![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artBlah, I took my first vacation day of the year to nurse this cold. NOT OKAY--I BE SAVING THESE DAY FOR BEACHES AND TRIPS, NOT HUDDLING AT HOME IN A MISERABLE WRECK.
On the plus side, I hammered this out.
Note: This chapter is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT the product of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alethialia's shiny brain. I was all set to go forward with the storyline, having Nate hang out with Roth some more while Brad silently and angrily pined, but then she got me all thinky and helped me produce what I think is now an integral scene. No, seriously--the best lines below are probably hers :O
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Nate cracks his eyes open. They’re full of sawdust, though, so he closes them again, burrows into his covers.
Someone shakes his shoulder.
“Sir.”
It’s Brad’s voice. Nate groans, shoving fists into his eyes to rub out the grit before sitting up to blink himself awake.
“What?” he croaks, looking around. It’s pitch dark outside, ass o’clock in the morning.
“Sir, we have to go.” Brad throws something heavy into Nate’s lap.
He looks down. It’s his Army Outlaw, still in its holster.
Nate wakes up a little. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“I’ll explain on our way there. Stafford’s waiting for us.”
Good enough. Nate yawns, stretching hard. Throws back his covers and yanks some jeans on over his drawers, belts his holster around his hips and makes his way to the door. He almost grabs Stetson off the wall hook, but remembers the sun ain’t up yet—won’t be for hours.
Outside, Stafford’s facing the street with his back against a lamppost. When he hears Brad and Nate clunk down the wooden steps of the Embarcadero, he turns with a nod and stubs out his half-smoked cigarette into the dirt.
“Evening, sir,” he says. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Don’t apologize, just fill me in.”
Stafford crooks a smirk at him, then sets off down the empty street.
“Me and Johnny, we was getting some late night grub over in Russian Hill,” Stafford says as he takes them southward, the ground sloping steeply beneath their feet. “When we see—plain as day, like there ain’t no edict on these motherfuckers’ heads to round ‘em up—two Injuns walk by the window. So what do we do? We ditch our meals and dog ‘em, yo. Who knows, maybe these chiefs got something to do with Cocheta, right?”
Stafford turns a corner, when a large wagon comes into view. The Deputy Marshal quickly flags it down, flashing his badge at the grumbling driver.
“U.S. Marshals,” Stafford orders. “Take us to Chinatown.”
The driver throws his hands up in confusion, sending worried looks at the guns strapped to Brad and Nate’s sides. His words are heavily-laden with consonants, sounding German or Bulgarian as he grunts, “No English. Don’t speak English.”
“Shit, dog,” Stafford says, pocketing his badge to free up his hands so he could stretch the corners of his eyes real tight. “Chinatown, yo. You know, chop suey. Ching chong and shit.”
“Oh, yes,” the driver says, looking pleased as he turns to point at his cargo. “Squid,” he says succinctly. “I go there now.”
Stafford grins toothily, then rounds the back of the cart to climb aboard.
“You’re a piece,” Brad says after him, even as he clambers up to join Stafford. Nate just shakes his head and hauls himself up, finding a spot between Brad and a large bucket of still-wriggling squid.
Stafford picks up like there’d been no interruption as the cart jostles into movement. “Me and Johnny, we follow these guys all the way down Stockton Street when we see them hitting up the dens. We’re thinking, screwby, right? These guys got to do something with Cocheta.”
“And do they?” Nate asks, when the cart hits a pothole. Some water slops from the bucket next to him and the short, mustache-like tentacles of a squid flop onto Nate’s sleeve. He flicks it off—gross.
“Have something to do with Cocheta,” Nate clarifies.
“Don’t know, sir,” Stafford says with a shrug. “They wasn’t talking. Then they split up, one down Sacramento, the other down Clay. Johnny’s still following a guy, but I figured in case something went down we oughtta get a little back-up. Boom boom,” he says, miming a left-right hook.
“Good thinking,” Nate says. “Last thing we need is one of you guys getting jumped. Besides, Chinatown’s what—two, three square blocks? Shouldn’t be too hard to find these guys again.”
“If we play our cards right, they could lead us right to where Cocheta’s hiding,” Brad says, leaning forward so that his thigh presses warmly against Nate’s. “Now, what street did you say Christeson took?”
“Clay Street,” Stafford answers.
“This is your stop, then.”
“Shit—“ Stafford turns around, yells at the driver. “Thanks, son!” He swings his legs over the edge and jumps down with a scraping sound against the dirt. “Yee-haw, sir,” Stafford adds, his form receding into the dark.
