didn’t even belong to them. If this album went platinum like Nate was determined it would, he was so making Walt buy his own recording studio, because fuck this rental shit.
Assuming they ever finished the album, of course. Which wasn’t looking like a guarantee at the moment.
Nate leaned forward in the control booth and clicked on the speaker to the live room. “Walt, it’s okay. We’ll just do it again.”
“We’ve done it thirty times already!” Walt said despairingly.
Nate sighed. Thirty-three, actually, but who’s counting? At least they’d been able to send the band home.
Next to Nate, the sound engineer snorted, still fiddling with the levels even though it was obvious that they were going to have to take a break. “Dude,” he said, “I thought country boys were supposed to be all laid back and shit, like laying in cornfields and chewing haystalks or whatever. Your boy Walt is cracking my shit up with this L.A. diva hoopla.”
Nate settled for a withering look in answer to this, but Brad interjected a snort of his own from the couch behind them at the rear of the booth. “Ray, considering your trailer-trash, sister-fucking, cow-tipping self hails from the great metropolis of Nevada, Missouri, I believe that would be considered the pot calling the kettle black.”
Ray spun his chair to face Brad, delighted. “Aw, Brad! You read my diary, you sneaky Christ-killer, you! I knew you wanted to find out all my dirty fantasies about your Hebrew Viking ass.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “You know how to read and write, Ray? Color me amazed.”
Nate considered banging his head against the soundboard, but then Ray would sulk for the rest of the day over the abuse to his precious equipment. Brad and Ray had known each other for less than a month, but had instantly formed one of the oddest friendships Nate had ever seen, constructed of a complex web of insults, mockery, open disdain, and sexual innuendo. There was probably an entire psychological dissertation in examining their unique relationship. Most days Nate found it entertaining, but today was not one of those days.
“Knock it off, both of you,” he ordered. Ray rolled his eyes, and Brad gave Nate a mocking inclination of his head, but both of them shut up. Nate clicked on the speaker again.
“Walt, we’re going to take a break before we go from the top. Let’s eat some lunch, okay?”
Walt looked a little bit like he wanted to cry, but nodded. “Okay.”
Before he could click it off, Ray leaned forward and shouted into Nate’s mike, “It’s okay, Walt buddy, we’ll get this fucker right if I have to hump your head to do it!”
“Shut up, Ray,” Walt, Nate, and Brad said, all at the same time. Ray looked startled a moment, and then started cackling madly. On the other side of the glass, Walt cracked a small grin in spite of himself.
Nate felt a reluctant smile pulling at his own lips, and turned to share it with Brad, only to find Brad staring at him with an intensity that made Nate’s stomach flip. But then the look was gone and Brad was levering himself to his feet with all his usual aloof calm.
“Chow time,” he announced, and nodded to Nate before strolling out of the booth, and Nate was left to wonder, as usual, if he was losing his mind. Brad Colbert was going to be the death of him, he was assured of it.
+
“Coffee, sir?”
Nate looked up as Brad slid into the chair opposite him, pushing a steaming mug across the table; his jacket gaped for a moment, showing a flash of the underarm gun holster on his left side. On the other side of the breakroom, Walt was staring with his usual mix of amusement and disbelief when it came to Ray, as Ray blathered on merrily about God only knew what, bits of half-chewed sandwich occasionally flying out of his mouth. Nate was just happy Ray was keeping Walt distracted.
“Brad, you know you don’t have to call me ‘sir’, right?”
Brad smiled his crooked half-smile. “Sorry. Old habits.”
Nate knew Brad had been in the Marines before getting into the private security racket - that’s where Mike had met him - but Nate didn’t quite understand why those habits should apply to him in particular. Especially considering his proclivities, which Brad had to have heard about by now.
Nate wasn’t precisely out of the closet, considering the genre of music he worked in, but it was probably one of the worst-kept secrets in Nashville that he was gay. Fortunately, he was also one of the best (read: most lucrative) managers in the business as well, so even his most homophobic colleagues usually found a way to hold their noses about it.
Nate bet Brad wouldn’t be so inclined to call him “sir” if he knew that Nate found it embarrassingly arousing. But then, he found almost everything Brad did to be embarrassingly arousing, so it was probably a wash anyway.
He picked up the mug and sipped. It was perfect, with just the right amount of cream and no sugar, just how Nate liked it. He had no idea when exactly Brad had learned his coffee preferences, but the attention to detail was utterly typical of Brad, who rarely if ever missed anything. It was a trait that was comforting for professional reasons and extremely unnerving for personal ones.
He really had to get over this thing with Brad. Nate couldn’t personally think of a more effective recipe for disaster than falling for a bizarrely charming, frighteningly perceptive, straight ex-Marine who was also your employee - and, not to mention, one who was typically armed with a deadly weapon in your presence. If Brad were to figure out how Nate felt about him, it would be very bad.
Unfortunately, Nate’s heart - and his dick - were violently uninterested in what his brain had to say on the matter, and ergo, Nate was screwed, and not in the good way either. Goddammit.
“Thanks,” he said, indicating the coffee. Brad nodded and leaned back with his own cup, eyes flicking around the room. Nate noted that he had seated himself where he could easily see both Walt and the door to the break room; he was pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence.
Which reminded him. Nate flipped open the folder in front of him and pulled out the creased paper on top, sliding it across to Brad. “We got another one this morning,” he said.
Brad sat up, almost at attention, and put his coffee down. He picked up the paper and perused the blocky, deliberately scrawling handwriting:
YOU DESGUST ME AND YOU ARE A INSULT TO EVRY THING THIS COUNTRY STANDS FOR. YOU SHOULD BE WIPED OFF THE FACE OF THIS ERTH AND IF NOONE ELSE WILL DO IT I WILL.
“An English major, I see,” Brad said lightly, but his mouth was tight.
“Spelling is not his strong point, no,” Nate agreed.
“Sanity is not his strong point,” Brad countered. “How can Walt be an insult to everything this country stands for? He sings about pickup trucks and rodeos. Now, I find that terribly insulting on a personal level, but even I admit those are perfectly legitimate examples of Americana, God help us all. As far as I can tell, Walt makes the unwashed masses who actually listen to him come in their pants from how American it all is.”
Nate gave him an extremely dry look. “Walt sings about a little bit more than pickup trucks and rodeos, Brad.”
Brad smirked. “Couldn’t prove it by me.”
Nate huffed a breath and abandoned this line of debate as pointless. Given the slightest provocation, Brad would cheerfully spend hours delineating all the myriad abominations of the country music genre, and Nate knew better than to get him started. Once again he wondered why Brad had even taken this job, and once again he wondered why he found Brad’s contempt for Nate’s entire industry to be so inexplicably endearing. Maybe they were both crazy.
Brad’s smirk broadened into a triumphant grin, sensing Nate’s tactical retreat, and Nate gave him yet another dry look in lieu of lunging over the table and kissing the shit out of him, which is what he actually wanted to do and absolutely must not do under any circumstances.
They sat for a while in a comfortable silence, nursing their coffees. When he’d finished his cup, Brad looked again at the note on the table, and slid it back over to Nate, somberly. Nate put it back in the folder. He didn’t bother saying any more about it; there was no point. The police were looking into it, and unless and until they found something on this fucknut, there was nothing to be done but be on the alert and keep Walt working.
Brad looked at Nate, following his train of thought in that uncanny way he had, and nodded. And Nate knew what the nod meant in turn: Nate didn’t need to worry. Brad would be as vigilant as Nate needed him to be. And somehow, Nate thought, the ease with which they worked together was the most attractive thing about Brad of all.
Shit. Time for a larger retreat before he did something he would really regret.
“All right, break’s over,” he announced to the room at large. “We’re going to finish this track today if it’s the last thing I do.”
+
As it turned out, Walt nailed the vocals on the very next take, and Nate eagerly pushed on to the next track in the hopes of riding the wave. They didn’t quite finish that one, but they had made very satisfying progress by the time Nate gave in to the increasing number of puppy-dog looks from both Walt and Ray and called it a night.
