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aeroport_artI don't want to go to work next week ;_; It's been really, really rough. Looong nights. And I don't exactly love my boss. *headdesks*
Ugh anyway, this chapter was fun to write, though perhaps a little vicious. Sorry Bradders :/
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
Roth enters the parlor room, clad in a silk, burgundy dressing robe paired with loose slacks. He strides over to where Nate’s waiting, seated on a brocaded sofa from when the housekeeper let him in.
“Nathaniel!” Roth greets.
“Les,” Nate responds, standing up. They shake hands and Roth pulls him in for an embrace, clapping Nate jovially on the shoulder.
“Glad you could make it,” he says.
“Thanks for having me. This is some place you got,” Nate replies, eyes traveling over the painting-strewn walls, the gilded hearth, the Oriental rugs covering the ground.
“Eh, it does the job,” Roth replies easily. “Want a tour?”
Nate accepts with real enthusiasm. He’s been trying to sneak under Roth’s iron guard for weeks, and now that he’s finally inside the lion’s den, Nate’s eager to poke around, see what he’s working with.
Roth takes him through the drawing room and up the carpeted stairs, narrating all the while. Nate can’t help but feel like his host is putting on a show for him. Roth points out mounted heads of game on the walls, doling out hunting stories—sporting stories where there’s a trophy. They pass the one Roth earned from the yacht club, gold statuette of a sailboat sitting proudly alongside others in a glass case as they tread down the wainscoted hallway of the second floor.
“My office,” Roth gestures at a walnut door at the corner, where the hallway bends. It’s the first closed door they’ve come across, and Nate mentally flags it in his mind. “The bedroom,” Roth continues, stopping by the doorjamb so Nate can crane a look inside.
The room is filled with light, streaming in through paned French windows that look tall as lampposts. A stately armoire takes up a corner, a masculine vanity takes up another. An ottoman here, some chests there. All the furniture matches in coffee-colored varnish, including the four-poster bed that dominates the center of the room.
Maybe he’s staring, but Roth leans in and says teasingly, “You can take a closer look later, if you want.”
Nate feels his face warm. “It’s fine. I wasn’t. I mean—“
“I’m kidding,” Roth laughs. “God, you’re cute when you’re flustered. Anyway, you can take a closer look at anything you want, but later. Right now I have to check on Cook.”
En route to the kitchen at the back of the house, Roth leaves Nate in the drawing room, where Nate contents himself with the coffee laid out and an issue of that morning’s Chronicle.
It’s there he finds an article about himself, headline blaring Blood in Ross Alley.
Well, it’s not about himself, exactly, but the article covers the two Indians that were eliminated the night before.
Eliminated. That’s the word the paper uses, like the Indians were a bad odor hanging around a room to be dispelled with the airing out of a window.
Nate frowns, flipping into the paper where the front-page article continues. It goes on to describe the two unidentified victims as chronic gamblers. According to the report, certificates of debt were found inside Injuns’ room, stuffed into the lining of a flea-bitten mattress, while small packets of refined opium were spread out on the surface of a table. The author concludes it as the set-up of a couple of amateur dealers.
Nate folds the newspaper closed. There isn’t enough information for Nate to make any further assumptions, but he’s still discouraged. It doesn’t feel like Cocheta—not from the way he’s seen her conduct her work.
“Nasty business, right?”
Nate looks up, seeing Roth enter the room, balancing a napkin in either hand. “The thing with the Indians, I mean. I don’t care if they are savages, they’re still people.”
Nate tries not to goggle; that’s a damned rebellious statement to make. Hell, Nate’s primary job function is the rounding up and interning of said savages. Roth doesn’t know that though, of course. To him, Nate’s just a college graduate from Baltimore, seeking adventure out West on his parents’ dime.
But Roth continues like he’s not spouting treason as he crosses the room. “Come now, don’t look at me like that, Nathaniel. I don’t like bigots in my home. I’m not saying I’m going to cry over every redskin that gets himself a bullet between the eyes. I’m just saying that’s a lost opportunity, right there.”
Roth stops by the sofa and nudges at Nate’s legs with his feet, still carrying what looks like food in his palms. Nate scoots over, giving Roth room to plop himself down.
“As a businessman,” Roth says, reclining against the backrest, “I’ve made a small fortune selling gunstock to the tribes. By taking away an entire demographic of both customers and vendors, I’m losing who knows how much money…” Roth suddenly trails off, shaking his head. “Now look, you’ve got me talking business. You’ve got to stop me when I do that, Nathaniel.”
“No, really,” Nate says seriously. “I’m interested.” And he is. The last thing Nate expected was for Roth, a reigning drug dealer, to be sympathetic to the Nation’s cause. It’s, well. It’s interesting.
“You’re sweet to lie, but I’m boring myself,” Roth chuckles. Nate starts to protest, but Roth aborts it by feeding him one of the morsels with a glib Taste this.