Brad and Nate disembark soon after. Spurs jangling as their boots hit the ground, Nate dusts himself off and finds himself at the intersection of Stockton and Sacramento Street. The heart of Chinatown.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. All the while Nate’s been sampling caviar and playing arm candy for one of the city’s most powerful men, he’d secretly been wishing for exactly this—
The shadowed streets are deserted save for a man—Chinese, with a tell-tale queue—urinating against a wall. The sound of piss echoes in the still night air, but the quietude is misleading. Behind locked doors and false facades, the cogs of Chinatown have only just begun to turn.
“Left or right?” Nate asks.
Brad surveys the scene, squinting into the darkness. Eventually he answers, “Up,” pointing at the peeling paper of a second-story window on the corner. Smoke seeps out from the crack, dimly backlit by firelight, billowing noxious and orange.
All signs pointing to an opium den. “After you,” Nate says, smiling as Brad bumps his shoulder in response and steps off towards the building.
-----
The first den’s a dud, but it only takes two or three more false starts before Brad and Nate hit pay dirt.
“There he is,” Brad says, nodding over his shoulder towards the inner sanctum of the smokehouse. Nate puts his hand on Brad’s arm and peers over, catching sight of the first non-Chinese they’ve seen so far.
“What’s he doing?” Brad asks. They can’t very well bust into the joint—the first thing the Injun will do is report back to Cocheta (or get shot at by Brad and Nate) and if Nate’s learned anything from their travails in Nevada, it’s that discretion is of the utmost importance. He’s hoping for more stealth and less blood this go-around.
Nate quickly draws Brad away from the doorway. The Injun’s facing their hiding spot.
Brad’s eyes refocus, observing Nate instead for clues. “Anything?” Brad prompts.
“He’s not here to smoke…” Nate stretches his head out as far as he dares. “He’s talking to the owner.”
“Talking?” Brad asks doubtfully.
“Communicating,” Nate amends, watching the owner lean forward over a table and scribble something. He then holds up three fingers and gestures something round, finally punctuating his meaning with the bark of a word in Chinese.
The Injun nods, then picks up the scrap of paper and tucks it into his vest.
When Nate pulls back, Brad’s still watching him. “Time to go?” he asks.
Nate nods.
They duck into the recesses of the closed apothecary, taking cover behind a case of medicinal powders. The Injun emerges from the back room and leaves the shop, a small bell tinkling in his wake.
Nate gives it a minute or two before standing up. He tiptoes to the door and pulls it open, thumb jammed into the mouth of the bell to keep the clapper from sounding as they let themselves out onto the street.
The next hour follows in much the same way. Their subject moves from smokehouse to smokehouse—there must be five or six dens on this block alone—while Brad and Nate keep themselves out of sight. At each stop, the Injun trades broken words and gesticulations with the owners. He always leaves with something written down, whether given to him by the owner or taken down on his own pad of paper.
It’s pretty clear what the Injun’s doing.
“He’s researching prices,” Brad breathes, when the hollow sound of tapping glass reaches their ears.
It’s me, the Injun says, knocking insistently on the window of a reinforced door.
Brad and Nate hold their breaths, listening for what comes next.
They’re inside the basement of a Chinese laundry, surrounded by giant cauldrons of water, a cast-iron boiler, and piles of clean linens stacked high enough to brush the low, wooden rafters of the ceiling. Nobody could possibly see Brad or Nate among all the obstructions; not unless they were looking.
The metallic squeal of a bolt answers the Injun’s words. The door’s thrown open, a shaft of light falling just feet away from where Brad crouches beside a wooden crate of soap flakes.
“You think this is it?” Brad asks when it’s just them again, silence falling around their shoulders like snow.
Nate rolls back on his heels, letting his ass hit the stone floor as he sits. “Could be. I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “I guess we’ll find out, right?”
However, twenty minutes pass where nothing happens. The Injun’s previous visits had all clocked in at less than that, so it’s obvious that something’s up.
Nate gets to his knees, ignoring Brad’s sound of protest to go investigate.
The small, rectangular window on the door beckons him like a beacon. He squints into the light, inching ever closer, straining for something to see…
Nate suddenly turns around, laughing quietly.
“What is it?” Brad hisses.
He doesn’t bother to make his footfalls quiet when he returns to where Brad’s waiting. The scene behind the door must be loud enough that they can hardly hear each other, much less what’s happening outside their little parlor.
“Gambling,” Nate answers incredulously. “He’s gambling in there. There’s ten tables set up. I think they’re playing mah jong.”