Outside, the sweltering Tennessee air was sticky and still, making Nate feel like he’d stepped into a sauna after the chill blast of the recording studio, which was kept below 70 degrees for the sake of all the electronic equipment. One of these days he was going to end up with pneumonia from the temperature extremes he regularly subjected himself to on this job.
“Sweet dreams, fuckers!” Ray yelled cheerily from the end of the small parking lot. “See you tomorrow!” Nate, Brad, and Walt watched as he climbed into an ancient Pinto that looked like an elephant had tried to trample it, and screeched off into the night.
Brad shook his head. “That man is a special snowflake.”
Walt laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
Brad smirked, then said, “C’mon, Walt, let’s get you home.” He didn’t actually say it was a bad idea to be standing in the open, but the way he was scanning the parking lot and standing slightly in front of Walt spoke louder than words.
Walt’s mouth pinched together. He still thought Nate was completely overreacting to the note business. He’d been positively rude to Brad when he’d first come on the job (well, as rude as Walt was capable of being, which wasn’t very), resenting the notion of having a bodyguard at all, but by the end of the first week his resentment had transformed into a charmingly obvious case of hero worship. Nate knew Walt had very nearly joined the Marines himself before deciding to give music a try instead, and even in retirement Brad was just about the epitome of a Marine, so it wasn’t too hard to figure out. If it was a little hard to keep from being jealous of. Because Nate was an idiot.
Walt still didn’t like the actual bodyguarding part, though, and he opened his mouth, no doubt to suggest something utterly stupid, like going to a bar in a town where practically everyone there would recognize him, and Tweet his location to all and sundry who cared to come stalk him, while in the midst of receiving death threats.
“No,” Nate said before he could say anything.
“But - ”
“Walt.”
Walt glared, and Nate stared back, raising his eyebrows. Brad ignored them both in favor of watching the parking lot, but he looked unconcerned over who was going to win this one. As well he should, because Nate would physically sit on Walt if he had to. Nate was no Marine, maybe, but he kept in shape, and he topped Walt’s height by a good four inches.
After a moment, Walt deflated. “I hate you.”
Nate nodded. “As long as you hate me from home, I’m good with that.” Walt didn’t actually stick out his tongue at Nate, but Nate suspected it had been a close thing.
He grinned and clapped Walt on the shoulder. “Some sleep will do you good, Walt. We’re going to push through this thing in one more week, tops, you’ll see, and then we can really celebrate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Walt grumbled, but he sounded mollified.
They headed toward Nate and Walt’s cars, parked next to each other. Brad and Walt were slightly ahead, but they both turned back when Nate stopped short.
“Shit,” Nate said, realizing. “I forgot my cell.” He rolled his eyes at himself for being so scattered. “You guys go on,” he said, turning back to the studio.
“Nate,” Brad called from behind him. Nate turned back to see Brad staring at him with an almost worried expression. He hesitated, as if torn, glancing at Walt, then said, “We can wait if you - ”
Nate waved a hand in denial. “I’ll be fine, Brad. See you tomorrow.”
Brad pursed his lips, but nodded, turning back to Walt. Nate waved once more, and headed back to the studio entrance. He heard Walt’s car pulling out of the lot behind him as he used his key to get back inside; this late, everyone else at the studio had long since gone home. He didn’t bother locking the door behind him, as he’d be in and out in a moment.
He knew exactly where he’d left his phone - in the breakroom next to the coffee machine - and headed swiftly through the darkened and silent corridor toward it, humming Walt’s to-be first single off the new album absently to himself.
Idly, he debated whether to stop for takeout on the way home or just make do with what he had in the pantry. He wasn’t really in the mood for soup, though, which is about all he had in there. Chinese might really hit the spot -
The only warning he had was a slight rustle and a whuff of breath behind him. Nate spun around, flinging one arm up instinctively, and that was the only reason the descending baseball bat didn’t cave in his skull.
He caught the blow on his left forearm instead, and Nate actually heard the crack as the bones snapped.
The world seemed to slide sideways for a moment. Then pain such as he had never known flooded his body, threatening to drown him in its embrace. Nate fought desperately against the blinding haze of it. If he passed out now, he knew, he was a dead man.
He lashed out with his near foot, catching his assailant a solid blow on the knee. The man cursed and stumbled back, his face an indistinct blur in the dark hallway.
Every move Nate made sent a fresh jolt of agony through his arm, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. Somehow, even through the fear and pain, a small part of Nate’s mind found the space to reason coldly: he would never survive this if he gave his attacker room to swing the bat again.
Without giving himself any more time to think about it, Nate flung himself at the man, fighting to close the distance before the other could get the bat up again. He collided with the man just as the other straightened, and his momentum drove them both back into the wall. Nate heard the grunt as his opponent’s air was driven out of him and his head thunked solidly against the plaster.
Pressing against the other’s body, trying to keep him pinned without using his bad arm, Nate grabbed the hand holding the bat with his good hand, and slammed it against the wall, once, twice, three times, until the other man let out a hoarse cry and dropped the weapon with a hollow clatter. Nate then tried to bring his fist up to punch the man in the head, but the fucker abruptly wrenched out from under Nate’s weight. He clamped his hand on Nate’s left arm, the one he had broken.
Then he twisted.
Nate barely recognized the scream that ripped out of him then as his own voice, as the pain suddenly intensified a thousandfold, slamming through his body like a freight train. His knees buckled under the onslaught, and Nate felt his body hit the floor. His head cracked against something sharp.
This time when the world skewed sidewise, it stayed that way.
Everything seemed to rush away from him, like a rapidly receding tide. Nate vaguely realized that he was losing consciousness. That was bad, he knew, but he couldn’t remember why.
Time seemed to slow and drift. There was something wet under his cheek, and he felt a blow on his side, and then another, the man kicking him perhaps, but the blows seemed far away and unimportant. Everything seemed far away and unimportant.
So this is it, he thought, dimly. This was how he was going to die. He thought he should be more upset about that, but it seemed like too much effort. The best he could summon up was a kind of mild regret.
He would have really liked that Chinese food. And to kiss Brad once, maybe. Too bad, too sad.
From a thousand miles away, he thought he heard glass breaking, but it was probably just symbolic or something. Then there was a rushing sound, and someone said something, and then there was something that sounded like an animal roaring, and more noises, but it all slipped away into a comfortable blanketing buzzing haze before Nate could make any sense of it, and then there was blessed darkness.
+
Waking was like surfacing from a deep, still pool of oil, something smooth and clinging and viscous that resisted his rise, and Nate couldn’t seem to get the last film of it off him even though he knew his eyes were open. He blinked up at an unnecessarily harsh florescent light and tried to figure out what was going on, and why he felt like he weighed a thousand tons.
“Oh, you’re up.”
The grumpy voice which said this was joined in Nate’s field of vision by an equally grumpy face, peering down at him with an expression that somehow managed to be annoyed and concerned at the same time. Nate marveled at him, because that was really a pretty neat trick.
“Don’t try to move,” Grumpy-Yet-Concerned told him. “You’ve had the ever-loving shit beaten out of you, and you’re also on some serious drugs. Trust me, you don’t want to know what you’d feel like without them.”
Nate processed this slowly, or tried to, and licked extremely dry lips. It took a couple of tries before he got out: “Who?”
“Don’t have any details on that, sorry,” Grumpy-Yet-Concerned replied. “I’m just your doctor.”
“No,” Nate tried again, “Who… you?”
Grumpy-Yet-Concerned blinked. “Oh. Dr. Timothy Bryan. You’re in the ER at Baptist Hospital. You’re pretty banged up, but you’re going to be okay. Eventually,” he added under his breath, and Nate was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard that part. He licked his lips again.
“Nice,” Nate croaked, “…meet you. Thanks for… savn me.”
Bryan looked at him a moment, then shook his head, seemingly in bemusement. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Fick, but I’m not the one you have to thank.”
Nate wondered what that was supposed to mean, but his eyes were sliding closed again. Vaguely, he felt Bryan put a surprisingly tender hand to his forehead, soothing.
“Go back to sleep, sir,” Bryan said. “We’ll talk more later.”
Nate was only too happy to obey.