“And tell me,” Roth says as Nate belatedly catches the food with his tongue, crumbs dropping into the ready cocktail napkin below his chin. It tastes good, something spicy with egg and cheese. Roth watches him, asking, “Which kickshaw should I serve with the wine?”
He hands over the other napkin as Nate chews and swallows.
“That’s fantastic,” Nate eventually comments. Brad would go apeshit over what he just had; maybe Nate can sneak some back to the team meeting, after the party. “What was that, stuffed peppers?”
“Jalapeño quiche, to be exact. Try the mint watercress, though.”
Nate obliges, picking up and eating the small sandwich in two bites. The bread is airily soft and inside, crushed mint and cucumber adds a fresh crispness to the salted ham.
“God,” Nate half-moans. This is so much better than the black caviar they always order at the clubhouse. That shit tastes like briny dirt. “Can’t you serve both?”
“I will. One with the cocktails, one with the red wine afterwards. But you’re helping me pick.”
Nate gives his recommendation (sandwiches first, then quiche with the red) as Roth sits with him for a bit, making small talk about other preparations to do before the guests arrive.
While they chat, Nate peppers Roth with questions about the invitees like he’s angling for gossip. In actuality he’s trying to unearth any familiar names that tie back to the underworld, which Nate’s team has researched so diligently.
Nothing pings, though. Just Mr. Sharpe’s got a pretty thing on the side or Mrs. Keaton’s been acting queer ever since her cat’s death, or some idle permutation of both.
Still, it passes the time quickly. Before he knows it, Roth’s gone upstairs to get changed, valet in tow, and Nate’s left to drum his fingers on the wooden armrest of the sofa. His bored appearance belies the thoughts and plans knitting together in his head.
He wants to ask Roth some more about his past (and, implicitly, his present) affiliations with Indians. He also wants to meet and observe every guest that steps through Roth’s opulent foyer tonight.
More than anything, Nate wants to get behind that closed, office door upstairs. If there’s something to find in this mansion, Nate’s certain it’s in there.
Roth doesn’t tarry, coming back downstairs before Nate’s finished plotting his strategy for the evening. Gone is the casual loungewear, replaced by a black frock coat over a white dress shirt and matching bowtie looped around a high collar.
Nate rubs his hands together, rising from his seat and offering to mix the first drink of the night.
There’s so much to do in the next few hours.
-----
Over the course of the soirée, alcohol flows freely and in abundance.
Obviously, Nate reminds himself. It’s a cocktail party.
He makes sure to be mindful of how much he’s having, knowing full well that while he’s undercover, the slightest misstep could cost Nate and his men the entire mission.
Still, a bit of drink is unavoidable. There are the beginnings of a good soak thrumming through Nate’s blood, in fact, as Roth makes the rounds and introduces Nate to the guests—always with a hand on his lower back, and always as his “good friend, Mr. Fick.”
Nate plays the part dutifully, engaging in topics of literature and the arts while affecting ignorance at business, or politics. Unfortunately, this makes for rather insipid conversation; save for a single reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle’s society column, the dozen or so men present make their livings as entrepreneurs or financiers, their accompanying wives (or mistress, in one case) made wealthy by the same industries. Consequently, Nate spends most of his time nodding vacantly as others talk.
Nate has a feeling it’s how Roth wants it, though—perfectly adept at impressing with his cultured background, yet flattering of Roth’s guests when Nate tilts his head in the pretense of confusion at numbers or political bavardage.
The perfect wife, Nate laughs to himself, were he a woman. It’s all well and good, though; it suits his needs perfectly. Who would suspect a doe-eyed bubblehead of subterfuge?
“Pardon me,” Nate says when the conversation lulls, cocking his nearly empty tumbler. “I have a feeling you all have some catching up to do. This is my third one, already.”
It’s actually only his second, but Roth smiles indulgently and lets Nate pull away.
It is his third break, however. The first attempt to steal away had Mrs. Turning politely tapping Nate on the shoulder with a gloved hand and pointing him towards the downstairs lavatory with a helpful smile. In the second instance, Roth’s valet took Nate’s ambling for the misguided search of a fresh drink, so Nate had to accept the refill of whisky and re-enter the drawing room. He couldn’t very well climb the stairs in front of Roth’s personal eyes and ears.
This time, though.
A sly survey around the room reveals no watchful eyes, so Nate takes his chances. He slips upstairs.
Retracing their path from his earlier tour, Nate swiftly treads down the hallway. He goes past the trophy case, past the upstairs bathroom, and around the corner to the imposing, walnut door of Roth’s office.
He gives one last cursory check behind him before reaching out for the brass handle—
Hm, Nate frowns when the knob sticks. He tries again, hearing a metallic jiggle, but again—nothing.
Nate leans his forehead against the cool surface of the door. The room is locked.
“You all right?”
The sound of a stranger’s voice has Nate snatching back his hand from the doorknob and whirling around in what must look like surefire guilt.
He blurts, “I’m fine,” and tries to recall the man he’s undoubtedly just met.