Brad stares. “Get out,” he eventually says in disbelief. A sly smile sneaks onto his face. “And here I thought these Injuns were all hard work and back-breaking sweat. I’m disappointed to discover they are no more reliable than your average whisky tango, horse-track betting scourge of society.” Brad whistles lowly. “Our very own, red-skinned Joshua Ray Person, if you will.”
“I think the deputy would take offense to that,” Nate chuckles. He sees Brad grin widely at him.
This could take awhile. Brad and Nate hunker down, making themselves comfortable among the clean-smelling laundry—Brad resting his back against the crates, Nate across from him with his arms folded over his knees. Their boots slot against each other like miter joints, occasionally bumping toes.
Nate’s eyelids are starting to droop when Brad says, softly, “You can catch a little shut-eye, sir. No one’s going anywhere. I’ll wake you when they move.”
“I’ve slept plenty,” Nate replies, even though it’s a lie—he hasn’t gotten a full night’s rest for a week now. But neither has Brad. “Come on,” Nate says, shaking himself. “Keep me awake.”
“Awake, huh?” Brad quietly repeats. He says nothing for so long that Nate’s beginning to think won’t, but then Brad swallows audibly. Wets his lips.
“You’re going to fuck him, aren’t you?” Brad asks in a voice that could be considered casual, if Nate didn’t know him. Brad draws his boots away from where they’re touching Nate’s feet. “He’s going to want to, you know,” Brad continues. “Tomorrow night. When you go to his place.”
Nate lays his forehead onto his arms for a moment, steeling himself. He’s exhausted. Too exhausted to avoid this conversation any longer.
When he looks up, Brad’s head is turned to the side, eyes focused on the water boiler across the room like he can’t bear to look at Nate when he answers, “I don’t know, Brad.” He sees Brad’s fingers clench around his knees, where they’re resting. Nate goes on, “I don’t think so. Les…he isn’t that pushy.”
“Les, huh?” Brad asks bitterly.
Shit—Nate didn’t even realize his slip. “I mean Roth—“
“Do you want to fuck him?”
The words stop him short. All this time Nate’s assumed he wasn’t interested. The man’s a fucking dope-dealer, for God’s sake—but when Brad’s asking him like that? Like Brad knows something Nate doesn’t?
It makes him think.
Unfortunately, Brad takes the thinking as his answer. “Fuck, Nate,” he says, his voice raw and open. “Are you fucking kidding me? Him?”
Nate thins his lips and looks down, studying a black mark on the ground by his feet. “I didn’t say I wanted to fuck him, Brad.”
“Bullshit.”
“Brad,” Nate snaps.
“Bullshit, sir,” Brad spits, leveling up on his knees and crossing the small aisle of space that separates them. His hands come down behind Nate, gripping the lip of the empty cauldron there, Brad towering like an angry storm.
“Don’t think I don’t get what you’re doing,” Brad says. “Whether you realize it or not, you’re entertaining the idea of fucking that scumbag—“ Brad lets go of his right hand and tangles it into the front of Nate’s shirt. “—To run from this. Well, I call bullshit.”
“There is no this, Brad. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Nate growls. “I know we fucked around once, but that’s over. That was over long before we came to San Francisco.”
Suddenly, Nate feels Brad’s hand dislodge from his shirtfront and slide in underneath his collar, fingers wrapping around the back of Nate’s neck. Nate inhales deeply, closing his eyes at the feel of Brad surrounding him.
“Are you kidding me?” Brad asks, his voice sounding wrecked. Brad’s thumb skates maddeningly up and down the side of Nate’s throat before pushing up to depress Nate’s lower lip, pulling it from out between Nate’s teeth.
“We’ve been fucking around ever since we met,” Brad argues. Nate feels something pushed into his mouth—tastes a bit of salt, feels the ridges of Brad’s thumbprint beneath his tongue. Brad says shakily, “I know you’re running from something, Nate. I’m trying to respect that. But make no mistake, we’re already fucking.“ Brad demonstrates, pumping his thumb in and out of Nate’s mouth as he whispers, “I’m so far up inside you, we’re fucking in every way but the conventional sense.”
Brad jerks his hand back with a slick noise, Nate disconsolate at the sudden vacancy. He lifts his eyes—sees Brad’s face set in a hard, determined expression.
“Spreading your legs for Roth isn’t going to change that,” Brad says with finality. “The only thing that stops this is you. If you can tell me why you’re so. Fucking. Adamant. Against the idea of letting me—of letting this—”
“He got sacked, you know,” Nate says quietly. “Eric.”
Brad pauses, clearly caught off guard. He sits back on his haunches to listen.
Nate tries to keep the anger from seeping into his voice as he says, “He didn’t even do anything. It was one hundred percent my fault Eric got discharged from the Service.”