+
He was woken again, he had no idea how many hours (days?) later, by raised voices just outside the slightly ajar door to his hospital room. Nate blinked, and realized he must have been moved from the ER at some point. How long had he been out? He focused slowly on the argument outside:
A female voice first: “Sir, I’m sorry, but our visiting hours - ”
“I really don’t think I can express,” a rasping, achingly familiar voice cut the first off, “how little concern I have for your visiting hours at this particular juncture. You and your visiting hours are preventing me from doing my job,” and here the voice took on an unmistakable air of menace, “and I do not care for people who interfere with my ability to do my job.”
“Sir, I will call security if I have to - ”
“Brad?” Nate said, but it only came out as a whisper. He gathered himself and put more strength behind his voice. “Brad.”
The voices outside cut off, and a moment later the door opened the rest of the way to reveal Brad on the threshold, an upset-looking nurse hovering just behind him.
Nate blinked, because Brad was a sight. His jacket hung off him, one sleeve almost entirely ripped away, and the once-white button down shirt beneath it was liberally soaked and splattered with blood. He had bandages swathing his right hand, and altogether he looked like an extra from a disaster movie.
Nate didn’t know that he did extra work on the side. Were they filming a disaster movie in Nashville right now?
“Nate,” Brad said, something raw in his voice. He strode forward, toward the bed, but stopped himself short halfway, biting his lip, almost as if he was unsure Nate wanted him there. Which was pretty funny considering how adamantly he’d been trying to get in. For his part, Nate didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see anyone in his entire life, even if Brad really should have changed out of his costume first.
He noted worriedly, though, that Brad looked utterly haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and there was at least a day’s worth of blond stubble on his face. When was the last time he’d slept? He shouldn’t overwork himself with two jobs like that.
“Are you okay?” he asked Brad. He would be really upset if Brad wasn’t okay.
Brad stared at him a moment. “Am I - ” He cut himself off, and turned to glare at the nurse. “How many drugs do you have him on?”
Nate thought there might have been more to the conversation after that, but the placid, oily pool reached up to him again, and he was gone.
+
The third time he woke up, he really woke up. He knew because there was a lot less filmy haze, and a lot more pain - the dull, throbbing kind that promised it wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. It seemed to be everywhere.
“Ow,” he stated. That really pretty much summed it up, he thought.
“Nate?”
Nate looked to his right to see Walt sitting in the chair next to his bed. Walt looked like shit, like he hadn’t changed or showered in days.
“You look like shit, Walter,” Nate rasped. His voice sounded like his vocal cords had been rubbed with sandpaper.
Walt smiled tremulously. “That’s rich, coming from you, you asshole,” he shot back, but his voice was unsteady, and Nate was alarmed to see the kid actually had tears in his eyes.
He looked down at what he could see of himself, and had to concede that Walt had a point. His left arm was encased from shoulder blade to fingertips in a plaster cast, and was suspended in a traction sling. Under his gown, he felt tightly wrapped bandages squeezing his torso, from which he concluded he had at least one broken rib, too; trying to take a deep breath confirmed it, and Nate winced. He lifted his right arm, queasily ignoring the IV lines plugged into it, and felt the cap of bandages swathing most of his head. Christ.
“Yeah,” he said, “I think I might win at the looking like shit contest, at that.”
Walt laughed a bit hysterically, and rubbed his hand across his face.
“How long have I been out?” Nate asked. “Am I okay?” He cleared his throat. “Is there any water?”
“Water - uh, yeah,” Walt said, leaping up. “Be right back.”
He scurried out, returning in a few moments with a cup and a woman in a white coat. The first proved to be water, and the second proved to be a Dr. Emily Vardoz.
“What happened to Dr. Bryan?” Nate asked.
“Doc Bryan’s our ER attending,” Dr. Vardoz explained cheerfully. “I’m impressed you even remember him, actually. I’m your doctor up here in the ICU.”
Nate was startled. “I’m in intensive care?”
“Not for very much longer,” she assured him. “You took a nasty blow to the head, and for a little while there was some concern you might slip into a coma, but that danger’s past now.”
A coma? Nate was stunned. But the doctor was continuing:
“We’ve also ascertained that you have no internal bleeding or subdural hematoma, though we’ll do another MRI just to be sure. You lost a fair amount of blood from the wound on your head, and you have three cracked ribs and a hell of a lot of bruising, but other than that your worst injury is to your arm.” She indicated the cast.
“And how bad is that?” Nate asked evenly. The traction and the size of the cast didn’t point to any simple break.
“Both your radius and ulna were initially broken clean through with transverse fractures, but subsequent trauma to the break area complicated matters quite a bit. We had to perform surgery to realign the pieces, and you now have four pins holding your arm together. There was, unfortunately, quite a lot of muscle and tissue damage, too. Physical therapy should be very effective once the bones heal, but… there will be some loss of function, I’m afraid.” She gave him a look that managed to be sympathetic without being cloying. Next to her, Walt swallowed, looking ill.
Nate just nodded slowly, taking it in. “I see,” he said, finally. “Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered. She tilted her head at him, eyes intent, and said carefully, “You were very lucky, you know. It could have been a lot worse.”
Nate snorted. “Yes,” he said, “it most definitely could have been.”
Walt said, hesitantly, “So does that mean you remember… what happened?”
“Up until the point where I hit my head,” Nate told him, “I remember every second of it.”
He did, too. He didn’t think the memory of those few scant, horrific minutes would ever be erased as long as he lived. Someone had tried to kill him, and had nearly succeeded. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to completely encompass that notion.
“Can you tell us about it?” Dr. Vardoz asked. Nate was pretty sure this was to test his memory function more than anything else, but that was fine. He told them the story in short, clipped sentences, trying to ignore the horrified dismay on Walt’s face, concentrating on Dr. Vardoz’s calm, clinical expression.
“ -And then I felt my head hit the edge of something, and that’s all I remember,” he finished.
Dr. Vardoz nodded approvingly. “Not to sound callous, but the clarity of your recall of the moments leading up to your head injury is a very good sign. Like I said, we still have more tests to run, but in my opinion it’s a good bet you’ve suffered no long-term brain damage at all.”
Walt flinched at the words “brain damage”. Nate felt a bit queasy at the idea himself.
“He was going to smash my skull in,” Nate murmured, still amazed. “If I hadn’t turned around…”
“The important thing is, you did,” Dr. Vardoz said firmly.
“Yeah,” Nate said absently. Then it finally clicked, that he was still missing half this story. He looked up at Walt.
“Why aren’t I dead?” he asked, sharply.
Walt looked shocked, and even the unflappable Dr. Vardoz blinked. “What?” Walt said.
“Why aren’t I dead?” Nate repeated. “I was out for the count, Walt. Totally at that asshole’s mercy. He was obviously trying to kill me, so why didn’t he finish the job? Why’d he just leave?”
“Why did he leave?” Walt said, incredulously. “You think -”
He broke off, seeming at a loss for words. He darted a look at the doctor, who took the hint. “I’ll leave you and Walt here to talk,” she said to Nate. “I’ll be back to get you for some tests later, Nate. Also, there’s going to be a police officer coming by at some point for your statement. Think you’re up for that?”
Nate nodded.
She smiled. “I figured you would,” she said. “You’re a very brave man, Mr. Fick. Don’t forget that.”
He smiled politely at her. He didn’t feel particularly brave. He felt like someone who’d gotten the shit beaten out of him.
After the door closed behind her, Nate looked at Walt, expectantly.
“Nate,” Walt said, all in a rush, “I am so, so sorry about all this. I can’t believe - I should have known - ”
“Walt,” Nate interrupted. “This is in no way your fault, do you hear me? You are not allowed to blame yourself for anything.”
“But - ”
“No,” Nate said. “The guy obviously thought I was you - which makes him an even bigger idiot than I thought, but it was dark in there, so I guess he couldn’t - but that is not on you, Walt, it’s on him. I - ”
Walt’s eyes had gotten wider and wider as Nate spoke, and finally he shouted, “Nate!”
Nate stopped. “What?”
“He didn’t think you were me. He wasn’t after me. He never was.”