Fucking great—it’s Mr. Wright, he remembers. The reporter from the Chronicle. Possibly the worst person to have stumbled upon Nate’s trespassing.
Mr. Wright doesn’t seem scandalized, however; he just wrinkles his forehead in concern, prompting Nate to explain, “I needed a breather. Kind of had a lot to drink.”
Nate sees the reporter glance at the glass in his hand and nod in acceptance. “Me too,” Wright eventually says. “I don’t know about you, but it’s stuffy down there. In more ways than one.”
Nate feels his lips quirk. “You’re the social columnist, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be used to all this?”
Wright lets out a hiss, looking put out. “God, don’t remind me. I’m just stepping in until they find a replacement for Mrs. Baker.”
“So what do you usually write, if not thrilling tales of the rich and salacious?”
A gleam comes to Wright’s eye. “If you must know, I’m an investigative reporter,” he says proudly, before catching himself. “Well, freelancing reporter. You know, when I can.” Wright crosses his arms uncomfortably and sheepishly admits, “It doesn’t really pay the bills, you know.”
Nate chuckles, feeling himself relax around this odd, nervous creature. There’s something about Wright’s earnestness that appeals to him.
“I studied Classics in school,” Nate responds kindly. “You don’t have to tell me about paying the bills. At least investigative reporting sounds important. Muckraking, like Nellie Bly in The World?”
“Exactly,” Wright says eagerly.
“Well, there’s plenty to muckrake in San Francisco, I’m sure,” Nate says without thinking. It earns a wide stare, though, and Nate’s quickly reminded of who they’re rubbing elbows with at this party: an opium kingpin entertaining a roomful of likely crooked bankers and industrialists downstairs.
Shit.
“At least you get a break from all that, tonight,” Nate retracts hastily. Fuck, he can’t tell if the drink is starting to affect him or if Nate just needs to tighten up his game. Whatever it is, he needs to shake it off, and quick.
“We should probably get back downstairs,” Nate says lamely.
Wright gives him a last, thoughtful look, but he doesn’t press the matter. They turn to go, but their progress is impeded when Wright nearly collides with the host himself.
“There you are,” Roth says over Wright’s head. “I was wondering where you got to.”
“Needed a breather,” Nate repeats automatically. Between him and Roth, Nate can feel the reporter turning awkward so he adds, “Mr. Wright and I were just talking about what a great column this party will make.”
As if just noticing him, Roth looks down at Wright. He breaks into a smile and pats the reporter genially on the back.
“Splendid, Mr. Wright,” he says. “I hope you’re finding our little soirée to your liking.”
Roth seems affable enough, but it’s clear Wright feels uncomfortable anyway. The circumstances of Nate and Roth’s “friendship” is hardly a well-kept secret, and Wright’s not the first to beg off in their company.
Roth smoothly steps aside, letting the reporter pass until it’s just him and Nate. Despite their equal heights, Nate feels rather cornered by Roth, whose smile has begun to slip.
Nate wets his lips, hoping his countenance is adequately innocent.
“What are you doing up here, Nathaniel?” Roth asks. His voice sounds lower now, like he’s fishing for an answer.
“I was feeling a bit dizzy,” Nate says weakly. “I think I might have had too much—“
“That’s bull,” Roth interrupts. “I’ve seen you down five Manhattans in one afternoon without batting an eyelash. Now, tell me the real reason why you’re up here. Don’t be shy.”
Nate darts his eyes away. He doesn’t know what Roth wants him to say—does he have an inkling of Nate’s true intent? All this time, Nate imagined himself successful in his created guise.
At Nate’s silence, Roth leans in. His cheeks are slightly red underneath his tanned skin and he smells like scotch.
“Did you want me to come find you?” Roth asks roughly.
Nate slides one hand into his pocket, feeling unsettled as he asks, intelligently, “What?”
Roth smiles then, full lips curving up as his eyes turn hot.
Oh.
“I saw the way you looked at my bed, Nathaniel. You might think you’re being demure, but I can see right through you.”
Oh, Nate thinks once more, apprehensively. This is a turn. An inevitable one, sure, but it makes his mind race all the same. While his first instinct is to deny, deny, deny—Nate pauses, forcing himself to think judiciously.
No, denying Roth could very well be the move that brings down Nate’s carefully constructed façade like a house of cards.
Something else is called for. And if he wants to get past Roth’s stubborn, ever-present guard...it has to be something daring.
Nate pulls back just long enough to lift his tumbler to his mouth, tipping in the remaining whisky with his eyes leashed to Roth’s. Instead of swallowing the burn, however, Nate leans forward and presses his lips to Roth.
Opens Roth’s mouth with his tongue and lets the whisky drain in. A little bit drips from the corner of their lips, cooling a trail down Nate’s chin, but he’ll get that later.
When the last vestiges of whisky have been passed over, Nate withdraws with a wet sound of parting mouths and lifts his eyes. Before him, Roth wears a stunned expression.
That is what Nate needs. An upper hand a mile wide.
