aeroport_art | Fic: The West Coast Two-Step (Chapter Nine)

Title: The West Coast Two-Step (9/9)
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:

aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (4,700 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.

Saturday is a total wash. Riding horseback into the blinding glare of the rising sun with a splitting hangover is not something Brad recommends, but he’s gotta get home somehow. The rest of the day’s spent asleep, pretty much.

Brad wakes up on Sunday in his own, proper bed, ready to take a second stab at the weekend. Then he remembers the roast that evening. He can’t decide if he wants to go or not.

While he’s thinking, Brad gives Hummer a good rubdown and grooming at his stable behind the ranch. It takes all day, brushing his horse’s chocolate coat until it shines, cleaning his teeth even as Humvee snaps at Brad’s fingers like they're carrots, and by the time six o’clock rolls around it doesn’t seem worth it to show up anymore. So Brad skips the roast and hopes Trombley doesn’t shoot any wild dogs this time.

He’s in the middle of gouging pebbles out of Hummer’s shoes when, faintly, he hears the sound of an approaching rider. He ain't expecting no one, but he’ll take one wild guess.

“Iceman!”

Brad sighs, dropping Humvee's foot with a little click to the hay-strewn floor.

Ray’s voice has a unique quality to it, something Ray describes himself as ‘commanding’. Brad just calls it shrill. It’s also the last damned voice he wants to hear because Ray could only have one possible reason for coming all the way out to Brad’s ranch, and that’s to check on him.

Brad comes out of the stable, rubbing sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. He rounds the side of his ranch to the music of Ray’s horse stamping around out front, where—goddamnit, those scattered, wooden echoes better not be the sound of rocks getting kicked up all over his front porch again.

“The fuck, Ray?” Brad asks as Ray whirls around. Brad wipes his hands on a towel tucked in his waistband and continues, “Shouldn’t you be cannibalizing some roasted pig right about now?”

He expects Ray’s response to be openly worried, like Why aren’t you at Trombley’s? or, worse—Are you okay?, but what Brad actually gets is something else entirely.

Ray storms forward, clutching a small piece of cardstock that starts to look awful familiar the closer his deputy gets.

“What the hell, Brad?” Ray holds up the card. As suspected, it’s the telegram Brad got last week. He feels his mood worsen.

“Were you seriously going to throw this away?“ Ray demands.

“Why you were going through my trash?” Brad counters.

“I swung by the office to find you. We needed a harmonica, and you said you’d—you know, fuck it. Doesn’t even matter.” In a fit of frustration, Ray throws the telegram onto the ground, which lands in front of Brad’s boot. “Listen. You have to go.”

Brad lifts an eyebrow. “I already saw the baby. What, do I need to perform rites or something, too? You realize that requires a pair of scissors, in my religion.”

In the face of the blank stare he receives, Brad pointedly looks down at his deputy’s crotch, then makes a snipping motion with his fingers.

“What?“ Ray yelps, recoiling. “Jesus—you’re joking.”

“Hand to questionable God. Look it up.”

“What the fuck do you sick Hebrews cut down there?” Ray squints in thought, then shakes his head. “You know what, never mind. I’m not even talking about Trombley’s roast. I meant, you have to go to the train station.“

Bristling, Brad takes a crunching step forward. He makes sure to put his foot on the crumpled telegram lying on the gravel. “I’m not chasing after some U.S. Marshal who pretends like he’s a big city fish in a backwater pond. He used us, Ray—got from us what he wanted, and when that was done? He fucked out of here like the town was on fire.”

“Dude,” Ray nearly shouts. “He apologized with two-hundred pounds of opium. And now he’s asking you out on an Injun-killing spree. If that’s not I’m sorry baby, come fuck me now, I don’t know what is!”

Brad stares. “If your idea of foreplay includes getting high and killing things, I’m worried about your favorite goat.”

“Bucky’s fine, he loves it,” Ray says flippantly. “Besides, you don’t have to actually sodomize Nate Fick. He’d probably cry all the way through. I’m just saying.” Ray rubs the back of his head, like he’s thinking for words until he eventually concludes, “You can’t leave it like this. See what he wants, at least.”