Nate blinked, confused. “He wasn’t?”
“No.” Walt hesitated a moment, then blurted, “He was after you.”
Nate stared. Walt’s words didn’t seem to make any sense. “Me? Why would he be after me?” Walt was the celebrity. Nate was nobody. Why would someone be stalking him?
Walt looked pained, like he really didn’t want to answer. “Because,” he said, miserably, “because, you’re, uh - ”
He made a gesture that could mean anything. Nate stared a second longer, and then it clicked.
Oh.
“Because I’m gay,” he finished, flatly.
Walt ducked his head, not meeting Nate’s eyes. “Yeah.”
Wow, some part of him marveled, clinically. I’ve been gaybashed. I, Nate Fick, have been the victim of a hate crime.
It seemed completely insane and yet perfectly logical at the same time, and he wasn’t sure which of those was worse. He supposed this meant he was a statistic now. He looked at Walt, who was still busy studying the floor, avoiding Nate’s gaze.
In three years of working together, he and Walt had never once specifically discussed Nate’s sexuality, which was also kind of crazy when he thought about it. He had assumed Walt just didn’t care, but now he wondered if Walt’s silence on the subject meant something else. He wondered if Walt had been one of those who held their noses about his orientation all along.
The thought made his heart ache dully, that their friendship might not be anything like he’d thought it was. Had Walt just been putting up with him all this time because he thought Nate would help him become successful? Did he think Nate was just a faggot who happened to be a good manager?
Nate didn’t know, but now that the notion had been planted in his mind he couldn’t shake it. It seemed all too plausible to him now; Walt was a squeaky clean farmboy from rural Virginia who still went to church every Sunday, had almost joined the Marines, and now sang country music. What was there in that background to incline him to be gay-friendly? Nothing, that’s what.
Nate felt sick to his stomach. He’d been an idiot, but maybe he could at least do some damage control. He owed Walt that much, at least.
“Walt,” he said, finally, “I’m sorry.”
Walt’s head came up. “You’re sorry? Sorry for what?”
“For putting you in a position to have to deal with… this.” He made the same gesture toward himself Walt had. “I know it’s going to be awkward, once the story gets out, and I don’t want anything to interfere with the new album or, or your image.” He took a deep breath, looking down at his sheets. “I can recommend a couple of people to take over as your manager. Bryan Patterson over at Arista, for one - he’s leaving the label to start his own managing firm, and he’s an excellent - ”
“Nathaniel Christopher Fick,” Walt cut in, “you will shut the fuck up, right now.”
His voice fairly shook with fury, and Nate glanced up, startled. Walt was staring at him with a look that strongly suggested he wanted to punch Nate in the face.
“Are you fucking serious? You really think I give a shit about my image right now? You really think I would dump you like a hot potato after you almost got beaten to death? Because it might be awkward?”
Walt’s voice had risen with each question, and he was shouting now. “Well, fuck you, Nate! I don’t know what the hell I ever did to give you such a low opinion of me, but I am not some - some - some pansyass homophobic dipshit who’s gonna turn tail and abandon the one guy who’s had my back all this time!”
He broke off, chest heaving, still glaring at Nate. Nate had never seen him so furious; he hadn’t even known Walt was capable of being this angry. Nate was aware that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t seem to gather himself. And anyway, Walt wasn’t through yet.
“I am not embarrassed this happened to you, Nate, I am ashamed it happened. I am ashamed that there are assholes out there who think horseshit like this makes them good Americans. How anyone could look at you and not see - ”
He stopped again, gulped for air. He continued, more quietly but with no less intensity, “When I came out here three years ago, I didn’t know shit. Hell, I’d never been more than thirty miles away from home before, for God’s sake. I didn’t have a goddamn clue what I was doing, and the only reason I wasn’t eaten alive is because you were there to keep the shit from rolling down on me. I trust you more than I trust anyone I’ve ever met in my life other than my parents. You think I don’t know what a friend you’ve been to me? You think I’m going to let you walk away, ever?”
He pointed a finger at Nate. “Fuck that noise. You’re stuck with me, Fick. I don’t care if you fuck horses, you are still my manager. And my friend. You got my back, and I got yours. So there.”
There was a ringing silence. Nate swallowed. His face felt like it was on fire, he was blushing so hard, and he hoped desperately he wasn’t going to do something ridiculous like start blubbering.
Then Walt seemed to come back to himself, and realize what he’d been saying - or yelling - and flushed even redder than Nate probably was. He palmed the back of his neck, looking down, and actually shuffled his feet.
They were going to embarrass each other to death at this rate. Just to break the stretching silence, Nate said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Well, horse-fucking would prove some of Brad’s theories about country music, at least.”
Walt stared at him a second, and then they both cracked up laughing. And if the laughter was slightly hysterical, and if it hurt Nate’s ribs to do it, that was okay. It was worth it.
When they’d both calmed down a little, Nate reached over and took Walt’s hand tentatively. Walt gripped it back without hesitation.
“Thanks,” Nate said, quietly. “And I’m sorry, Walt. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
“Damn right,” Walt retorted. “Don’t let it happen again.”
They smiled at each other. Then Nate winced as he fell back on his pillow, and Walt’s smile transformed to a worried frown.
“Shit, Nate, you’re exhausted. I should let you get some rest.”
“Not yet,” Nate said, shaking his head. “Not until you’ve told me what happened after I got knocked out.”
“Nate, I really think that - ”
“And where’s Brad?” Nate interrupted, suddenly realizing he hadn’t seen him once since he’d woken up. He wouldn’t have thought Brad would just abandon his post, even if it had turned out Walt was in no danger after all.
And what about me? a traitorous voice inside him whispered. He had no illusions Brad felt about Nate anything like what Nate felt for him, but he would have at least thought Brad would be concerned for him as a friend.
“Walt? Did he even come down to see me?” Nate asked. His throat was not closing up, dammit.
“Of course he did!” Walt exclaimed. “But… he had to leave.”
“To go where?”
Walt sighed, and said reluctantly, “He had to go down to the police station.”
Nate was confused. “What, to give a statement about the notes? Why couldn’t he do that here?”
Walt shifted, looking miserable again, like he always did when giving people bad news. Nate stared at him with an awful suspicion growing in his mind.
“Walt,” he said slowly, “Brad’s not under arrest, is he?”
“Not… exactly, I think,” Walt said. “But they were pretty insistent that he come along.”
“And why is that?” Nate asked, quietly. He had a very bad feeling he already knew the answer.
“Because the reason that guy didn’t kill you,” Walt said, finally, “is because Brad killed him first.”
Part 2
“I feel you should be aware, sir, that I fucking hate country music.”
Nate cocked an eyebrow at the towering man standing before his desk. The towering, blond, muscled, and thoroughly delectable man before his desk. Not that that was important, of course. Ice-blue eyes regarded him impassively, but Nate thought he detected just the tiniest glimmer of humor behind the deadpan delivery.
Nate let the eyebrow be his reply, waiting to see if there was more. Sure enough:
“I thought you should know that before you decided whether to hire me or not,” Colbert explained.
“Well, Mr. Colbert,” Nate said, leaning back in his chair and employing his own not inconsiderable poker face, “I guess that depends on whether your hatred for Walt’s musical stylings extends to letting him get shot.”
Colbert’s gaze didn’t waver a jot, but his eyes sharpened at Nate’s words, seeming to really see him for the first time. After a moment, the corner of Colbert’s mouth twitched infinitesimally, but Nate saw it. Ha, his theory was proved.
“It is my considered opinion, sir, that shooting popular entertainers is generally a punishment far disproportionate to their crimes - even for country music singers.” Colbert grinned, suddenly, and Nate felt his dick twitch so hard in shocked answer to that gorgeous smile that he almost jumped in his seat.
Jesus, get a grip, he thought sternly to himself. He couldn’t understand why the hell this man was having such a visceral effect on him. He was hot as fuck, sure, but there was no shortage of ridiculously hot men in this business. His own client had every country girl in America creaming her panties over his boyish clean-cut aw-shucks looks - and no few of the country boys, either, whether they admitted it or not - but Nate had never responded this way to Walt. Or to anyone, really.