Roth swallows loudly, then coughs into the crook of his elbow like the drink’s gone down the wrong pipe.
Nate just smiles. “I am demure, Mr. Roth,” he says over the muffled coughs, pulling his hand out of his pocket to dab at the spilt liquor on his chin. “I’m not easy like the others you might’ve had. But I’m worth it. I promise.”
Roth looks up at him, eyes slightly watery. “Nathaniel Fick, I swear to you, if you’re going home tonight—“
“I think your guests are missing you,” Nate evades in a lighter tone. “And you’re never impolite. So.” Nate raises his eyebrows pointedly.
With a last, frustrated look, Roth concedes and turns down the hall.
Nate follows him downstairs, his dick half-hard, blood pounding in his ears.
Ugh anyway, this chapter was fun to write, though perhaps a little vicious. Sorry Bradders :/
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
Roth enters the parlor room, clad in a silk, burgundy dressing robe paired with loose slacks. He strides over to where Nate’s waiting, seated on a brocaded sofa from when the housekeeper let him in.
“Nathaniel!” Roth greets.
“Les,” Nate responds, standing up. They shake hands and Roth pulls him in for an embrace, clapping Nate jovially on the shoulder.
“Glad you could make it,” he says.
“Thanks for having me. This is some place you got,” Nate replies, eyes traveling over the painting-strewn walls, the gilded hearth, the Oriental rugs covering the ground.
“Eh, it does the job,” Roth replies easily. “Want a tour?”
Nate accepts with real enthusiasm. He’s been trying to sneak under Roth’s iron guard for weeks, and now that he’s finally inside the lion’s den, Nate’s eager to poke around, see what he’s working with.
Roth takes him through the drawing room and up the carpeted stairs, narrating all the while. Nate can’t help but feel like his host is putting on a show for him. Roth points out mounted heads of game on the walls, doling out hunting stories—sporting stories where there’s a trophy. They pass the one Roth earned from the yacht club, gold statuette of a sailboat sitting proudly alongside others in a glass case as they tread down the wainscoted hallway of the second floor.
“My office,” Roth gestures at a walnut door at the corner, where the hallway bends. It’s the first closed door they’ve come across, and Nate mentally flags it in his mind. “The bedroom,” Roth continues, stopping by the doorjamb so Nate can crane a look inside.
The room is filled with light, streaming in through paned French windows that look tall as lampposts. A stately armoire takes up a corner, a masculine vanity takes up another. An ottoman here, some chests there. All the furniture matches in coffee-colored varnish, including the four-poster bed that dominates the center of the room.
Maybe he’s staring, but Roth leans in and says teasingly, “You can take a closer look later, if you want.”
Nate feels his face warm. “It’s fine. I wasn’t. I mean—“
“I’m kidding,” Roth laughs. “God, you’re cute when you’re flustered. Anyway, you can take a closer look at anything you want, but later. Right now I have to check on Cook.”
En route to the kitchen at the back of the house, Roth leaves Nate in the drawing room, where Nate contents himself with the coffee laid out and an issue of that morning’s Chronicle.
It’s there he finds an article about himself, headline blaring Blood in Ross Alley.
Well, it’s not about himself, exactly, but the article covers the two Indians that were eliminated the night before.
Eliminated. That’s the word the paper uses, like the Indians were a bad odor hanging around a room to be dispelled with the airing out of a window.
Nate frowns, flipping into the paper where the front-page article continues. It goes on to describe the two unidentified victims as chronic gamblers. According to the report, certificates of debt were found inside Injuns’ room, stuffed into the lining of a flea-bitten mattress, while small packets of refined opium were spread out on the surface of a table. The author concludes it as the set-up of a couple of amateur dealers.
Nate folds the newspaper closed. There isn’t enough information for Nate to make any further assumptions, but he’s still discouraged. It doesn’t feel like Cocheta—not from the way he’s seen her conduct her work.
“Nasty business, right?”
Nate looks up, seeing Roth enter the room, balancing a napkin in either hand. “The thing with the Indians, I mean. I don’t care if they are savages, they’re still people.”
Nate tries not to goggle; that’s a damned rebellious statement to make. Hell, Nate’s primary job function is the rounding up and interning of said savages. Roth doesn’t know that though, of course. To him, Nate’s just a college graduate from Baltimore, seeking adventure out West on his parents’ dime.
But Roth continues like he’s not spouting treason as he crosses the room. “Come now, don’t look at me like that, Nathaniel. I don’t like bigots in my home. I’m not saying I’m going to cry over every redskin that gets himself a bullet between the eyes. I’m just saying that’s a lost opportunity, right there.”
Roth stops by the sofa and nudges at Nate’s legs with his feet, still carrying what looks like food in his palms. Nate scoots over, giving Roth room to plop himself down.
“As a businessman,” Roth says, reclining against the backrest, “I’ve made a small fortune selling gunstock to the tribes. By taking away an entire demographic of both customers and vendors, I’m losing who knows how much money…” Roth suddenly trails off, shaking his head. “Now look, you’ve got me talking business. You’ve got to stop me when I do that, Nathaniel.”