“What did you do?” Brad asks. His voice sounds empty.
“I wanted him,” Nate says, blinking widely at Brad. “Out there, in the forests—hunting runaway Mohegans that were so skilled, they might as well have been invisible? The two of us used to go weeks without seeing anyone. I wanted Eric so bad I could taste it.”
“Did you?” Brad grits out, his expression a mixture of dread and curiosity.
Nate drops his gaze. “No.”
“Then why did he get—“
“A fellow U.S. Marshal thought he saw us doing something,” Nate explains, studying his hands. “He reported it to Ferrando, the Director of the Service. After that, it was just a matter of time.”
“No evidence. Just his word against yours? What kind of bullshit business is the Service running?” Brad asks heatedly.
“Not just his word,” Nate responds, keeping his eyes averted. “I’m young for a Marshal, you know. Twenty-six. But Ferrando handed me a high-profile mission just the month before, and…well.” Nate smiles wryly to himself. “Surefire way to make some enemies is to step on friends’ toes.”
“So they sacked the subordinate and sent you on a wild goose hunt to the West,” Brad concludes. “Great. Nice outfit you got me into, sir.”
Nate snickers despite himself. “Nothing but the best for the USMS. Now, whether or not they’ll keep you—“
“Hey,” Brad says. The softness of his voice catches Nate’s attention.
“You know I could give a rat’s ass whether or not the Service keeps me, right?” Brad says gently. “I’m in this for myself. They can take their ribbons and gold badges and shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine.”
If only it were so simple. “You don’t get it, Brad,” Nate sighs. “Eric’s been blackballed from every law enforcement agency, and hell—half the decent jobs out there to boot. I can’t do that to you.” Nate hasn’t even contacted his former Deputy Marshal in months for fear of re-igniting the scandal, and that’s the part that hits Nate the hardest: he lost one of his best men and worse, a good friend, due to his own carelessness and impure thoughts. “I won’t do that to you,” Nate resolves.
“Fuck that,” Brad says, jolting Nate in surprise. “What do I look like, one of your deputies? Christeson ain’t even two decades old—fine, take care of him. But you don’t take care of me like I’m some shitting, crying baby—“
A screech of metal echoes through the room, causing both Brad and Nate to freeze. The unmistakable sound of the bolt grinding aside marks the end of whatever it is they’ve started, here in the basement of a Chinese laundry.
Brad leans in to swear, unequivocally, “We’re not done yet, sir.”
Nate lets his head thunk against the cauldron behind him for a momentary pause. When the sound of the reinforced door squeals open, shedding light into the room once more, Nate takes a deep breath. He rolls up to the balls of his feet, wholly focused on the task at hand.
Brad’s there with him. They look at each other as their Injun ascends the stairs of the basement. When it’s safe to follow, they move out from their positions and carry on, silently, into the night.
On the plus side, I hammered this out.
Note: This chapter is ONE HUNDRED PERCENT the product of
alethialia's shiny brain. I was all set to go forward with the storyline, having Nate hang out with Roth some more while Brad silently and angrily pined, but then she got me all thinky and helped me produce what I think is now an integral scene. No, seriously--the best lines below are probably hers :OChapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
Nate cracks his eyes open. They’re full of sawdust, though, so he closes them again, burrows into his covers.
Someone shakes his shoulder.
“Sir.”
It’s Brad’s voice. Nate groans, shoving fists into his eyes to rub out the grit before sitting up to blink himself awake.
“What?” he croaks, looking around. It’s pitch dark outside, ass o’clock in the morning.
“Sir, we have to go.” Brad throws something heavy into Nate’s lap.
He looks down. It’s his Army Outlaw, still in its holster.
Nate wakes up a little. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“I’ll explain on our way there. Stafford’s waiting for us.”
Good enough. Nate yawns, stretching hard. Throws back his covers and yanks some jeans on over his drawers, belts his holster around his hips and makes his way to the door. He almost grabs Stetson off the wall hook, but remembers the sun ain’t up yet—won’t be for hours.
Outside, Stafford’s facing the street with his back against a lamppost. When he hears Brad and Nate clunk down the wooden steps of the Embarcadero, he turns with a nod and stubs out his half-smoked cigarette into the dirt.
“Evening, sir,” he says. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Don’t apologize, just fill me in.”
Stafford crooks a smirk at him, then sets off down the empty street.
“Me and Johnny, we was getting some late night grub over in Russian Hill,” Stafford says as he takes them southward, the ground sloping steeply beneath their feet. “When we see—plain as day, like there ain’t no edict on these motherfuckers’ heads to round ‘em up—two Injuns walk by the window. So what do we do? We ditch our meals and dog ‘em, yo. Who knows, maybe these chiefs got something to do with Cocheta, right?”
