fic: GK western!AU (11/?)
Jun. 12th, 2010 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artHoly crap, what a great fucking game today!! Each time either the US or England scored a goal, my boss and I would text each other some digital shit-talk (she's English). It was a real bonding experience, I think *___* I spent the game at a local Brazilian restaurant, getting brunch there first with my roommate before deciding the spend the rest of the game there. It was a really great crowd, and when Dempsey scored that goal the entire place went fucking nuts.
After that I just came home and wrote fic all day. I know it's a Saturday night, but all that hootin' and hollerin' this morning plumb wore me out!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
Brad and Nate scramble through the whorehouse to the din of exploding objects and bullets zipping overhead. When they finally get outside, they take cover behind the first thing they see—an overturned cart.
“Can’t stay out here all night,” Nate huffs, ducking a blown chunk of wood that flies over his head. “Too many people around!”
Noble sentiments aside, Brad knows they sure as hell can’t stay here—the cart in front of them’s getting shwacked like a lumberjack’s log as they speak. Brad yells to be heard, “We’ll draw the Injuns outta town, move the fight somewhere fair!”
Nate nods. “Good idea. My horse is out back, but I’ll meet you here. Count of three—“ Nate commands, when a burst of gunfire takes out the last peg of wood keeping their cart upright. Damned thing crashes magnificently into a hopeless pile of splinters and for a long, scary-still moment, they’re crouched in the swirling dust, nuts fully exposed. Brad hears Nate curse under his breath.
Like synchronized wind-ups, they both launch towards their respective steeds, keeping low to the ground as bullets pepper their heels.
Brad reaches his horse first and good ol’ Hummer stays stock-still, letting Brad clamber on with ease. Once astride, Brad pulls his Colt from his hip holster and fires a few rounds into the dark, suppressing their invisible shooters long enough for Nate to come around to the front of Sydney's.
“Nate!” Brad cries. “Where the fuck are you, you damned civvie?”
Nate comes running out on foot, his pale skin and clothes glowing like a beacon in the low moonlight. “I counted eight men. They’re mounting their rides,” Nate shouts, “And they took my damned horse!”
“Fuck,” Brad mutters, kicking Hum-vee into gear so that they trot over to where Nate’s standing around, useless with no gun or horse to save his hide. “Get your ass up here, you look like a damned bull’s eye glowing in the dark like that. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“That’s a negative, Sheriff. Those men are here for me,“ Nate says adamantly. “I ain’t involving you.”
Brad doesn’t even try to reason. Just walks Hummer over, leans down mid-stride to grab Nate by the scruff of his neck and drag him along for a few tripping steps before Nate gripes loudly enough for Brad to let go.
“Smugness doesn’t become you,” Nate says from the ground, where Brad knows Nate can’t see his face. He feels the smirk on his face grow.
Without free stirrups for Nate to boost up with, Brad offers down his hand. They lock wrists, Brad pulling him up in one long motion until, before long, they’re both seated in the curved saddle like two peas in a pod.
Nate fidgets like he don’t know where to put his hands and Brad’s about to say something teasing about their proximity—it’s there at the tip of his tongue—when the low thunder of hooves rolls ominously into the air.
All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least. Brad grabs the reins with his free hand and whips them against Hummer’s flank with a cry of ha! and they kick-start down the street. Behind him, Nate wobbles from the momentum but quickly catches himself by plastering to Brad’s back like paint on a wall, arms coming ‘round front. His long-fingered hands clasp together, resting low in Brad’s lap.
A little thrill shoots through Brad…mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back. His soft breathing can be felt acutely in the warm, moist puffs of air that gust over the sensitive knob of Brad’s spine.
Brad shivers. Nate notices and leans back—tries to scoot away, too, but the jostling of the ride just makes their hips bump back together.
They make for the edge of town, breaking the Reno border into unsettled territory where street lamps don’t reach, just moon and stars washing over the familiar backdrop of hard, Washoe terrain. In the barren air, the claps of gunfire chasing them sound ever-louder, ever-nearer.
Brad flattens himself against Hummer, twisting around as Nate smoothly leans to the side, letting Brad fire off a couple rounds. A strangled cry rises up—one down, seven to go.