“No, really,” Nate says seriously. “I’m interested.” And he is. The last thing Nate expected was for Roth, a reigning drug dealer, to be sympathetic to the Nation’s cause. It’s, well. It’s interesting.
“You’re sweet to lie, but I’m boring myself,” Roth chuckles. Nate starts to protest, but Roth aborts it by feeding him one of the morsels with a glib Taste this.
“And tell me,” Roth says as Nate belatedly catches the food with his tongue, crumbs dropping into the ready cocktail napkin below his chin. It tastes good, something spicy with egg and cheese. Roth watches him, asking, “Which kickshaw should I serve with the wine?”
He hands over the other napkin as Nate chews and swallows.
“That’s fantastic,” Nate eventually comments. Brad would go apeshit over what he just had; maybe Nate can sneak some back to the team meeting, after the party. “What was that, stuffed peppers?”
“Jalapeño quiche, to be exact. Try the mint watercress, though.”
Nate obliges, picking up and eating the small sandwich in two bites. The bread is airily soft and inside, crushed mint and cucumber adds a fresh crispness to the salted ham.
“God,” Nate half-moans. This is so much better than the black caviar they always order at the clubhouse. That shit tastes like briny dirt. “Can’t you serve both?”
“I will. One with the cocktails, one with the red wine afterwards. But you’re helping me pick.”
Nate gives his recommendation (sandwiches first, then quiche with the red) as Roth sits with him for a bit, making small talk about other preparations to do before the guests arrive.
While they chat, Nate peppers Roth with questions about the invitees like he’s angling for gossip. In actuality he’s trying to unearth any familiar names that tie back to the underworld, which Nate’s team has researched so diligently.
Nothing pings, though. Just Mr. Sharpe’s got a pretty thing on the side or Mrs. Keaton’s been acting queer ever since her cat’s death, or some idle permutation of both.
Still, it passes the time quickly. Before he knows it, Roth’s gone upstairs to get changed, valet in tow, and Nate’s left to drum his fingers on the wooden armrest of the sofa. His bored appearance belies the thoughts and plans knitting together in his head.
He wants to ask Roth some more about his past (and, implicitly, his present) affiliations with Indians. He also wants to meet and observe every guest that steps through Roth’s opulent foyer tonight.
More than anything, Nate wants to get behind that closed, office door upstairs. If there’s something to find in this mansion, Nate’s certain it’s in there.
Roth doesn’t tarry, coming back downstairs before Nate’s finished plotting his strategy for the evening. Gone is the casual loungewear, replaced by a black frock coat over a white dress shirt and matching bowtie looped around a high collar.
Nate rubs his hands together, rising from his seat and offering to mix the first drink of the night.
There’s so much to do in the next few hours.
-----
Over the course of the soirée, alcohol flows freely and in abundance.
Obviously, Nate reminds himself. It’s a cocktail party.
He makes sure to be mindful of how much he’s having, knowing full well that while he’s undercover, the slightest misstep could cost Nate and his men the entire mission.
Still, a bit of drink is unavoidable. There are the beginnings of a good soak thrumming through Nate’s blood, in fact, as Roth makes the rounds and introduces Nate to the guests—always with a hand on his lower back, and always as his “good friend, Mr. Fick.”
Nate plays the part dutifully, engaging in topics of literature and the arts while affecting ignorance at business, or politics. Unfortunately, this makes for rather insipid conversation; save for a single reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle’s society column, the dozen or so men present make their livings as entrepreneurs or financiers, their accompanying wives (or mistress, in one case) made wealthy by the same industries. Consequently, Nate spends most of his time nodding vacantly as others talk.
Nate has a feeling it’s how Roth wants it, though—perfectly adept at impressing with his cultured background, yet flattering of Roth’s guests when Nate tilts his head in the pretense of confusion at numbers or political bavardage.
The perfect wife, Nate laughs to himself, were he a woman. It’s all well and good, though; it suits his needs perfectly. Who would suspect a doe-eyed bubblehead of subterfuge?
“Pardon me,” Nate says when the conversation lulls, cocking his nearly empty tumbler. “I have a feeling you all have some catching up to do. This is my third one, already.”
It’s actually only his second, but Roth smiles indulgently and lets Nate pull away.
It is his third break, however. The first attempt to steal away had Mrs. Turning politely tapping Nate on the shoulder with a gloved hand and pointing him towards the downstairs lavatory with a helpful smile. In the second instance, Roth’s valet took Nate’s ambling for the misguided search of a fresh drink, so Nate had to accept the refill of whisky and re-enter the drawing room. He couldn’t very well climb the stairs in front of Roth’s personal eyes and ears.
This time, though.
A sly survey around the room reveals no watchful eyes, so Nate takes his chances. He slips upstairs.