Brad clenches his fists. He doesn’t know what Nate wants, but what Brad wants is to hit something. “I ain’t gonna bend over for a reaming every time some Eastern dicksuck throws a dime my way. Nate can take his presumptuous ass and hire somebody else.”

The look Ray gives is a little too shrewd. “Then tell him no,” Ray insists. “Tell him to fuck off in person. You can’t let him have the last word.”

Brad stills.

Shit, that part’s true—he hates the fact that everything ended on Nate’s terms, while Brad was left chasing fumes just to piece together what the hell happened after Nate left.

Brad takes a step back, removing his foot from the abused telegram. Ray crouches down to pick it up, dusting it off.

“Seven o’clock,” Ray reads, before looking up to meet Brad’s gaze. “That gives you less than an hour. You can still make it, though.”

Brad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Fuck,” he swears, turning around and putting his hands behind his head. “Fuck.”

He’s not prepared to see Nate again. Took him long enough to come to terms with the fact Nate’s gone.

“Come on, Brad. You can threaten to rip my face off later if this doesn’t pan out, but just go.”

Brad opens his eyes, seeing the familiar stretch of desert grasses and sky. He’s facing west—facing Reno. Nate’s there, waiting for him.

Fuck it.

Brad lets his arms drop to his sides and turns around. Ray’s bouncing from foot to foot, watching him expectantly.

“Saying ‘fuck you’ just ain’t the same in a letter,” Brad says.

Ray punches the air, then freezes. “Before you go, can I borrow your harmonica? Not even the sound of your balls slapping against Fick’s ass from the West Indies or where-the-fuck-ever he is can drown out the awesome solo I’ve been working on.”

-----

Brad doesn’t pack anything—just throws a light coat on, grabs a few things off his table, and splits. Even has to leave Ray behind, who’s occupied with watering his Appaloosa before he’ll head back to the roast.

The twenty-minute ride to Reno shrinks to fifteen at Brad’s urging, Hummer galloping hard enough to sweat. Even still Brad finds himself counting time, checking his fob the moment they pull up to the Southern Pacific station. Now that he’s made the decision to see Nate once more, he damned well better not miss him again.

Brad stables his horse and by the time he enters the station, it’s seven o’clock on the dot. In the Spanish-styled building, travelers mill in and out of the clay-brick arcade like faceless currents. One man stands apart from the crowd, though; he has dark, close-cropped hair and waits by the east entrance. His posture is straight and erect like a soldier’s—like Nate’s.

Brad strolls up, stands directly in front of the man.

"Christeson?" he asks.

The man jumps a little, but recovers quickly to reply, "That’s right. I take it you’re Sheriff Colbert?"

"Where's Nate?" Brad replies. He’s got no patience for a dog and pony show. He’s here for just one reason, and making small talk with a Deputy Marshal sure ain’t it.

Christeson frowns, saying cautiously, "On the platform." He looks unconvinced that Brad is who he says he is.

Sighing, Brad digs out his nickel badge from the breast pocket of his sand-colored shirt and flashes it. Lo and behold the magic of a twenty-five cent piece of issued metal, for it earns him the instant respect it always does. Christeson smiles sheepishly, an unvoiced apology for doubting him.

They walk through the open arches of the station, passing underneath exposed rafters that span the long, narrow building, reminiscent of a church. On the other side, hand-painted signs point to different platforms, and Brad trails Christeson wordlessly as they trek up a ramped pathway labeled ‘Oakland’.

The air is hot outside, as usual, but the sun’s getting lower and a cool breeze tempers the heat. Underneath a continuous awning, supported by square columns of unvarnished pine, they walk alongside railroad tracks until the wooden deck becomes increasingly trafficked with the boots, oxfords, and heels of milling passengers.

The train hasn’t arrived yet, but men and women occupy every bench or spare bit of leaning space, laden down with children or valises, or both. It makes it increasingly difficult to navigate the narrow platform, but Brad’s height comes in handy now, and he searches the sea of people with a hawk’s intent.

At the far end of the track, Nate's familiar silhouette can be made out, black hat tipped low to shade against the sinking sun, his ass perched against a row planters next to an equally reposed Gunny Wynn.