Above the distant rumble of pursuers, a separate set of hooves suddenly gallops toward them, pulling up hard to Brad’s right side. He braces himself for a mounted duel when a loud, familiar voice pierces the air, “Whoa, watch where you point that thing!”
It’s Ray. Of course it’s Ray. “Ain’t you gotten yourself dead, yet?” Brad asks loudly.
“You’d cry yourself to sleep,” Ray retorts, when his ten gallon gets punctured by a passing bullet. “Whoa, motherfucker!” Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain that arise indicate they found themselves some tidy homes.
“By the way, Brad, I tracked your Injun!”
“Come on, Ray, are we really doing this?” Brad calls, as Hummer gracefully jumps a ridge of brush in the dark. Not so gracefully, Nate’s arms bounce up and smack Brad in the chin. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “Are we seriously having tea-time conversation while our asses get lit up by a flotilla of lunatic savages?”
“Word to the motherfucking yeah, Brad! That Injun I tracked down, his name was Meesh—he flapped his lips so much, you’d’ve thunk there'd been a Beretta to his head! Oh wait, there was.” As if to make a point, Ray shoves his arm out and lobs a few rounds before continuing, “Turns out all these murderous Injuns are just following the sweet scent of fresh pussy. Their leader’s some Cheyenne squaw named Tigress. Must be some hot piece of ass, all these guys breaking out of the Oklahoma reservations to chase her! Gotta give ‘em props for being such horny motherfuckers!”
It’s hard enough to hear as is, but the rest of Ray’s diatribe gets drowned out by new riders coming up to Brad’s left. The panting of hard-ridden horses resonates louder and louder, but when Brad turns around to look, he’s glad to find that it’s just his men. Counts ‘em—Poke, Walt, and Rudy with his shirt off—what the fuck?—all galloping in a line, letting off slugs like the ammo’ll explode in their guns if they sit too long.
“Nice night!” Brad yells in salutation. Rudy pumps his fist into the air and Walt lets loose a spirited yee-haw!
With a fresh skip in his stride, Brad spurs his horse to more momentum. He re-joins the fight with a deafening bang from his Peacemaker, gunpowder sparking at the muzzle. In the shadowy light, he sees another target hunch over and slide off his horse.
Like fish in a barrel, Brad thinks, lifting his gun to take aim again.
When he pulls, the trigger clicks empty. “Shit,” he swears, and it’s right then that he feels Nate’s hands toying with Brad’s shirt where it's tucked in at the front, only to pull fabric up and slide underneath to rest on Brad's bare belly. Against his lower back, a hard length presses against him and Brad can't tell whether it's Nate's gun, or something else.
“Shit,” Brad cusses again, though for wholly different reason. “The fuck you doing, Nate?”
“I want my gun,” Nate replies in a punched-out voice that sounds way too close, his lips grazing Brad’s ear. Brad jerks his head away, forcing himself with difficulty to focus as he tosses back,
“Forget it, it ain’t loaded! Use my Pocket Navy, left ankle. And grab me a loaded cylinder while you’re down there.”
Nate obediently withdraws his hands from where they’d been rooting around, and Brad bites back his disappointment. He’s still half-hard from Missy’s unfinished blowjob back at Sydney’s, and plain pissed he didn’t get to blow his load before this whole clusterfuck came about.
Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken. He goes straight for the ankle holster, yanking up pant leg to get at the gun there.
At just .31 caliber, the Pocket Navy’s no guaranteed death-dealer like the Colt .45 or Nate’s Army Outlaw, but it’ll do in a pinch. Nate wriggles the piece out of its holster, then procures the extra cylinder from Brad’s side bag in faster than an eyeblink.
Brad proffers the reins so Nate can steer while Brad reloads, but instead, strong arms come around his waist and Nate reaches for Brad's Colt instead. He wraps his hands around it, ignoring the tight grip already there, and swaps the cylinder out with an efficiency that belies experience.
"Thanks," Brad says a bit breathlessly. Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment, the kid throwing himself up in the air as he twists around to plunk back down, this time facing backwards in the saddle with his shoulder blades digging against Brad's.