Stafford turns a corner, when a large wagon comes into view. The Deputy Marshal quickly flags it down, flashing his badge at the grumbling driver.
“U.S. Marshals,” Stafford orders. “Take us to Chinatown.”
The driver throws his hands up in confusion, sending worried looks at the guns strapped to Brad and Nate’s sides. His words are heavily-laden with consonants, sounding German or Bulgarian as he grunts, “No English. Don’t speak English.”
“Shit, dog,” Stafford says, pocketing his badge to free up his hands so he could stretch the corners of his eyes real tight. “Chinatown, yo. You know, chop suey. Ching chong and shit.”
“Oh, yes,” the driver says, looking pleased as he turns to point at his cargo. “Squid,” he says succinctly. “I go there now.”
Stafford grins toothily, then rounds the back of the cart to climb aboard.
“You’re a piece,” Brad says after him, even as he clambers up to join Stafford. Nate just shakes his head and hauls himself up, finding a spot between Brad and a large bucket of still-wriggling squid.
Stafford picks up like there’d been no interruption as the cart jostles into movement. “Me and Johnny, we follow these guys all the way down Stockton Street when we see them hitting up the dens. We’re thinking, screwby, right? These guys got to do something with Cocheta.”
“And do they?” Nate asks, when the cart hits a pothole. Some water slops from the bucket next to him and the short, mustache-like tentacles of a squid flop onto Nate’s sleeve. He flicks it off—gross.
“Have something to do with Cocheta,” Nate clarifies.
“Don’t know, sir,” Stafford says with a shrug. “They wasn’t talking. Then they split up, one down Sacramento, the other down Clay. Johnny’s still following a guy, but I figured in case something went down we oughtta get a little back-up. Boom boom,” he says, miming a left-right hook.
“Good thinking,” Nate says. “Last thing we need is one of you guys getting jumped. Besides, Chinatown’s what—two, three square blocks? Shouldn’t be too hard to find these guys again.”
“If we play our cards right, they could lead us right to where Cocheta’s hiding,” Brad says, leaning forward so that his thigh presses warmly against Nate’s. “Now, what street did you say Christeson took?”
“Clay Street,” Stafford answers.
“This is your stop, then.”
“Shit—“ Stafford turns around, yells at the driver. “Thanks, son!” He swings his legs over the edge and jumps down with a scraping sound against the dirt. “Yee-haw, sir,” Stafford adds, his form receding into the dark.
Brad and Nate disembark soon after. Spurs jangling as their boots hit the ground, Nate dusts himself off and finds himself at the intersection of Stockton and Sacramento Street. The heart of Chinatown.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. All the while Nate’s been sampling caviar and playing arm candy for one of the city’s most powerful men, he’d secretly been wishing for exactly this—
The shadowed streets are deserted save for a man—Chinese, with a tell-tale queue—urinating against a wall. The sound of piss echoes in the still night air, but the quietude is misleading. Behind locked doors and false facades, the cogs of Chinatown have only just begun to turn.
“Left or right?” Nate asks.
Brad surveys the scene, squinting into the darkness. Eventually he answers, “Up,” pointing at the peeling paper of a second-story window on the corner. Smoke seeps out from the crack, dimly backlit by firelight, billowing noxious and orange.
All signs pointing to an opium den. “After you,” Nate says, smiling as Brad bumps his shoulder in response and steps off towards the building.
-----
The first den’s a dud, but it only takes two or three more false starts before Brad and Nate hit pay dirt.
“There he is,” Brad says, nodding over his shoulder towards the inner sanctum of the smokehouse. Nate puts his hand on Brad’s arm and peers over, catching sight of the first non-Chinese they’ve seen so far.
“What’s he doing?” Brad asks. They can’t very well bust into the joint—the first thing the Injun will do is report back to Cocheta (or get shot at by Brad and Nate) and if Nate’s learned anything from their travails in Nevada, it’s that discretion is of the utmost importance. He’s hoping for more stealth and less blood this go-around.
Nate quickly draws Brad away from the doorway. The Injun’s facing their hiding spot.
Brad’s eyes refocus, observing Nate instead for clues. “Anything?” Brad prompts.
“He’s not here to smoke…” Nate stretches his head out as far as he dares. “He’s talking to the owner.”
“Talking?” Brad asks doubtfully.
“Communicating,” Nate amends, watching the owner lean forward over a table and scribble something. He then holds up three fingers and gestures something round, finally punctuating his meaning with the bark of a word in Chinese.