“That’s good to hear,” Nate replied to Colbert’s comment, and Christ he actually sounded a little hoarse. He really needed to actually find time to get laid at some point. “Well, Mr. Colbert, you came very highly recommended by Mike Wynn, so as far as I’m concerned the job’s yours if you think your ears can take it.”
“Brad.”
Nate blinked. “Sorry?”
“If we’re going to work together,” and those damn lips drew up in a crooked half-smile that was somehow even sexier than the grin before it, “you should call me Brad.”
“Brad,” Nate repeated, hoping he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. “I’m Nate, then. Welcome aboard.”
He smiled as neutrally as he could manage, stood, and held out a hand. He told himself it was just his overheated imagination that Brad’s eyes darted to Nate’s own lips for a bare instant, before reaching over the desk to clasp Nate’s hand. Brad’s palm was warm and dry and interestingly callused, and it was also just Nate’s fucking imagination that the other man held the handshake for just a split second too long.
Nate suddenly realized that as Walt’s bodyguard, Brad was (obviously) going to be in Walt’s company pretty much constantly. And since Walt tended to freeze up and shut down in stressful situations - like, say, the last stretch of recording a new album, like, say, right now - and Nate was perforce obliged to more or less babysit him 24/7 in order to get it done, that meant Brad was also, by extension, going to be in Nate’s company pretty much constantly, too.
Shit.
+
“Shit!” Walt yelled, tearing off his headphones and hurling them to the floor. For a second Nate thought he might actually jump up and down on them, but he didn’t. Which was good, considering the headphones were worth about a thousand dollars and didn’t even belong to them. If this album went platinum like Nate was determined it would, he was so making Walt buy his own recording studio, because fuck this rental shit.
Assuming they ever finished the album, of course. Which wasn’t looking like a guarantee at the moment.
Nate leaned forward in the control booth and clicked on the speaker to the live room. “Walt, it’s okay. We’ll just do it again.”
“We’ve done it thirty times already!” Walt said despairingly.
Nate sighed. Thirty-three, actually, but who’s counting? At least they’d been able to send the band home.
Next to Nate, the sound engineer snorted, still fiddling with the levels even though it was obvious that they were going to have to take a break. “Dude,” he said, “I thought country boys were supposed to be all laid back and shit, like laying in cornfields and chewing haystalks or whatever. Your boy Walt is cracking my shit up with this L.A. diva hoopla.”
Nate settled for a withering look in answer to this, but Brad interjected a snort of his own from the couch behind them at the rear of the booth. “Ray, considering your trailer-trash, sister-fucking, cow-tipping self hails from the great metropolis of Nevada, Missouri, I believe that would be considered the pot calling the kettle black.”
Ray spun his chair to face Brad, delighted. “Aw, Brad! You read my diary, you sneaky Christ-killer, you! I knew you wanted to find out all my dirty fantasies about your Hebrew Viking ass.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “You know how to read and write, Ray? Color me amazed.”
Nate considered banging his head against the soundboard, but then Ray would sulk for the rest of the day over the abuse to his precious equipment. Brad and Ray had known each other for less than a month, but had instantly formed one of the oddest friendships Nate had ever seen, constructed of a complex web of insults, mockery, open disdain, and sexual innuendo. There was probably an entire psychological dissertation in examining their unique relationship. Most days Nate found it entertaining, but today was not one of those days.
“Knock it off, both of you,” he ordered. Ray rolled his eyes, and Brad gave Nate a mocking inclination of his head, but both of them shut up. Nate clicked on the speaker again.
“Walt, we’re going to take a break before we go from the top. Let’s eat some lunch, okay?”
Walt looked a little bit like he wanted to cry, but nodded. “Okay.”
Before he could click it off, Ray leaned forward and shouted into Nate’s mike, “It’s okay, Walt buddy, we’ll get this fucker right if I have to hump your head to do it!”
“Shut up, Ray,” Walt, Nate, and Brad said, all at the same time. Ray looked startled a moment, and then started cackling madly. On the other side of the glass, Walt cracked a small grin in spite of himself.
Nate felt a reluctant smile pulling at his own lips, and turned to share it with Brad, only to find Brad staring at him with an intensity that made Nate’s stomach flip. But then the look was gone and Brad was levering himself to his feet with all his usual aloof calm.
“Chow time,” he announced, and nodded to Nate before strolling out of the booth, and Nate was left to wonder, as usual, if he was losing his mind. Brad Colbert was going to be the death of him, he was assured of it.
+
“Coffee, sir?”
Nate looked up as Brad slid into the chair opposite him, pushing a steaming mug across the table; his jacket gaped for a moment, showing a flash of the underarm gun holster on his left side. On the other side of the breakroom, Walt was staring with his usual mix of amusement and disbelief when it came to Ray, as Ray blathered on merrily about God only knew what, bits of half-chewed sandwich occasionally flying out of his mouth. Nate was just happy Ray was keeping Walt distracted.
“Brad, you know you don’t have to call me ‘sir’, right?”
Brad smiled his crooked half-smile. “Sorry. Old habits.”
Nate knew Brad had been in the Marines before getting into the private security racket - that’s where Mike had met him - but Nate didn’t quite understand why those habits should apply to him in particular. Especially considering his proclivities, which Brad had to have heard about by now.
Nate wasn’t precisely out of the closet, considering the genre of music he worked in, but it was probably one of the worst-kept secrets in Nashville that he was gay. Fortunately, he was also one of the best (read: most lucrative) managers in the business as well, so even his most homophobic colleagues usually found a way to hold their noses about it.
Nate bet Brad wouldn’t be so inclined to call him “sir” if he knew that Nate found it embarrassingly arousing. But then, he found almost everything Brad did to be embarrassingly arousing, so it was probably a wash anyway.
He picked up the mug and sipped. It was perfect, with just the right amount of cream and no sugar, just how Nate liked it. He had no idea when exactly Brad had learned his coffee preferences, but the attention to detail was utterly typical of Brad, who rarely if ever missed anything. It was a trait that was comforting for professional reasons and extremely unnerving for personal ones.
He really had to get over this thing with Brad. Nate couldn’t personally think of a more effective recipe for disaster than falling for a bizarrely charming, frighteningly perceptive, straight ex-Marine who was also your employee - and, not to mention, one who was typically armed with a deadly weapon in your presence. If Brad were to figure out how Nate felt about him, it would be very bad.
Unfortunately, Nate’s heart - and his dick - were violently uninterested in what his brain had to say on the matter, and ergo, Nate was screwed, and not in the good way either. Goddammit.
“Thanks,” he said, indicating the coffee. Brad nodded and leaned back with his own cup, eyes flicking around the room. Nate noted that he had seated himself where he could easily see both Walt and the door to the break room; he was pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence.
Which reminded him. Nate flipped open the folder in front of him and pulled out the creased paper on top, sliding it across to Brad. “We got another one this morning,” he said.
Brad sat up, almost at attention, and put his coffee down. He picked up the paper and perused the blocky, deliberately scrawling handwriting:
YOU DESGUST ME AND YOU ARE A INSULT TO EVRY THING THIS COUNTRY STANDS FOR. YOU SHOULD BE WIPED OFF THE FACE OF THIS ERTH AND IF NOONE ELSE WILL DO IT I WILL.
“An English major, I see,” Brad said lightly, but his mouth was tight.
“Spelling is not his strong point, no,” Nate agreed.
“Sanity is not his strong point,” Brad countered. “How can Walt be an insult to everything this country stands for? He sings about pickup trucks and rodeos. Now, I find that terribly insulting on a personal level, but even I admit those are perfectly legitimate examples of Americana, God help us all. As far as I can tell, Walt makes the unwashed masses who actually listen to him come in their pants from how American it all is.”
Nate gave him an extremely dry look. “Walt sings about a little bit more than pickup trucks and rodeos, Brad.”
Brad smirked. “Couldn’t prove it by me.”
Nate huffed a breath and abandoned this line of debate as pointless. Given the slightest provocation, Brad would cheerfully spend hours delineating all the myriad abominations of the country music genre, and Nate knew better than to get him started. Once again he wondered why Brad had even taken this job, and once again he wondered why he found Brad’s contempt for Nate’s entire industry to be so inexplicably endearing. Maybe they were both crazy.