Brad hears him take one—two—three shots into the night, clean and calculated in a way Brad would willingly admit to being impressed by.
The Injun assault lessens significantly after that, and around him Brad hears his men take out the rest of the straggling party with ease.
Brad's in no way surprised at the outcome of the waning firefight, but that don't make it any less of a relief to have the doggone bullets finally cease chasing ‘em like a swarm of angry hornets. Before long, only the sound of pounding hooves and panting horses roll through the dry, Washoe air.
Up ahead, a glowing string of lights looms up on the horizon. It’s Sparks, sitting pretty like the sweet dame she is.
The band of lawmen keep silent and focused, however, intent on just getting back and going home. Nothing like a fierce firefight to drum out the swagger from a bunch of loudmouthed cowboys.
Brad slows Hum-vee to a canter, cognizant of his horse's sweaty flank and spent breath while the other riders pace him in the wind-down. It's just an added bonus that the slower gait goes easier on the men as well; behind Brad, Nate's since maneuvered around to face front again, but his breathing's harsh and his arms around Brad's waist are limp and ineffectual. At one point, Hummer swerves to avoid a ditch and Nate lists dangerously to the right, after which Brad quickly holsters his gun and reaches back to clamp onto Nate's leg for fear the kid'll slide right off like a sack of potatoes.
Luckily, they pull into Sparks without further event. Brad leads everyone towards the police compound and when the squat building appears around the corner, they all slow down to a trot before curving to a gradual, final stop.
Brad immediately dismounts, paying no heed to stabling Hummer even as the other men walk their horses to the shed. Still atop, Nate’s made no indication he’s anything but just plumb tired, but Brad doesn’t like the silence between them either. Hell, even Nate’s shit-talking is preferred to this bullshit lack of communication.
“Nate,” Brad says, holding out his hand. Nate ignores it and swings his leg easily over the side to jump down.
He stumbles a bit though, and that’s the first obvious sign something’s off. Brad swallows thickly, watching Nate dust himself off with one hand, the other hand still holding Brad’s Pocket Navy.
“Fick, you all right?” Brad asks, eyes roving over Nate’s body. It’s too damned dark to tell if the kid’s been hit—too many clothes to catch sight of any wound.
“Jus’ fine,” Nate replies, but the sharp inhalation after that makes him sound about anything but fine.
Brad strides forward and brusquely begins to pat him down. Nate protests, saying some shit about how he’s perfectly all right and how he just needs directions to the closest inn so he can get some shut-eye, but when Brad thumps against Nate’s inner thigh, his words end on a hiss.
From the direction of the stable, Brad sees his men filter out en cadre. He lifts his head and calls out, “Nate’s been shot.”
Poke rounds up, wincing in sympathy. “Shit, dog.”
Rudy gets there next and moves in front of Brad, dropping down to one knee to inspect the damage. The muscles shift back and forth under Rudy’s gleaming skin as he gently reaches out and feels around the punctured fabric of Nate’s trousers.
Brad watches stoically for a minute but impatience quickly wins out and he nudges his sergeant aside, crouching down to take over the job.
“Shit, they didn’t get your dick, did they?” Ray comes up behind Poke. “Because that would fucking suck. Oh man, can you imagine if—“
“Ray,” Brad says curtly. “Take care of Hummer for me, would ya? I’m busy.” He doesn’t bother to make eye contact, but he can practically see the knowing expression on his deputy’s whiskey tango, inbred face as Ray pauses significantly before pivoting back around with the loud scrape of grit under his boots.
“We should get him to Doc’s,” Walt suggests. “See if he’s still awake.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Nate argues. “I can clean myself up if y’all would stop hovering like nursemaids.”
“Doc’s out,” Poke replies, ignoring Nate completely. “He left for a house call in Silver Springs yesterday, not supposed to be back ‘till Thursday.”
“Well, any one of us can patch him up for now,” Rudy says. “I got a bottle of Phoenix Bitters at my house, and a spare bed upstairs—“
“I’m taking him,” Brad interrupts, standing up to his full height. His eyes don't leave Nate's, and Nate blinks up in a priceless expression that borders somewhere between exasperation and relief. Brad adds, “That bullet would’ve been mine if it didn’t go through Fick first, so he’s my responsibility.”