Retracing their path from his earlier tour, Nate swiftly treads down the hallway. He goes past the trophy case, past the upstairs bathroom, and around the corner to the imposing, walnut door of Roth’s office.
He gives one last cursory check behind him before reaching out for the brass handle—
Hm, Nate frowns when the knob sticks. He tries again, hearing a metallic jiggle, but again—nothing.
Nate leans his forehead against the cool surface of the door. The room is locked.
“You all right?”
The sound of a stranger’s voice has Nate snatching back his hand from the doorknob and whirling around in what must look like surefire guilt.
He blurts, “I’m fine,” and tries to recall the man he’s undoubtedly just met.
Fucking great—it’s Mr. Wright, he remembers. The reporter from the Chronicle. Possibly the worst person to have stumbled upon Nate’s trespassing.
Mr. Wright doesn’t seem scandalized, however; he just wrinkles his forehead in concern, prompting Nate to explain, “I needed a breather. Kind of had a lot to drink.”
Nate sees the reporter glance at the glass in his hand and nod in acceptance. “Me too,” Wright eventually says. “I don’t know about you, but it’s stuffy down there. In more ways than one.”
Nate feels his lips quirk. “You’re the social columnist, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be used to all this?”
Wright lets out a hiss, looking put out. “God, don’t remind me. I’m just stepping in until they find a replacement for Mrs. Baker.”
“So what do you usually write, if not thrilling tales of the rich and salacious?”
A gleam comes to Wright’s eye. “If you must know, I’m an investigative reporter,” he says proudly, before catching himself. “Well, freelancing reporter. You know, when I can.” Wright crosses his arms uncomfortably and sheepishly admits, “It doesn’t really pay the bills, you know.”
Nate chuckles, feeling himself relax around this odd, nervous creature. There’s something about Wright’s earnestness that appeals to him.
“I studied Classics in school,” Nate responds kindly. “You don’t have to tell me about paying the bills. At least investigative reporting sounds important. Muckraking, like Nellie Bly in The World?”
“Exactly,” Wright says eagerly.
“Well, there’s plenty to muckrake in San Francisco, I’m sure,” Nate says without thinking. It earns a wide stare, though, and Nate’s quickly reminded of who they’re rubbing elbows with at this party: an opium kingpin entertaining a roomful of likely crooked bankers and industrialists downstairs.
Shit.
“At least you get a break from all that, tonight,” Nate retracts hastily. Fuck, he can’t tell if the drink is starting to affect him or if Nate just needs to tighten up his game. Whatever it is, he needs to shake it off, and quick.
“We should probably get back downstairs,” Nate says lamely.
Wright gives him a last, thoughtful look, but he doesn’t press the matter. They turn to go, but their progress is impeded when Wright nearly collides with the host himself.
“There you are,” Roth says over Wright’s head. “I was wondering where you got to.”
“Needed a breather,” Nate repeats automatically. Between him and Roth, Nate can feel the reporter turning awkward so he adds, “Mr. Wright and I were just talking about what a great column this party will make.”
As if just noticing him, Roth looks down at Wright. He breaks into a smile and pats the reporter genially on the back.
“Splendid, Mr. Wright,” he says. “I hope you’re finding our little soirée to your liking.”
Roth seems affable enough, but it’s clear Wright feels uncomfortable anyway. The circumstances of Nate and Roth’s “friendship” is hardly a well-kept secret, and Wright’s not the first to beg off in their company.
Roth smoothly steps aside, letting the reporter pass until it’s just him and Nate. Despite their equal heights, Nate feels rather cornered by Roth, whose smile has begun to slip.
Nate wets his lips, hoping his countenance is adequately innocent.
“What are you doing up here, Nathaniel?” Roth asks. His voice sounds lower now, like he’s fishing for an answer.
“I was feeling a bit dizzy,” Nate says weakly. “I think I might have had too much—“
“That’s bull,” Roth interrupts. “I’ve seen you down five Manhattans in one afternoon without batting an eyelash. Now, tell me the real reason why you’re up here. Don’t be shy.”
Nate darts his eyes away. He doesn’t know what Roth wants him to say—does he have an inkling of Nate’s true intent? All this time, Nate imagined himself successful in his created guise.
At Nate’s silence, Roth leans in. His cheeks are slightly red underneath his tanned skin and he smells like scotch.
“Did you want me to come find you?” Roth asks roughly.
Nate slides one hand into his pocket, feeling unsettled as he asks, intelligently, “What?”
Roth smiles then, full lips curving up as his eyes turn hot.
Oh.
“I saw the way you looked at my bed, Nathaniel. You might think you’re being demure, but I can see right through you.”
Oh, Nate thinks once more, apprehensively. This is a turn. An inevitable one, sure, but it makes his mind race all the same. While his first instinct is to deny, deny, deny—Nate pauses, forcing himself to think judiciously.
No, denying Roth could very well be the move that brings down Nate’s carefully constructed façade like a house of cards.
Something else is called for. And if he wants to get past Roth’s stubborn, ever-present guard...it has to be something daring.