Brad’s smirk broadened into a triumphant grin, sensing Nate’s tactical retreat, and Nate gave him yet another dry look in lieu of lunging over the table and kissing the shit out of him, which is what he actually wanted to do and absolutely must not do under any circumstances.
They sat for a while in a comfortable silence, nursing their coffees. When he’d finished his cup, Brad looked again at the note on the table, and slid it back over to Nate, somberly. Nate put it back in the folder. He didn’t bother saying any more about it; there was no point. The police were looking into it, and unless and until they found something on this fucknut, there was nothing to be done but be on the alert and keep Walt working.
Brad looked at Nate, following his train of thought in that uncanny way he had, and nodded. And Nate knew what the nod meant in turn: Nate didn’t need to worry. Brad would be as vigilant as Nate needed him to be. And somehow, Nate thought, the ease with which they worked together was the most attractive thing about Brad of all.
Shit. Time for a larger retreat before he did something he would really regret.
“All right, break’s over,” he announced to the room at large. “We’re going to finish this track today if it’s the last thing I do.”
+
As it turned out, Walt nailed the vocals on the very next take, and Nate eagerly pushed on to the next track in the hopes of riding the wave. They didn’t quite finish that one, but they had made very satisfying progress by the time Nate gave in to the increasing number of puppy-dog looks from both Walt and Ray and called it a night.
Outside, the sweltering Tennessee air was sticky and still, making Nate feel like he’d stepped into a sauna after the chill blast of the recording studio, which was kept below 70 degrees for the sake of all the electronic equipment. One of these days he was going to end up with pneumonia from the temperature extremes he regularly subjected himself to on this job.
“Sweet dreams, fuckers!” Ray yelled cheerily from the end of the small parking lot. “See you tomorrow!” Nate, Brad, and Walt watched as he climbed into an ancient Pinto that looked like an elephant had tried to trample it, and screeched off into the night.
Brad shook his head. “That man is a special snowflake.”
Walt laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
Brad smirked, then said, “C’mon, Walt, let’s get you home.” He didn’t actually say it was a bad idea to be standing in the open, but the way he was scanning the parking lot and standing slightly in front of Walt spoke louder than words.
Walt’s mouth pinched together. He still thought Nate was completely overreacting to the note business. He’d been positively rude to Brad when he’d first come on the job (well, as rude as Walt was capable of being, which wasn’t very), resenting the notion of having a bodyguard at all, but by the end of the first week his resentment had transformed into a charmingly obvious case of hero worship. Nate knew Walt had very nearly joined the Marines himself before deciding to give music a try instead, and even in retirement Brad was just about the epitome of a Marine, so it wasn’t too hard to figure out. If it was a little hard to keep from being jealous of. Because Nate was an idiot.
Walt still didn’t like the actual bodyguarding part, though, and he opened his mouth, no doubt to suggest something utterly stupid, like going to a bar in a town where practically everyone there would recognize him, and Tweet his location to all and sundry who cared to come stalk him, while in the midst of receiving death threats.
“No,” Nate said before he could say anything.
“But - ”
“Walt.”
Walt glared, and Nate stared back, raising his eyebrows. Brad ignored them both in favor of watching the parking lot, but he looked unconcerned over who was going to win this one. As well he should, because Nate would physically sit on Walt if he had to. Nate was no Marine, maybe, but he kept in shape, and he topped Walt’s height by a good four inches.
After a moment, Walt deflated. “I hate you.”
Nate nodded. “As long as you hate me from home, I’m good with that.” Walt didn’t actually stick out his tongue at Nate, but Nate suspected it had been a close thing.
He grinned and clapped Walt on the shoulder. “Some sleep will do you good, Walt. We’re going to push through this thing in one more week, tops, you’ll see, and then we can really celebrate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Walt grumbled, but he sounded mollified.
They headed toward Nate and Walt’s cars, parked next to each other. Brad and Walt were slightly ahead, but they both turned back when Nate stopped short.
“Shit,” Nate said, realizing. “I forgot my cell.” He rolled his eyes at himself for being so scattered. “You guys go on,” he said, turning back to the studio.
“Nate,” Brad called from behind him. Nate turned back to see Brad staring at him with an almost worried expression. He hesitated, as if torn, glancing at Walt, then said, “We can wait if you - ”
Nate waved a hand in denial. “I’ll be fine, Brad. See you tomorrow.”
Brad pursed his lips, but nodded, turning back to Walt. Nate waved once more, and headed back to the studio entrance. He heard Walt’s car pulling out of the lot behind him as he used his key to get back inside; this late, everyone else at the studio had long since gone home. He didn’t bother locking the door behind him, as he’d be in and out in a moment.
He knew exactly where he’d left his phone - in the breakroom next to the coffee machine - and headed swiftly through the darkened and silent corridor toward it, humming Walt’s to-be first single off the new album absently to himself.
Idly, he debated whether to stop for takeout on the way home or just make do with what he had in the pantry. He wasn’t really in the mood for soup, though, which is about all he had in there. Chinese might really hit the spot -
The only warning he had was a slight rustle and a whuff of breath behind him. Nate spun around, flinging one arm up instinctively, and that was the only reason the descending baseball bat didn’t cave in his skull.
He caught the blow on his left forearm instead, and Nate actually heard the crack as the bones snapped.
The world seemed to slide sideways for a moment. Then pain such as he had never known flooded his body, threatening to drown him in its embrace. Nate fought desperately against the blinding haze of it. If he passed out now, he knew, he was a dead man.
He lashed out with his near foot, catching his assailant a solid blow on the knee. The man cursed and stumbled back, his face an indistinct blur in the dark hallway.
Every move Nate made sent a fresh jolt of agony through his arm, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. Somehow, even through the fear and pain, a small part of Nate’s mind found the space to reason coldly: he would never survive this if he gave his attacker room to swing the bat again.
Without giving himself any more time to think about it, Nate flung himself at the man, fighting to close the distance before the other could get the bat up again. He collided with the man just as the other straightened, and his momentum drove them both back into the wall. Nate heard the grunt as his opponent’s air was driven out of him and his head thunked solidly against the plaster.
Pressing against the other’s body, trying to keep him pinned without using his bad arm, Nate grabbed the hand holding the bat with his good hand, and slammed it against the wall, once, twice, three times, until the other man let out a hoarse cry and dropped the weapon with a hollow clatter. Nate then tried to bring his fist up to punch the man in the head, but the fucker abruptly wrenched out from under Nate’s weight. He clamped his hand on Nate’s left arm, the one he had broken.
Then he twisted.
Nate barely recognized the scream that ripped out of him then as his own voice, as the pain suddenly intensified a thousandfold, slamming through his body like a freight train. His knees buckled under the onslaught, and Nate felt his body hit the floor. His head cracked against something sharp.
This time when the world skewed sidewise, it stayed that way.
Everything seemed to rush away from him, like a rapidly receding tide. Nate vaguely realized that he was losing consciousness. That was bad, he knew, but he couldn’t remember why.
Time seemed to slow and drift. There was something wet under his cheek, and he felt a blow on his side, and then another, the man kicking him perhaps, but the blows seemed far away and unimportant. Everything seemed far away and unimportant.
So this is it, he thought, dimly. This was how he was going to die. He thought he should be more upset about that, but it seemed like too much effort. The best he could summon up was a kind of mild regret.
He would have really liked that Chinese food. And to kiss Brad once, maybe. Too bad, too sad.
From a thousand miles away, he thought he heard glass breaking, but it was probably just symbolic or something. Then there was a rushing sound, and someone said something, and then there was something that sounded like an animal roaring, and more noises, but it all slipped away into a comfortable blanketing buzzing haze before Nate could make any sense of it, and then there was blessed darkness.
+
Waking was like surfacing from a deep, still pool of oil, something smooth and clinging and viscous that resisted his rise, and Nate couldn’t seem to get the last film of it off him even though he knew his eyes were open. He blinked up at an unnecessarily harsh florescent light and tried to figure out what was going on, and why he felt like he weighed a thousand tons.