The tone of his voice begs no room for dissent. With a collective shrug and murmurs of good luck, the Washoe police slowly disband, leaving Nate and Brad alone in the night.
“We ain’t gonna ride anymore with you sitting on that bullet,” Brad instructs, stepping in to pull one of Nate’s arms over his shoulders. Surprisingly, Nate keeps his attitude in check and Brad says, quieter this time, “My place is this way.”
After that I just came home and wrote fic all day. I know it's a Saturday night, but all that hootin' and hollerin' this morning plumb wore me out!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
Brad and Nate scramble through the whorehouse to the din of exploding objects and bullets zipping overhead. When they finally get outside, they take cover behind the first thing they see—an overturned cart.
“Can’t stay out here all night,” Nate huffs, ducking a blown chunk of wood that flies over his head. “Too many people around!”
Noble sentiments aside, Brad knows they sure as hell can’t stay here—the cart in front of them’s getting shwacked like a lumberjack’s log as they speak. Brad yells to be heard, “We’ll draw the Injuns outta town, move the fight somewhere fair!”
Nate nods. “Good idea. My horse is out back, but I’ll meet you here. Count of three—“ Nate commands, when a burst of gunfire takes out the last peg of wood keeping their cart upright. Damned thing crashes magnificently into a hopeless pile of splinters and for a long, scary-still moment, they’re crouched in the swirling dust, nuts fully exposed. Brad hears Nate curse under his breath.
Like synchronized wind-ups, they both launch towards their respective steeds, keeping low to the ground as bullets pepper their heels.
Brad reaches his horse first and good ol’ Hummer stays stock-still, letting Brad clamber on with ease. Once astride, Brad pulls his Colt from his hip holster and fires a few rounds into the dark, suppressing their invisible shooters long enough for Nate to come around to the front of Sydney's.
“Nate!” Brad cries. “Where the fuck are you, you damned civvie?”
Nate comes running out on foot, his pale skin and clothes glowing like a beacon in the low moonlight. “I counted eight men. They’re mounting their rides,” Nate shouts, “And they took my damned horse!”
“Fuck,” Brad mutters, kicking Hum-vee into gear so that they trot over to where Nate’s standing around, useless with no gun or horse to save his hide. “Get your ass up here, you look like a damned bull’s eye glowing in the dark like that. We’ll get you somewhere safe.”
“That’s a negative, Sheriff. Those men are here for me,“ Nate says adamantly. “I ain’t involving you.”
Brad doesn’t even try to reason. Just walks Hummer over, leans down mid-stride to grab Nate by the scruff of his neck and drag him along for a few tripping steps before Nate gripes loudly enough for Brad to let go.
“Smugness doesn’t become you,” Nate says from the ground, where Brad knows Nate can’t see his face. He feels the smirk on his face grow.
Without free stirrups for Nate to boost up with, Brad offers down his hand. They lock wrists, Brad pulling him up in one long motion until, before long, they’re both seated in the curved saddle like two peas in a pod.
Nate fidgets like he don’t know where to put his hands and Brad’s about to say something teasing about their proximity—it’s there at the tip of his tongue—when the low thunder of hooves rolls ominously into the air.
All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least. Brad grabs the reins with his free hand and whips them against Hummer’s flank with a cry of ha! and they kick-start down the street. Behind him, Nate wobbles from the momentum but quickly catches himself by plastering to Brad’s back like paint on a wall, arms coming ‘round front. His long-fingered hands clasp together, resting low in Brad’s lap.
A little thrill shoots through Brad…mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back. His soft breathing can be felt acutely in the warm, moist puffs of air that gust over the sensitive knob of Brad’s spine.
Brad shivers. Nate notices and leans back—tries to scoot away, too, but the jostling of the ride just makes their hips bump back together.
They make for the edge of town, breaking the Reno border into unsettled territory where street lamps don’t reach, just moon and stars washing over the familiar backdrop of hard, Washoe terrain. In the barren air, the claps of gunfire chasing them sound ever-louder, ever-nearer.
Brad flattens himself against Hummer, twisting around as Nate smoothly leans to the side, letting Brad fire off a couple rounds. A strangled cry rises up—one down, seven to go.