Nate pulls back just long enough to lift his tumbler to his mouth, tipping in the remaining whisky with his eyes leashed to Roth’s. Instead of swallowing the burn, however, Nate leans forward and presses his lips to Roth.
Opens Roth’s mouth with his tongue and lets the whisky drain in. A little bit drips from the corner of their lips, cooling a trail down Nate’s chin, but he’ll get that later.
When the last vestiges of whisky have been passed over, Nate withdraws with a wet sound of parting mouths and lifts his eyes. Before him, Roth wears a stunned expression.
That is what Nate needs. An upper hand a mile wide.
Roth swallows loudly, then coughs into the crook of his elbow like the drink’s gone down the wrong pipe.
Nate just smiles. “I am demure, Mr. Roth,” he says over the muffled coughs, pulling his hand out of his pocket to dab at the spilt liquor on his chin. “I’m not easy like the others you might’ve had. But I’m worth it. I promise.”
Roth looks up at him, eyes slightly watery. “Nathaniel Fick, I swear to you, if you’re going home tonight—“
“I think your guests are missing you,” Nate evades in a lighter tone. “And you’re never impolite. So.” Nate raises his eyebrows pointedly.
With a last, frustrated look, Roth concedes and turns down the hall.
Nate follows him downstairs, his dick half-hard, blood pounding in his ears.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 08:19 am (UTC)Wow, I just had a flashback to The West Wing.
Wright gives him a last, thoughtful look, but he doesn’t press the matter.
HAAA!! Wright has cottoned on! Ooh, now I wonder where that's going.
Roth seems affable enough, but it’s clear Wright feels uncomfortable anyway. The circumstances of Nate and Roth’s “friendship” is hardly a well-kept secret, and Wright’s not the first to beg off in their company.
Oh, interesting! I like how matter-of-fact Nate is, but it does just reinforce what he's been telling Brad the whole time.
“I think your guests are missing you,” Nate evades in a lighter tone. “And you’re never impolite. So.” Nate raises his eyebrows pointedly.
Gah, PERFECT! I can just see his expectant, do-what-I-say expression. Wonderful, wonderful.
Brad's gonna be so pissed!I am starting to wonder if Roth has anything to do with the Indian business, though. Despite Nate's suspicions we've seen zero evidence of anything hinky with him. Hmm.
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Date: 2011-02-01 01:52 am (UTC)Was that Nellie Bly mentioned in The West Wing? I feel honored even to have referenced the same material as that show *__*
Wright’s not the first to beg off in their company.
Yeeeah, I thought about making him a homo-loving liberal, too, like Nate's entire posse, but there's such thing as an unbelievably tolerant cast (which I'm pretty sure I've crossed already, in spades). Not that Wright's a bad guy, but I didn't want to throw in yet another anachronistically tolerant character, yanno?
Nate raises his eyebrows pointedly.
I will milk that "get out of the hole" scene FOREVER MORE. NATE'S MOM!EYEBROWS \o/
I am starting to wonder if Roth has anything to do with the Indian business, though.
D'oh, he does! He does! Maybe when I revise, I'll pop in more suspicious behavior from Roth. I think I've been so preoccupied with devising a character Nate would believably sleep with, that I kind of made Roth too cool for school ._. whoops.
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Date: 2011-02-01 07:47 am (UTC)Yes! It was a whole thing between the Bartletts. All I could hear is President Bartlett saying her name in that accent of his. I got all starry-eyed. ::happy::
Not that Wright's a bad guy, but I didn't want to throw in yet another anachronistically tolerant character, yanno?
Oh, so Nate was right?! I thought you were building in a misdirect there. As you do.
I will milk that "get out of the hole" scene FOREVER MORE.
IT IS THAT AWESOME!!! I could totally see his expression. Just perfect.
All this Roth business turns my inner Brad into a great pile of woe. It's tragic. I'm just saying.
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Date: 2011-02-07 04:05 am (UTC)I DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT I'M DOING AT ALL. I like your idea better. Yes, that was a misdirect. *nod nod* Wright could actually give two shits that Nate likes bumping swords. Nate's just the one who's all hyper-paranoid.
All this Roth business turns my inner Brad into a great pile of woe. It's tragic. I'm just saying.
But look, I just posted a new chapter! AND BRAD FINALLY GETS HIS (KINDA SORTA)
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Date: 2011-02-07 07:02 am (UTC)LIES! I see what you're doing here - THIS is a misdirect, too! Your layering, it is sneaky.
Sure, Nate is all paranoid (especially because that's his entire argument with Brad - about the damage to their careers/reputations), but I thought Wright had some angle he was working as an investigative journalist. He played up the (believable) discomfort so that he could go....investigate something while Roth is distracted and then he'd provide us with a vital clue in chapter 17. No?
I read your new chapter! 'Tis awesomesauce and Nate really just needs to crawl into Brad's bed and stay there FOREVER like the indulgent superslut he knows he wants to be. ::nods::
...too much?