Brad feels his chest seize up, but he sets his face in a cool expression and briskly strides over.

He stops right in front of Nate’s feet, letting his stretched shadow announce his presence. It takes a moment, but Nate lifts his head, the brim of his hat slanting up until it clears a path for their eyes to meet.

Nate doesn't say anything, just blinks at Brad owlishly. His green eyes dilate now that Brad’s blocked out the sun, his chapped lips are parted, and he keeps staring like he can’t believe Brad actually showed up. Granted, it’s a fair assessment—Brad ain’t even sure if this is a good idea, yet.

Christeson interrupts them with loud footfalls as he catches up to Brad. "Sheriff,” he says. “This is United States Marshal Nathaniel Fick. "

Brad smiles wryly and Nate squares his shoulders, wiping his face clean of expression like an ocean wave smoothing out sand.

Christeson turns to Brad. "Mr. Colbert, you'll be reporting directly to the Marshal as Special Deputy of the Service, if you so choose to accept upon hearing the terms of your agreement. Now, Marshal Wynn—" Gunny nods his head in greeting, "—is his partner and will be acting as correspondent between the Service and yourself, rather than as a direct, superior officer."

Brad nods slowly, never letting his eyes stray from Nate's face. Most people find it unsettling when he does this—apparently it’s part of the reason folks started calling him ‘Iceman’—but Nate’s at ease, watching back impassively with his hands in his pockets as Christeson finishes up introductions.

“Mr. Colbert?”

Brad blinks and turns to Christeson with a blank look, then noticed the clipboard being offered. Attached to it is a sheet of paper labeled “DOJ Non-Disclosure Agreement”.

“It’s just a formality before Marshal Wynn debriefs the mission,” Christeson explains, holding out a fountain pen.

“I’m not here for that,” Brad says dismissively. He lifts the back of his light coat and reaches behind to grasp for the solid, warm piece of metal he knows he'll find there.

Under the careful watch of all parties present, he draws out the Outlaw. Spins it easily over his index finger to proffer it to Nate, handle-first.

"You forgot this when you left my place the other morning, Nate."

To Brad's extreme delight, Nate's eyes grow huge and round. Next to him, Gunny peers at his partner with a question in his eyes, while Christeson just looks surprised they even know each other.

Nate takes his gun, careful not to let their fingers brush. Doesn't matter—Brad knows he feels the electricity anyway, like a phantom touch.

Nate clears his throat. "It's going to be 'sir' from here out, Sheriff, if you decide to take this case."

This is the moment Brad’s been waiting for. “I already said, I’m not here for that. Just wanted to return your gun.” Brad takes a step back and settles into a wide stance, resting his hands on his belt buckle. “Good luck on your mission, gents.”

Nate’s mouth thins out and he bites his lower lip, obviously distressed. “Sheriff—” he starts, but Brad cuts him off with a final tip of his hat and turns to leave.

It should feel better than it does—victory, that is. It shouldn’t feel like dust in his mouth.

Brad makes it halfway back to the station before Nate comes after him, calling out his name. The flicker of hope that insinuates itself in Brad’s chest is an annoying thing he can’t help.

“Sheriff,” Nate repeats, his footsteps uneven against the wooden deck like he’s weaving through the crowd. Brad doesn’t slow down, just keeps marching. “Sheriff, turn around.”

It’s stupid, he knows. Brad’s got not reason to be walking away like Nate ain’t gonna catch up in about two seconds, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He can’t—

“God damn it, Brad.” Nate puts his hand on Brad’s shoulder, pulling him to a halt. “Brad.”

He stops. Ain’t got a choice, really. Nate’s hand is heavy on his shoulder.

“Would you turn around and face me like a fucking man?” Nate asks. His voice sounds agitated, angry even—but then the hand on Brad’s shoulder drops down to catch the back of his bicep and Nate adds, quietly like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, “Please, Brad. Look at me.”

It sounds like a request, but the steel in Nate’s voice makes it an order. Brad turns around.

“What is it?” He doesn’t jerk his arm back, even though Nate’s fingers feel like iron brands through his coat and shirtsleeve. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want. You’re here, aren’t you?” Nate says heatedly. “And don’t feed me that bullshit about you coming back just to return my gun.”