Above the distant rumble of pursuers, a separate set of hooves suddenly gallops toward them, pulling up hard to Brad’s right side. He braces himself for a mounted duel when a loud, familiar voice pierces the air, “Whoa, watch where you point that thing!”
It’s Ray. Of course it’s Ray. “Ain’t you gotten yourself dead, yet?” Brad asks loudly.
“You’d cry yourself to sleep,” Ray retorts, when his ten gallon gets punctured by a passing bullet. “Whoa, motherfucker!” Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain that arise indicate they found themselves some tidy homes.
“By the way, Brad, I tracked your Injun!”
“Come on, Ray, are we really doing this?” Brad calls, as Hummer gracefully jumps a ridge of brush in the dark. Not so gracefully, Nate’s arms bounce up and smack Brad in the chin. Rolling his eyes, he adds, “Are we seriously having tea-time conversation while our asses get lit up by a flotilla of lunatic savages?”
“Word to the motherfucking yeah, Brad! That Injun I tracked down, his name was Meesh—he flapped his lips so much, you’d’ve thunk there'd been a Beretta to his head! Oh wait, there was.” As if to make a point, Ray shoves his arm out and lobs a few rounds before continuing, “Turns out all these murderous Injuns are just following the sweet scent of fresh pussy. Their leader’s some Cheyenne squaw named Tigress. Must be some hot piece of ass, all these guys breaking out of the Oklahoma reservations to chase her! Gotta give ‘em props for being such horny motherfuckers!”
It’s hard enough to hear as is, but the rest of Ray’s diatribe gets drowned out by new riders coming up to Brad’s left. The panting of hard-ridden horses resonates louder and louder, but when Brad turns around to look, he’s glad to find that it’s just his men. Counts ‘em—Poke, Walt, and Rudy with his shirt off—what the fuck?—all galloping in a line, letting off slugs like the ammo’ll explode in their guns if they sit too long.
“Nice night!” Brad yells in salutation. Rudy pumps his fist into the air and Walt lets loose a spirited yee-haw!
With a fresh skip in his stride, Brad spurs his horse to more momentum. He re-joins the fight with a deafening bang from his Peacemaker, gunpowder sparking at the muzzle. In the shadowy light, he sees another target hunch over and slide off his horse.
Like fish in a barrel, Brad thinks, lifting his gun to take aim again.
When he pulls, the trigger clicks empty. “Shit,” he swears, and it’s right then that he feels Nate’s hands toying with Brad’s shirt where it's tucked in at the front, only to pull fabric up and slide underneath to rest on Brad's bare belly. Against his lower back, a hard length presses against him and Brad can't tell whether it's Nate's gun, or something else.
“Shit,” Brad cusses again, though for wholly different reason. “The fuck you doing, Nate?”
“I want my gun,” Nate replies in a punched-out voice that sounds way too close, his lips grazing Brad’s ear. Brad jerks his head away, forcing himself with difficulty to focus as he tosses back,
“Forget it, it ain’t loaded! Use my Pocket Navy, left ankle. And grab me a loaded cylinder while you’re down there.”
Nate obediently withdraws his hands from where they’d been rooting around, and Brad bites back his disappointment. He’s still half-hard from Missy’s unfinished blowjob back at Sydney’s, and plain pissed he didn’t get to blow his load before this whole clusterfuck came about.
Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken. He goes straight for the ankle holster, yanking up pant leg to get at the gun there.
At just .31 caliber, the Pocket Navy’s no guaranteed death-dealer like the Colt .45 or Nate’s Army Outlaw, but it’ll do in a pinch. Nate wriggles the piece out of its holster, then procures the extra cylinder from Brad’s side bag in faster than an eyeblink.
Brad proffers the reins so Nate can steer while Brad reloads, but instead, strong arms come around his waist and Nate reaches for Brad's Colt instead. He wraps his hands around it, ignoring the tight grip already there, and swaps the cylinder out with an efficiency that belies experience.
"Thanks," Brad says a bit breathlessly. Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment, the kid throwing himself up in the air as he twists around to plunk back down, this time facing backwards in the saddle with his shoulder blades digging against Brad's.