The Injun nods, then picks up the scrap of paper and tucks it into his vest.
When Nate pulls back, Brad’s still watching him. “Time to go?” he asks.
Nate nods.
They duck into the recesses of the closed apothecary, taking cover behind a case of medicinal powders. The Injun emerges from the back room and leaves the shop, a small bell tinkling in his wake.
Nate gives it a minute or two before standing up. He tiptoes to the door and pulls it open, thumb jammed into the mouth of the bell to keep the clapper from sounding as they let themselves out onto the street.
The next hour follows in much the same way. Their subject moves from smokehouse to smokehouse—there must be five or six dens on this block alone—while Brad and Nate keep themselves out of sight. At each stop, the Injun trades broken words and gesticulations with the owners. He always leaves with something written down, whether given to him by the owner or taken down on his own pad of paper.
It’s pretty clear what the Injun’s doing.
“He’s researching prices,” Brad breathes, when the hollow sound of tapping glass reaches their ears.
It’s me, the Injun says, knocking insistently on the window of a reinforced door.
Brad and Nate hold their breaths, listening for what comes next.
They’re inside the basement of a Chinese laundry, surrounded by giant cauldrons of water, a cast-iron boiler, and piles of clean linens stacked high enough to brush the low, wooden rafters of the ceiling. Nobody could possibly see Brad or Nate among all the obstructions; not unless they were looking.
The metallic squeal of a bolt answers the Injun’s words. The door’s thrown open, a shaft of light falling just feet away from where Brad crouches beside a wooden crate of soap flakes.
“You think this is it?” Brad asks when it’s just them again, silence falling around their shoulders like snow.
Nate rolls back on his heels, letting his ass hit the stone floor as he sits. “Could be. I don’t know.” He bites his lip. “I guess we’ll find out, right?”
However, twenty minutes pass where nothing happens. The Injun’s previous visits had all clocked in at less than that, so it’s obvious that something’s up.
Nate gets to his knees, ignoring Brad’s sound of protest to go investigate.
The small, rectangular window on the door beckons him like a beacon. He squints into the light, inching ever closer, straining for something to see…
Nate suddenly turns around, laughing quietly.
“What is it?” Brad hisses.
He doesn’t bother to make his footfalls quiet when he returns to where Brad’s waiting. The scene behind the door must be loud enough that they can hardly hear each other, much less what’s happening outside their little parlor.
“Gambling,” Nate answers incredulously. “He’s gambling in there. There’s ten tables set up. I think they’re playing mah jong.”
Brad stares. “Get out,” he eventually says in disbelief. A sly smile sneaks onto his face. “And here I thought these Injuns were all hard work and back-breaking sweat. I’m disappointed to discover they are no more reliable than your average whisky tango, horse-track betting scourge of society.” Brad whistles lowly. “Our very own, red-skinned Joshua Ray Person, if you will.”
“I think the deputy would take offense to that,” Nate chuckles. He sees Brad grin widely at him.
This could take awhile. Brad and Nate hunker down, making themselves comfortable among the clean-smelling laundry—Brad resting his back against the crates, Nate across from him with his arms folded over his knees. Their boots slot against each other like miter joints, occasionally bumping toes.
Nate’s eyelids are starting to droop when Brad says, softly, “You can catch a little shut-eye, sir. No one’s going anywhere. I’ll wake you when they move.”
“I’ve slept plenty,” Nate replies, even though it’s a lie—he hasn’t gotten a full night’s rest for a week now. But neither has Brad. “Come on,” Nate says, shaking himself. “Keep me awake.”
“Awake, huh?” Brad quietly repeats. He says nothing for so long that Nate’s beginning to think won’t, but then Brad swallows audibly. Wets his lips.
“You’re going to fuck him, aren’t you?” Brad asks in a voice that could be considered casual, if Nate didn’t know him. Brad draws his boots away from where they’re touching Nate’s feet. “He’s going to want to, you know,” Brad continues. “Tomorrow night. When you go to his place.”
Nate lays his forehead onto his arms for a moment, steeling himself. He’s exhausted. Too exhausted to avoid this conversation any longer.
When he looks up, Brad’s head is turned to the side, eyes focused on the water boiler across the room like he can’t bear to look at Nate when he answers, “I don’t know, Brad.” He sees Brad’s fingers clench around his knees, where they’re resting. Nate goes on, “I don’t think so. Les…he isn’t that pushy.”
“Les, huh?” Brad asks bitterly.
Shit—Nate didn’t even realize his slip. “I mean Roth—“
“Do you want to fuck him?”