The sheer gall of Nate’s indignity throws Brad for a loop, but he comes swinging back. “You’re right. I do know what you want,” he growls. “You want me because I’m the best goddamned weapon in the West for a manhunt, and since you and your partner don’t have what it takes to capture one trite Injun—an Injun with tits, mind you—you’re trying to bribe me into doing your job for you.”

They’re drawing attention out here and Brad doesn’t want to share this conversation with the entire fucking town. He walks backwards, Nate following him until they fall under the shadow of a porch column, then pulls him aside so they’re partially hidden from the waiting crowd.

Nate’s back hits the wooden post in the face of Brad’s glowering, but he doesn’t look concerned. “Brad,” Nate says, his mouth slow and deliberate as he enunciates each word. “Is this about me leaving that morning?”

“Are you kidding?” Brad’s insulted. What does Nate take him for, a simpering damsel who needs a fainting couch each time she gets a sound fucking? Fuck that.

“Then this is about me leaving town,” Nate concludes.

Brad pauses. “No,” he lies.

Nate’s eyes slide sideways and Brad follows the trajectory, finding a woman in a fine hat watching them suspiciously. Brad stares until she looks away, her bustle wagging as she pitters down the platform to join the other folks waiting for the train.

When Brad faces front again, Nate’s still looking away. That won’t do.

Brad hooks a finger through one of Nate’s belt loops, letting the butt of his curled palm rest against Nate’s hip. “Hey,” he says.

Nate snaps back and the weight of his green gaze feels good. Nate licks his lips before saying, “If this is about me leaving, I wasn’t. I always meant to come back. I’m sorry if it seemed abrupt, but Gunny and I had to chase the lead we got from Marla and we didn’t know how long we’d be gone. It just seemed prudent to take our belongings with us.”

“You could’ve warned me. Left a note at the hotel. Something.” Brad’s aware he’s showing his hand, but at this point, he’s sick of pretending. Sick of the game and the bluffing they’ve engaged since the day Nate stepped into Mathilda. If it means Brad’s going to have to pick himself up again after Nate leaves, so be it. “After the things we did—”

“Brad,” Nate says urgently. His eyes dart towards the platform again, but Brad just tugs on the belt loop, anchoring Nate to the topic at hand.

“After the things we did, I don’t blame you for leaving. But grow a pair and admit it,” Brad says lowly. “The only reason you even bothered to look me up again was because you needed me. Not because you wanted me to come.”

Nate flushes. It might be from standing so close in public, feet slotted like clock gears, or it could be from the loaded conversation they’re having. Either way, Brad’s implacably drawn, doesn’t even realize he’s leaned in until their knees bump together—

“Sheriff,” Nate protests and Brad instantly obeys, pulling back to a safer distance. Even when he’s ill at ease, Nate has an innate authority about him and Brad’s helpless but to fall in step.

Nate continues, “You want me to admit that I need you? You’re wrong. I don’t need you.”

Brad frowns as Nate continues, “We know exactly where Cocheta is, and while it’s true we didn’t catch her in Reno—something I’ll willingly take the blame for since it was my hesitation that let her get away—I think we did the town a service by chasing her out before she could move the dope.”

“If you don’t need me, then why—”

“Brad, you’re not listening to me. I don’t need you.”

Brad’s had enough. “Fuck, Nate,” he says, pulling his hand out of Nate’s belt loop and stepping back. “I get the fucking picture…”

Brad trails off and stares mutely. Nate’s expression is penetrating as Brad furrows his brow, piecing together Nate’s meaning.

Nate doesn’t need him for the case…but he wants Brad regardless.

A curl of heat licks at the pit of Brad’s belly. The longer Nate watches him, eyes softening as they finally come to an understanding, the heat rises through Brad’s chest and fills him up like smoke.

“Will you come?” Nate asks simply.

Brad answers him with a slow smile, and he knows the message’s received when Nate responds with a quick, but blinding grin of his own.