Brad hears him take one—two—three shots into the night, clean and calculated in a way Brad would willingly admit to being impressed by.
The Injun assault lessens significantly after that, and around him Brad hears his men take out the rest of the straggling party with ease.
Brad's in no way surprised at the outcome of the waning firefight, but that don't make it any less of a relief to have the doggone bullets finally cease chasing ‘em like a swarm of angry hornets. Before long, only the sound of pounding hooves and panting horses roll through the dry, Washoe air.
Up ahead, a glowing string of lights looms up on the horizon. It’s Sparks, sitting pretty like the sweet dame she is.
The band of lawmen keep silent and focused, however, intent on just getting back and going home. Nothing like a fierce firefight to drum out the swagger from a bunch of loudmouthed cowboys.
Brad slows Hum-vee to a canter, cognizant of his horse's sweaty flank and spent breath while the other riders pace him in the wind-down. It's just an added bonus that the slower gait goes easier on the men as well; behind Brad, Nate's since maneuvered around to face front again, but his breathing's harsh and his arms around Brad's waist are limp and ineffectual. At one point, Hummer swerves to avoid a ditch and Nate lists dangerously to the right, after which Brad quickly holsters his gun and reaches back to clamp onto Nate's leg for fear the kid'll slide right off like a sack of potatoes.
Luckily, they pull into Sparks without further event. Brad leads everyone towards the police compound and when the squat building appears around the corner, they all slow down to a trot before curving to a gradual, final stop.
Brad immediately dismounts, paying no heed to stabling Hummer even as the other men walk their horses to the shed. Still atop, Nate’s made no indication he’s anything but just plumb tired, but Brad doesn’t like the silence between them either. Hell, even Nate’s shit-talking is preferred to this bullshit lack of communication.
“Nate,” Brad says, holding out his hand. Nate ignores it and swings his leg easily over the side to jump down.
He stumbles a bit though, and that’s the first obvious sign something’s off. Brad swallows thickly, watching Nate dust himself off with one hand, the other hand still holding Brad’s Pocket Navy.
“Fick, you all right?” Brad asks, eyes roving over Nate’s body. It’s too damned dark to tell if the kid’s been hit—too many clothes to catch sight of any wound.
“Jus’ fine,” Nate replies, but the sharp inhalation after that makes him sound about anything but fine.
Brad strides forward and brusquely begins to pat him down. Nate protests, saying some shit about how he’s perfectly all right and how he just needs directions to the closest inn so he can get some shut-eye, but when Brad thumps against Nate’s inner thigh, his words end on a hiss.
From the direction of the stable, Brad sees his men filter out en cadre. He lifts his head and calls out, “Nate’s been shot.”
Poke rounds up, wincing in sympathy. “Shit, dog.”
Rudy gets there next and moves in front of Brad, dropping down to one knee to inspect the damage. The muscles shift back and forth under Rudy’s gleaming skin as he gently reaches out and feels around the punctured fabric of Nate’s trousers.
Brad watches stoically for a minute but impatience quickly wins out and he nudges his sergeant aside, crouching down to take over the job.
“Shit, they didn’t get your dick, did they?” Ray comes up behind Poke. “Because that would fucking suck. Oh man, can you imagine if—“
“Ray,” Brad says curtly. “Take care of Hummer for me, would ya? I’m busy.” He doesn’t bother to make eye contact, but he can practically see the knowing expression on his deputy’s whiskey tango, inbred face as Ray pauses significantly before pivoting back around with the loud scrape of grit under his boots.
“We should get him to Doc’s,” Walt suggests. “See if he’s still awake.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Nate argues. “I can clean myself up if y’all would stop hovering like nursemaids.”
“Doc’s out,” Poke replies, ignoring Nate completely. “He left for a house call in Silver Springs yesterday, not supposed to be back ‘till Thursday.”
“Well, any one of us can patch him up for now,” Rudy says. “I got a bottle of Phoenix Bitters at my house, and a spare bed upstairs—“
“I’m taking him,” Brad interrupts, standing up to his full height. His eyes don't leave Nate's, and Nate blinks up in a priceless expression that borders somewhere between exasperation and relief. Brad adds, “That bullet would’ve been mine if it didn’t go through Fick first, so he’s my responsibility.”