“Oh, you’re up.”
The grumpy voice which said this was joined in Nate’s field of vision by an equally grumpy face, peering down at him with an expression that somehow managed to be annoyed and concerned at the same time. Nate marveled at him, because that was really a pretty neat trick.
“Don’t try to move,” Grumpy-Yet-Concerned told him. “You’ve had the ever-loving shit beaten out of you, and you’re also on some serious drugs. Trust me, you don’t want to know what you’d feel like without them.”
Nate processed this slowly, or tried to, and licked extremely dry lips. It took a couple of tries before he got out: “Who?”
“Don’t have any details on that, sorry,” Grumpy-Yet-Concerned replied. “I’m just your doctor.”
“No,” Nate tried again, “Who… you?”
Grumpy-Yet-Concerned blinked. “Oh. Dr. Timothy Bryan. You’re in the ER at Baptist Hospital. You’re pretty banged up, but you’re going to be okay. Eventually,” he added under his breath, and Nate was fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard that part. He licked his lips again.
“Nice,” Nate croaked, “…meet you. Thanks for… savn me.”
Bryan looked at him a moment, then shook his head, seemingly in bemusement. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Fick, but I’m not the one you have to thank.”
Nate wondered what that was supposed to mean, but his eyes were sliding closed again. Vaguely, he felt Bryan put a surprisingly tender hand to his forehead, soothing.
“Go back to sleep, sir,” Bryan said. “We’ll talk more later.”
Nate was only too happy to obey.
+
He was woken again, he had no idea how many hours (days?) later, by raised voices just outside the slightly ajar door to his hospital room. Nate blinked, and realized he must have been moved from the ER at some point. How long had he been out? He focused slowly on the argument outside:
A female voice first: “Sir, I’m sorry, but our visiting hours - ”
“I really don’t think I can express,” a rasping, achingly familiar voice cut the first off, “how little concern I have for your visiting hours at this particular juncture. You and your visiting hours are preventing me from doing my job,” and here the voice took on an unmistakable air of menace, “and I do not care for people who interfere with my ability to do my job.”
“Sir, I will call security if I have to - ”
“Brad?” Nate said, but it only came out as a whisper. He gathered himself and put more strength behind his voice. “Brad.”
The voices outside cut off, and a moment later the door opened the rest of the way to reveal Brad on the threshold, an upset-looking nurse hovering just behind him.
Nate blinked, because Brad was a sight. His jacket hung off him, one sleeve almost entirely ripped away, and the once-white button down shirt beneath it was liberally soaked and splattered with blood. He had bandages swathing his right hand, and altogether he looked like an extra from a disaster movie.
Nate didn’t know that he did extra work on the side. Were they filming a disaster movie in Nashville right now?
“Nate,” Brad said, something raw in his voice. He strode forward, toward the bed, but stopped himself short halfway, biting his lip, almost as if he was unsure Nate wanted him there. Which was pretty funny considering how adamantly he’d been trying to get in. For his part, Nate didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to see anyone in his entire life, even if Brad really should have changed out of his costume first.
He noted worriedly, though, that Brad looked utterly haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and there was at least a day’s worth of blond stubble on his face. When was the last time he’d slept? He shouldn’t overwork himself with two jobs like that.
“Are you okay?” he asked Brad. He would be really upset if Brad wasn’t okay.
Brad stared at him a moment. “Am I - ” He cut himself off, and turned to glare at the nurse. “How many drugs do you have him on?”
Nate thought there might have been more to the conversation after that, but the placid, oily pool reached up to him again, and he was gone.
+
The third time he woke up, he really woke up. He knew because there was a lot less filmy haze, and a lot more pain - the dull, throbbing kind that promised it wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. It seemed to be everywhere.
“Ow,” he stated. That really pretty much summed it up, he thought.
“Nate?”
Nate looked to his right to see Walt sitting in the chair next to his bed. Walt looked like shit, like he hadn’t changed or showered in days.
“You look like shit, Walter,” Nate rasped. His voice sounded like his vocal cords had been rubbed with sandpaper.
Walt smiled tremulously. “That’s rich, coming from you, you asshole,” he shot back, but his voice was unsteady, and Nate was alarmed to see the kid actually had tears in his eyes.
He looked down at what he could see of himself, and had to concede that Walt had a point. His left arm was encased from shoulder blade to fingertips in a plaster cast, and was suspended in a traction sling. Under his gown, he felt tightly wrapped bandages squeezing his torso, from which he concluded he had at least one broken rib, too; trying to take a deep breath confirmed it, and Nate winced. He lifted his right arm, queasily ignoring the IV lines plugged into it, and felt the cap of bandages swathing most of his head. Christ.
“Yeah,” he said, “I think I might win at the looking like shit contest, at that.”
Walt laughed a bit hysterically, and rubbed his hand across his face.
“How long have I been out?” Nate asked. “Am I okay?” He cleared his throat. “Is there any water?”
“Water - uh, yeah,” Walt said, leaping up. “Be right back.”
He scurried out, returning in a few moments with a cup and a woman in a white coat. The first proved to be water, and the second proved to be a Dr. Emily Vardoz.
“What happened to Dr. Bryan?” Nate asked.
“Doc Bryan’s our ER attending,” Dr. Vardoz explained cheerfully. “I’m impressed you even remember him, actually. I’m your doctor up here in the ICU.”
Nate was startled. “I’m in intensive care?”
“Not for very much longer,” she assured him. “You took a nasty blow to the head, and for a little while there was some concern you might slip into a coma, but that danger’s past now.”
A coma? Nate was stunned. But the doctor was continuing:
“We’ve also ascertained that you have no internal bleeding or subdural hematoma, though we’ll do another MRI just to be sure. You lost a fair amount of blood from the wound on your head, and you have three cracked ribs and a hell of a lot of bruising, but other than that your worst injury is to your arm.” She indicated the cast.
“And how bad is that?” Nate asked evenly. The traction and the size of the cast didn’t point to any simple break.
“Both your radius and ulna were initially broken clean through with transverse fractures, but subsequent trauma to the break area complicated matters quite a bit. We had to perform surgery to realign the pieces, and you now have four pins holding your arm together. There was, unfortunately, quite a lot of muscle and tissue damage, too. Physical therapy should be very effective once the bones heal, but… there will be some loss of function, I’m afraid.” She gave him a look that managed to be sympathetic without being cloying. Next to her, Walt swallowed, looking ill.
Nate just nodded slowly, taking it in. “I see,” he said, finally. “Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered. She tilted her head at him, eyes intent, and said carefully, “You were very lucky, you know. It could have been a lot worse.”
Nate snorted. “Yes,” he said, “it most definitely could have been.”
Walt said, hesitantly, “So does that mean you remember… what happened?”
“Up until the point where I hit my head,” Nate told him, “I remember every second of it.”
He did, too. He didn’t think the memory of those few scant, horrific minutes would ever be erased as long as he lived. Someone had tried to kill him, and had nearly succeeded. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to completely encompass that notion.
“Can you tell us about it?” Dr. Vardoz asked. Nate was pretty sure this was to test his memory function more than anything else, but that was fine. He told them the story in short, clipped sentences, trying to ignore the horrified dismay on Walt’s face, concentrating on Dr. Vardoz’s calm, clinical expression.
“ -And then I felt my head hit the edge of something, and that’s all I remember,” he finished.
Dr. Vardoz nodded approvingly. “Not to sound callous, but the clarity of your recall of the moments leading up to your head injury is a very good sign. Like I said, we still have more tests to run, but in my opinion it’s a good bet you’ve suffered no long-term brain damage at all.”
Walt flinched at the words “brain damage”. Nate felt a bit queasy at the idea himself.
“He was going to smash my skull in,” Nate murmured, still amazed. “If I hadn’t turned around…”
“The important thing is, you did,” Dr. Vardoz said firmly.
“Yeah,” Nate said absently. Then it finally clicked, that he was still missing half this story. He looked up at Walt.
“Why aren’t I dead?” he asked, sharply.