Nate's eyes suddenly flick over Brad's shoulder, and the chug-chug of pistoning wheels announces the train’s arrival just before it moves past them, pulling into the far platform. But Nate’s still looking in the distance and when he makes a despairing noise, shaking his head, Brad turns around.

If his eyes aren’t mistaken—and they seldom are—that’s his deputy sheriff cutting over, Hasser at his side. Jesus Christ.

"Brad, you can’t bring them,” Nate says. There’s a chuckle hiding in Nate’s voice as he adds, “They’ll piss on the carpet."

“No doubt," Brad agrees, turning back around. He should’ve known his deputy was gonna try to tag along. Ray’s like that, loyal to a fucking fault, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t his best trait too.

Brad makes a split-second decision. He adds, "Chew your nice shoes up too. But you see, these boys are mine, and I don’t work without them."

Nate hesitates as Ray and Walt get closer, their footsteps audible now. Before Brad loses his chance at making a persuasive case, he steps in and leans a forearm against the wooden post above Nate’s head to lightly request, mouth against Nate’s ear, "They won’t cost the Service one Indian cent. But it’s up to you." He pauses, before adding, "Sir.”

Nate closes his eyes, taking in a long, deep breath. Brad pulls back and watches as Nate comes to a conclusion, eyes opening.

"I hope they brought their things. Train's leaving soon," Nate says firmly, before turning to head back to where the engine’s pulled in, Gunny and Christeson no doubt waiting for him.

Brad doesn’t even bother to hide the huge grin on his face. At his back, he hears Ray say, "Shit is on."

Brad turns, only to get a lumpy object thrown at his chest. He catches it instinctively, then looks down. It’s his travel bag, and one glance under the flap reveals some clothes and underwear and what looks like the rest of Brad’s condoms, wrapped around his jar of Vaseline. “You broke into my house,” Brad says dumbly. “You went through my underwear drawer.”

“Fuck yeah, I did.”

“Remind me never to leave you unattended at my ranch again.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Ray dismisses. That time, Brad came home to his furniture all over the fucking place. He found his boots on the windowsill, chairs stacked in a corner, and his bed was in the stable, for fuck’s sake. Ray had said something about a Chinaman giving him interior decorating tips, something about ‘good sex vibes.’ It took him all afternoon to get his place back to normal, and he'd been forced to get rid of his sheets because the smell of horse shit would not come out.

“Remind me to kill you, Ray.”

Ray laughs. “Whatever, dude. Best kept secret: the Iceman’s an enormous, flaccid softie. You’d never kill your boy Ray. Especially not with this face of innocence watching on.” Ray reaches over and pats Walt affectionately on the cheek. Walt just chuckles, completely nonplussed. Brad might have to give him up for lost.

“You’re a sick man, Person.”

“Awesome, right?”

Brad laughs, and it’s as much an admission as any that he’ll let them come. First things first, though. “It’s short notice, but we can’t just ditch the department. I know Poke can hold down the fort, but he’s gonna need some help.”

Walt brightens at this. “We took care of that, back at Trombley’s. Poke’s gonna take over while we’re gone, and he says Swarr owes him a favor so he’ll lend us some men.”

“You remember him, right Brad?” Ray asks.

Fuck, how could he not? There was a real shitstorm back in Delta City a few years back, a town just outside of Washoe boundaries. Unfortunately, the Pershing County police were nowhere to be found, jacking off to the sight of money streaming in from the boomtown of Unionville, probably. Brad had sent Poke and a few others out to lend a hand, and it earned them some good contacts with the Delta City police. Sergeant Robert Swarr, in particular, was a good guy with an honest head on his shoulders.

“So we have the help. Good,” Brad nods. “You boys get on the train first, I’m gonna get the clerk inside to take care of Hummer and your horses.”

“No need,” Ray says cheerily. “We put ‘em up at the livery Doc uses, over on Fourth and Commercial. Doc’s brought them over already, I think.”

Brad leans back, impressed. It’s clear his deputies had this figured out before he did.

By this point, there ain’t nothing for Brad to do but sling his bag over his shoulder and say, “I ain’t paying your fares. If you have to come, it’s on your own dime.”