The tone of his voice begs no room for dissent. With a collective shrug and murmurs of good luck, the Washoe police slowly disband, leaving Nate and Brad alone in the night.
“We ain’t gonna ride anymore with you sitting on that bullet,” Brad instructs, stepping in to pull one of Nate’s arms over his shoulders. Surprisingly, Nate keeps his attitude in check and Brad says, quieter this time, “My place is this way.”
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 01:55 am (UTC)Rudy without a shirt. What a surprise XD
And I knew something was wrong with Nate the moment he nearly fell off Hummer :( You take good care of him, Brad, ya hear me!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 03:45 am (UTC)Eek, strong words!!! *blushy* You think so, really? That's so flattering considering there wasn't even any smut to be biased about XD
Rudy without a shirt. What a surprise XD
Hahahahah yeah, I think I throw all his characterization into being, well, a ridiculous Adonis.
I love this sfm!
Date: 2010-06-13 01:55 am (UTC)Also, new gif is appropriate for my feelings on seeing there was another installment!
Re: I love this sfm!
Date: 2010-06-13 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 06:37 am (UTC)All right, so no time for horseplay. Not now, at least.
Hee! I laughed and laughed. Nice pun.
mainly from the knowledge that eight bloodthirsty savages are riding towards them with intent to kill, but maybe also a little bit from Nate’s solid presence at his back.
::snorts:: Oh, yeah, only a teeny-tiny little bit because of Nate pressed all up against him. But just the smallest bit, because no cause for thrill there.
Oh, BRAD.
Ray swings around and shoots off more bullets than strictly necessary, but the outlying roars of pain that arise indicate they found themselves some tidy homes.
I just loved the phrasing here. It feels so authentic and present to the moment. Really nicely done fight scenes all around.
Rudy with his shirt off—what the fuck?
AHAHAHA! The cavalry arrives and Rudy's half-naked. OF COURSE!
Nate’s hands toying with Brad’s shirt where it's tucked in at the front, only to pull fabric up and slide underneath to rest on Brad's bare belly.
Heh. So he wants his gun...which he will find feeling u Brad's belly. Or possibly in his pants. Uh-HUH.
Nate drops to the side, stretching down Brad’s leg with a flexibility that makes Brad’s breath quicken.
I love you for this. Kind of a lot. Interestingly flexible, that's our Nate!
Nate doesn't respond, just squeezes Brad's fist one last time before launching into a cowboy move that done stops Brad’s heart for a stretching moment
NATE'S A BADASS! ::dies of love::
I didn't think it was possible to love this series any more...and then you go and prove me wrong. 'Cause DAMN.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 10:52 pm (UTC)Heh. So he wants his gun...which he will find feeling u Brad's belly. Or possibly in his pants. Uh-HUH.
Sometimes--RARELY, but sometimes--Nate is not exactly the brightest bulb. This usually happens when Brad's dick is nearby.
Interestingly flexible, that's our Nate!
Indeed XDXDXD
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Date: 2010-06-13 09:23 am (UTC)Um. In other news, loving this next part! And finally, I have watched all of GK and I now know who these guys are. Score! I even got a few GK icons for the occasion.
I’m taking him
Oh, we know Brad, we know... ;)
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Date: 2010-06-13 10:54 pm (UTC)HAHAHAHAHA omg my dear, is it evil that I find your frustration with the US vs Eng game absolutely hilarious and delicious? *bounces from foot to foot*
I have watched all of GK
YAY! I just finished my fourth re-watch, haha. This show absolutely OWNS ME.
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Date: 2010-06-13 06:59 pm (UTC)Might put words to those smileys at some point but let me say that things just keep getting BETTER and I might be a little bit in love with you &hearts
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Date: 2010-06-13 10:56 pm (UTC)I might be a little bit in love with you ♥
Et moi aussi, je t'adore un peu <333 (do you like my shitty Franche??)
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Date: 2010-06-13 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-13 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-15 12:20 am (UTC)APPROVES.
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Date: 2010-06-15 03:30 am (UTC)