The words stop him short. All this time Nate’s assumed he wasn’t interested. The man’s a fucking dope-dealer, for God’s sake—but when Brad’s asking him like that? Like Brad knows something Nate doesn’t?
It makes him think.
Unfortunately, Brad takes the thinking as his answer. “Fuck, Nate,” he says, his voice raw and open. “Are you fucking kidding me? Him?”
Nate thins his lips and looks down, studying a black mark on the ground by his feet. “I didn’t say I wanted to fuck him, Brad.”
“Bullshit.”
“Brad,” Nate snaps.
“Bullshit, sir,” Brad spits, leveling up on his knees and crossing the small aisle of space that separates them. His hands come down behind Nate, gripping the lip of the empty cauldron there, Brad towering like an angry storm.
“Don’t think I don’t get what you’re doing,” Brad says. “Whether you realize it or not, you’re entertaining the idea of fucking that scumbag—“ Brad lets go of his right hand and tangles it into the front of Nate’s shirt. “—To run from this. Well, I call bullshit.”
“There is no this, Brad. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Nate growls. “I know we fucked around once, but that’s over. That was over long before we came to San Francisco.”
Suddenly, Nate feels Brad’s hand dislodge from his shirtfront and slide in underneath his collar, fingers wrapping around the back of Nate’s neck. Nate inhales deeply, closing his eyes at the feel of Brad surrounding him.
“Are you kidding me?” Brad asks, his voice sounding wrecked. Brad’s thumb skates maddeningly up and down the side of Nate’s throat before pushing up to depress Nate’s lower lip, pulling it from out between Nate’s teeth.
“We’ve been fucking around ever since we met,” Brad argues. Nate feels something pushed into his mouth—tastes a bit of salt, feels the ridges of Brad’s thumbprint beneath his tongue. Brad says shakily, “I know you’re running from something, Nate. I’m trying to respect that. But make no mistake, we’re already fucking.“ Brad demonstrates, pumping his thumb in and out of Nate’s mouth as he whispers, “I’m so far up inside you, we’re fucking in every way but the conventional sense.”
Brad jerks his hand back with a slick noise, Nate disconsolate at the sudden vacancy. He lifts his eyes—sees Brad’s face set in a hard, determined expression.
“Spreading your legs for Roth isn’t going to change that,” Brad says with finality. “The only thing that stops this is you. If you can tell me why you’re so. Fucking. Adamant. Against the idea of letting me—of letting this—”
“He got sacked, you know,” Nate says quietly. “Eric.”
Brad pauses, clearly caught off guard. He sits back on his haunches to listen.
Nate tries to keep the anger from seeping into his voice as he says, “He didn’t even do anything. It was one hundred percent my fault Eric got discharged from the Service.”
“What did you do?” Brad asks. His voice sounds empty.
“I wanted him,” Nate says, blinking widely at Brad. “Out there, in the forests—hunting runaway Mohegans that were so skilled, they might as well have been invisible? The two of us used to go weeks without seeing anyone. I wanted Eric so bad I could taste it.”
“Did you?” Brad grits out, his expression a mixture of dread and curiosity.
Nate drops his gaze. “No.”
“Then why did he get—“
“A fellow U.S. Marshal thought he saw us doing something,” Nate explains, studying his hands. “He reported it to Ferrando, the Director of the Service. After that, it was just a matter of time.”
“No evidence. Just his word against yours? What kind of bullshit business is the Service running?” Brad asks heatedly.
“Not just his word,” Nate responds, keeping his eyes averted. “I’m young for a Marshal, you know. Twenty-six. But Ferrando handed me a high-profile mission just the month before, and…well.” Nate smiles wryly to himself. “Surefire way to make some enemies is to step on friends’ toes.”
“So they sacked the subordinate and sent you on a wild goose hunt to the West,” Brad concludes. “Great. Nice outfit you got me into, sir.”
Nate snickers despite himself. “Nothing but the best for the USMS. Now, whether or not they’ll keep you—“
“Hey,” Brad says. The softness of his voice catches Nate’s attention.
“You know I could give a rat’s ass whether or not the Service keeps me, right?” Brad says gently. “I’m in this for myself. They can take their ribbons and gold badges and shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine.”
If only it were so simple. “You don’t get it, Brad,” Nate sighs. “Eric’s been blackballed from every law enforcement agency, and hell—half the decent jobs out there to boot. I can’t do that to you.” Nate hasn’t even contacted his former Deputy Marshal in months for fear of re-igniting the scandal, and that’s the part that hits Nate the hardest: he lost one of his best men and worse, a good friend, due to his own carelessness and impure thoughts. “I won’t do that to you,” Nate resolves.