Walt looked shocked, and even the unflappable Dr. Vardoz blinked. “What?” Walt said.
“Why aren’t I dead?” Nate repeated. “I was out for the count, Walt. Totally at that asshole’s mercy. He was obviously trying to kill me, so why didn’t he finish the job? Why’d he just leave?”
“Why did he leave?” Walt said, incredulously. “You think -”
He broke off, seeming at a loss for words. He darted a look at the doctor, who took the hint. “I’ll leave you and Walt here to talk,” she said to Nate. “I’ll be back to get you for some tests later, Nate. Also, there’s going to be a police officer coming by at some point for your statement. Think you’re up for that?”
Nate nodded.
She smiled. “I figured you would,” she said. “You’re a very brave man, Mr. Fick. Don’t forget that.”
He smiled politely at her. He didn’t feel particularly brave. He felt like someone who’d gotten the shit beaten out of him.
After the door closed behind her, Nate looked at Walt, expectantly.
“Nate,” Walt said, all in a rush, “I am so, so sorry about all this. I can’t believe - I should have known - ”
“Walt,” Nate interrupted. “This is in no way your fault, do you hear me? You are not allowed to blame yourself for anything.”
“But - ”
“No,” Nate said. “The guy obviously thought I was you - which makes him an even bigger idiot than I thought, but it was dark in there, so I guess he couldn’t - but that is not on you, Walt, it’s on him. I - ”
Walt’s eyes had gotten wider and wider as Nate spoke, and finally he shouted, “Nate!”
Nate stopped. “What?”
“He didn’t think you were me. He wasn’t after me. He never was.”
Nate blinked, confused. “He wasn’t?”
“No.” Walt hesitated a moment, then blurted, “He was after you.”
Nate stared. Walt’s words didn’t seem to make any sense. “Me? Why would he be after me?” Walt was the celebrity. Nate was nobody. Why would someone be stalking him?
Walt looked pained, like he really didn’t want to answer. “Because,” he said, miserably, “because, you’re, uh - ”
He made a gesture that could mean anything. Nate stared a second longer, and then it clicked.
Oh.
“Because I’m gay,” he finished, flatly.
Walt ducked his head, not meeting Nate’s eyes. “Yeah.”
Wow, some part of him marveled, clinically. I’ve been gaybashed. I, Nate Fick, have been the victim of a hate crime.
It seemed completely insane and yet perfectly logical at the same time, and he wasn’t sure which of those was worse. He supposed this meant he was a statistic now. He looked at Walt, who was still busy studying the floor, avoiding Nate’s gaze.
In three years of working together, he and Walt had never once specifically discussed Nate’s sexuality, which was also kind of crazy when he thought about it. He had assumed Walt just didn’t care, but now he wondered if Walt’s silence on the subject meant something else. He wondered if Walt had been one of those who held their noses about his orientation all along.
The thought made his heart ache dully, that their friendship might not be anything like he’d thought it was. Had Walt just been putting up with him all this time because he thought Nate would help him become successful? Did he think Nate was just a faggot who happened to be a good manager?
Nate didn’t know, but now that the notion had been planted in his mind he couldn’t shake it. It seemed all too plausible to him now; Walt was a squeaky clean farmboy from rural Virginia who still went to church every Sunday, had almost joined the Marines, and now sang country music. What was there in that background to incline him to be gay-friendly? Nothing, that’s what.
Nate felt sick to his stomach. He’d been an idiot, but maybe he could at least do some damage control. He owed Walt that much, at least.
“Walt,” he said, finally, “I’m sorry.”
Walt’s head came up. “You’re sorry? Sorry for what?”
“For putting you in a position to have to deal with… this.” He made the same gesture toward himself Walt had. “I know it’s going to be awkward, once the story gets out, and I don’t want anything to interfere with the new album or, or your image.” He took a deep breath, looking down at his sheets. “I can recommend a couple of people to take over as your manager. Bryan Patterson over at Arista, for one - he’s leaving the label to start his own managing firm, and he’s an excellent - ”
“Nathaniel Christopher Fick,” Walt cut in, “you will shut the fuck up, right now.”
His voice fairly shook with fury, and Nate glanced up, startled. Walt was staring at him with a look that strongly suggested he wanted to punch Nate in the face.
“Are you fucking serious? You really think I give a shit about my image right now? You really think I would dump you like a hot potato after you almost got beaten to death? Because it might be awkward?”
Walt’s voice had risen with each question, and he was shouting now. “Well, fuck you, Nate! I don’t know what the hell I ever did to give you such a low opinion of me, but I am not some - some - some pansyass homophobic dipshit who’s gonna turn tail and abandon the one guy who’s had my back all this time!”
He broke off, chest heaving, still glaring at Nate. Nate had never seen him so furious; he hadn’t even known Walt was capable of being this angry. Nate was aware that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t seem to gather himself. And anyway, Walt wasn’t through yet.
“I am not embarrassed this happened to you, Nate, I am ashamed it happened. I am ashamed that there are assholes out there who think horseshit like this makes them good Americans. How anyone could look at you and not see - ”
He stopped again, gulped for air. He continued, more quietly but with no less intensity, “When I came out here three years ago, I didn’t know shit. Hell, I’d never been more than thirty miles away from home before, for God’s sake. I didn’t have a goddamn clue what I was doing, and the only reason I wasn’t eaten alive is because you were there to keep the shit from rolling down on me. I trust you more than I trust anyone I’ve ever met in my life other than my parents. You think I don’t know what a friend you’ve been to me? You think I’m going to let you walk away, ever?”
He pointed a finger at Nate. “Fuck that noise. You’re stuck with me, Fick. I don’t care if you fuck horses, you are still my manager. And my friend. You got my back, and I got yours. So there.”
There was a ringing silence. Nate swallowed. His face felt like it was on fire, he was blushing so hard, and he hoped desperately he wasn’t going to do something ridiculous like start blubbering.
Then Walt seemed to come back to himself, and realize what he’d been saying - or yelling - and flushed even redder than Nate probably was. He palmed the back of his neck, looking down, and actually shuffled his feet.
They were going to embarrass each other to death at this rate. Just to break the stretching silence, Nate said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Well, horse-fucking would prove some of Brad’s theories about country music, at least.”
Walt stared at him a second, and then they both cracked up laughing. And if the laughter was slightly hysterical, and if it hurt Nate’s ribs to do it, that was okay. It was worth it.
When they’d both calmed down a little, Nate reached over and took Walt’s hand tentatively. Walt gripped it back without hesitation.
“Thanks,” Nate said, quietly. “And I’m sorry, Walt. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
“Damn right,” Walt retorted. “Don’t let it happen again.”
They smiled at each other. Then Nate winced as he fell back on his pillow, and Walt’s smile transformed to a worried frown.
“Shit, Nate, you’re exhausted. I should let you get some rest.”
“Not yet,” Nate said, shaking his head. “Not until you’ve told me what happened after I got knocked out.”
“Nate, I really think that - ”
“And where’s Brad?” Nate interrupted, suddenly realizing he hadn’t seen him once since he’d woken up. He wouldn’t have thought Brad would just abandon his post, even if it had turned out Walt was in no danger after all.
And what about me? a traitorous voice inside him whispered. He had no illusions Brad felt about Nate anything like what Nate felt for him, but he would have at least thought Brad would be concerned for him as a friend.
“Walt? Did he even come down to see me?” Nate asked. His throat was not closing up, dammit.
“Of course he did!” Walt exclaimed. “But… he had to leave.”
“To go where?”
Walt sighed, and said reluctantly, “He had to go down to the police station.”
Nate was confused. “What, to give a statement about the notes? Why couldn’t he do that here?”
Walt shifted, looking miserable again, like he always did when giving people bad news. Nate stared at him with an awful suspicion growing in his mind.
“Walt,” he said slowly, “Brad’s not under arrest, is he?”
“Not… exactly, I think,” Walt said. “But they were pretty insistent that he come along.”
“And why is that?” Nate asked, quietly. He had a very bad feeling he already knew the answer.
“Because the reason that guy didn’t kill you,” Walt said, finally, “is because Brad killed him first.”
Part 2