If Ray and Walt were little tween girls, they’d jump up and down and giggle like retards. Unfortunately, they’re two grown men, jumping up and down, giggling like retards. Brad rolls his eyes and turns around, just as the iron horse at the end of the platform gives an ear-piercing whistle that warns its imminent departure.

Shit. The train’s still about a hundred yards down the platform. They better get the fuck onboard before it leaves their asses in Reno.

The Washoe lawmen—scratch that, two civilians and one Special Deputy U.S. Marshal—break into a run as steam starts billowing out the huge engine in the front. They catch up quick, though, throwing themselves inside just as the train wheels groan into slow rotation, inching forward.

Ray and Walt find an open bench in the first car they enter, but Brad ain’t interested in babysitting them for the whole fucking train ride so he keeps going, working his way from car to car. After five or six of the same jostling, uneven march down carpeted aisles, he finally reaches the opulent First Class car. It takes just one threatening look to negotiate a feckless guard before gaining entry.

Inside are eight private compartments, four on each side. Brad lets himself into the one labeled ‘Wynn’.

Christeson, Gunny, and Nate are inside the small space, which has room enough for just two facing benches sandwiching a broad, rectangular table. Christeson and Gunny give Brad friendly smiles, but Nate offers only a polite nod.

Looks like Nate’s trying to be professional. Trying, but failing—Nate has no idea how transparent he is. His posture’s stiff as a board, and when Brad reaches up to stow his bag into the overhead, he bumps his hip against Nate’s shoulder, causing Nate’s palms to curl into fists on the tabletop.

Brad smiles to himself. He’s going to enjoy breaking down that barrier, if only because Nate colors up real pretty when he’s embarrassed. Not to say he’s taking this job just to chase some tail—Brad’s reputation was built through hard work and sweat, and there ain’t nothing gonna tamper with that formula—but Nate said it himself:

He wants Brad on the job. Not because he needs the help, but because he wants Brad’s company and by extent, whether or not he even realizes it, Nate wants this unnameable thing between them.

God help him, Brad wants it too.

Brad finally sits down, folding his legs underneath the shared table. He slides in, pressing his thigh accidentally-on-purpose against Nate’s.

Nate jumps at the flush contact but quickly covers it by suggesting, “Christeson, the papers.”

They get down to business. Christeson breaks out the contract again and this time Brad signs his name handily. When he passes the pen over to Nate to co-sign, their hands brush and Brad feels the sensation linger long after they’ve separated. He’d feel like a right pillow-biter for even noticing, if it weren’t for Nate’s white-knuckled grip on the pen and the silhouette of him sucking on his lower lip, Nate’s profile backlit against the brightness of the window.

Brad eventually lets his gaze wander past Nate, eyes venturing outside where the desert landscape blurs past in shades of sand and ochre, the occasional shot of cactus striking through endless sky.

The hours slip by with equal velocity as they all bow their heads together, discussing the job they’ll execute once they’ve crossed the Oakland ferry into the biggest city in the West: San Francisco proper.

Brad doesn’t know how California’s gonna treat him this go-around, but when they cross the border, a silly wooden sign welcoming them to the Golden State all those miles up in the lush Sierra Nevadas, where the train keeps winding through green, green, and more green…Brad catches Nate peering at him from the corner of his eye.

He smiles widely in response and while Nate doesn’t take the bait, his eyes crinkle at the sides and the corners of his lips curl up.

Nate goes back to his newspaper and Brad settles into his seat, letting his head fall back on the padding. Closes his eyes, rests his shoulder against Nate’s. It’s comfortable, and every time Nate shakes out the paper or flips the page, Brad can feel the movement in his bones.

Yeah, he doesn’t know how the Golden State’s gonna pan out this time. Doesn't know whether he’ll sift out fortune or dirt out there in San Francisco. But despite the multitude of things that can go wrong, and likely will go wrong on a dangerous mission like theirs...in the end, Brad’s got a good feeling about this.

He falls asleep there, head lolling on Nate's shoulder. And when Brad's jostled out of a dream—the details of which he doesn't remember—the train's stopped, its iron armor settling into the wooden tracks with loud hisses and pops.

"Come on, Marshal," Nate says, elbowing Brad in the side. "Wake up. We're here."

END

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