“Fuck that,” Brad says, jolting Nate in surprise. “What do I look like, one of your deputies? Christeson ain’t even two decades old—fine, take care of him. But you don’t take care of me like I’m some shitting, crying baby—“
A screech of metal echoes through the room, causing both Brad and Nate to freeze. The unmistakable sound of the bolt grinding aside marks the end of whatever it is they’ve started, here in the basement of a Chinese laundry.
Brad leans in to swear, unequivocally, “We’re not done yet, sir.”
Nate lets his head thunk against the cauldron behind him for a momentary pause. When the sound of the reinforced door squeals open, shedding light into the room once more, Nate takes a deep breath. He rolls up to the balls of his feet, wholly focused on the task at hand.
Brad’s there with him. They look at each other as their Injun ascends the stairs of the basement. When it’s safe to follow, they move out from their positions and carry on, silently, into the night.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 04:20 am (UTC)Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis. SO GOOD FOR ME. \o/
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:32 am (UTC)That's
You guys are all so amazing *__*
no subject
Date: 2011-01-07 02:24 am (UTC)Well I'm glad she did! This is a really fantastic chapter.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 04:48 am (UTC)Oh yes, that's so true, that even wild horses couldn't drag them apart. I am assured of this! Yes sir! Besides,I just can't imagine Sheriff not fighting for what he thinks is rightfully his.
This whole chapter is a complete delightful visual from some good old western, therefore = love.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:35 am (UTC)a complete delightful visual from some good old western
I was totally missing that western element as well. LIke, sure it's fun writing Nate all gussied up and stuff, but in this 'verse he is one dirty, badass cowboy. It was nice writing him that way again :)
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 05:59 am (UTC)...I will watch GK one day...
Sick days where you`re actually sick suck. Feel better, bb!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:35 am (UTC)Ugh sick cold needs to go away. Haven't had a night's rest since last year (literally!).
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 08:03 am (UTC)Because OMG, LOVE! Also, soooo not me. This has bins full of soap flakes and squid and "silence falling around their shoulders like snow" (LOVE!). So tactile and specific and fully-realized. AWESOME.
Also, Stafford's voice is PERFECT. Which is hard to do, damn.
“Bullshit.”
“Brad,” Nate snaps.
“Bullshit, sir,” Brad spits
Adore this. Because the sir makes it better, see.
“Are you kidding me?” Brad asks, his voice sounding wrecked. Brad’s thumb skates maddeningly up and down the side of Nate’s throat before pushing up to depress Nate’s lower lip, pulling it from out between Nate’s teeth.
::stares:: That...is a phenomenal image. Yes. ::stares more::
“What do I look like, one of your deputies? Christeson ain’t even two decades old—fine, take care of him. But you don’t take care of me like I’m some shitting, crying baby—“
PERFECTION!
Oh, this made me so happy. That you can take a day and come up with this. I say again, I bow down.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:40 am (UTC)That is such an honor o_o I feel like I'm completely faking it. Like, if you could hear me attempt his speech it'd be like nails on a chalkboard. Just imagine a little nerdy Asian girl mimicking a Southern white boy mimicking a ghetto black kid. NOT A PRETTY SIGHT, RIGHT?
Because the sir makes it better, see.
Oh, most definitely. Always.
before pushing up to depress Nate’s lower lip, pulling it from out between Nate’s teeth.
Okay I will admit, I was kind of proud of this line ._. BECAUSE YOU KNOW THERE'S SOMETHING THERE WHEN YOU READ A LINE AND CAN'T STOP ZONING OUT ON THE IMAGE.
I say again, I bow down.
Stop bowing down!!!! We're just knocking heads now. And somewhere someone is reading our commenty and throwing up at how disgustingly in love we are. It's okay bb, they're just jealous.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 10:44 am (UTC)Hahaha. Seriously, Nate, stop making people laugh. No one could possibly be that stupid as to believe this!
“I’m so far up inside you, we’re fucking in every way but the conventional sense.”
THIS!!!! This is probably the perfect sentence to describe their relationship not only in this story, but in every fic ever written about them!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:42 am (UTC)That is straight up
no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 05:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:18 am (UTC)I must head to bed, so I shall save this as tomorrow's treat.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 01:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-07 01:01 am (UTC)I don't know why I'm really excited at the idea that Nate's considering sleeping with Roth, but I really am - possibly because of Brad's reaction!
“I’m so far up inside you, we’re fucking in every way but the conventional sense.”
Guh!
no subject
Date: 2011-01-19 01:00 am (UTC)Hee hee hee hee Brad is gonna flip his shit. Wait for it!