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Date: 2011-01-31 12:34 pm (UTC)And I didn't realise the reporter was Evan Wright to start with (I'm a bit slow today), so I was worried when he found Nate trying to get into Roth's office.
Also, this bit made me laugh: "Mr. Sharpe’s got a pretty thing on the side or Mrs. Keaton’s been acting queer ever since her cat’s death, or some idle permutation of both." because my mind immediately started doing permutations :)
Damn, I need to go and re-read the whole thing at some point though because I've lost the feeling of the tempo of the story. Hmm, perhaps I should wait until it's finished first.
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Date: 2011-02-01 01:57 am (UTC)It's a good reminder of the time period the story is set in, even if it's hard for me to have Nate have those beliefs.
Totally good point. I'm still trying to figure out EXACTLY what it is nate feels about Indian internment, here. It's tricky because the only thing I know for certain is that he's conflicted about it :P I'm so tempted to make him a bleeding-heart liberal, but have to keep reminding myself of the time period and that hey, in real life, Nathaniel Fick was a Republican during the time period of the show, which counts for something in terms of conservatism vs. liberalism.
I've lost the feeling of the tempo of the story
Haha I'm pretty sure that's my fault. Wait till the story's finished first before you decide to re-read! I changed like, 30% of the fic the first time around, between the WIP chapter posts and the actual, finished product. I find that WIPs are really, really helpful to the author (and kind of cruel to readers, sorry :/) and in this format, I've been writing episodically. When it's time to go back and revise, I'll concentrate on making better transitions.
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Date: 2011-02-01 01:05 pm (UTC)Yeah, Nate. Damn, that boy is a problem for me. Although I respect the real Nathaniel Fick, my life and beliefs are a long way away from his (I am a rampant pacifist to start with, which makes it kinda hilarious that I keep getting suckered into things that involve the military. I started out in Stargate fandom and had ethical difficulties with the military aspect of that show too). But all of that is conflated with Stark Sands' portrayal of Nate which I adored, and then all the different fan iterations of Nate, and yeah, he's kinda morphed into a blend of all those aspects for me.
Though in terms of this story, seeing that it is an AU, you could probably afford to liberalize him a bit because I think you've got other character aspects down enough that it wouldn't make him seem too OOC. Hmm, though that may just be my liberal leanings speaking. Though maybe Roth can get Nate to open his mind up about this topic. Damn, though I think Nate would then need some kind of positive interaction with Indians (probably by saving Brad's life - okay, yeah, this is completely outside the scope of what you're writing and well off the topic). Um, I got rambly :/
And I'll look forward to the revised version when it's all done. I'm really a novice at this reading WIP's thing. I think it shows,;)
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Date: 2011-02-07 04:09 am (UTC)you could probably afford to liberalize him a bit
A big part of my attempts to characterize Nate Fick in this AU is actually to have him grow disillusioned about what he was taught growing up. So yes, he IS going to get all liberal by the end, going against his job description by thinking Native Americans shouldn't be interned. I totally realize the characterization's a bit rough around the edges so far, though...thanks for pointing it out in this chapter :) I definitely need to recalibrate all this thematic stuff between Nate and how he feels towards the Indians he's hunting. Will have to be selective in the incidents Nate goes through that turn him sympathetic to their cause.
Anyway, now I'm the rambly one. Thanks again for the thoughtful commentary :D
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Date: 2011-01-31 12:54 pm (UTC)“I’m kidding,” Roth laughs. “God, you’re cute when you’re flustered."
He's right, Nate is very cute when flustered. :) Also, I'm really starting like Roth. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to happen, but now I can see why Nate would be attracted to him, especially when he's so stubbornly insisting on not sleeping with Brad!
When the last vestiges of whisky have been passed over, Nate withdraws with a wet sound of parting mouths and lifts his eyes. Before him, Roth wears a stunned expression.
ermm... was I supposed to find this as hot as I did? Nate is such a tease. He better be careful not to tease too much or Roth will never let him go (god knows, I wouldn't :)) and then Brad would have to kill Roth, which would be very unfortunate for their investigation.
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Date: 2011-02-01 01:59 am (UTC)But it is, it is! S'funny because I originally envisioned Roth as less likeable, but the more I began writing the more unbelievable it was that Nate would even be attracted to someone not worthwhile in some way, at least. As a result I think I've made Roth too hunky ._. whoops, sorry Brad.
Anyway, thanks for the lovely feedback! \o/
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Date: 2011-02-01 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 08:46 pm (UTC)I really love the way you're teasing us!
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Date: 2011-02-01 02:01 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying the teasing XD I'm having fun doing it. And torturing Brad. Like I said before this chapter--poor Bradders D: It's okay, he gets his rocks off soon <3
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Date: 2011-02-07 04:10 am (UTC)Hmm, that actually sounds kind of gross.
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Date: 2011-02-02 08:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-31 11:45 pm (UTC)I am thrilled that you painted Ross as not just black and white! Cause life is not like that at all. It's a difficult task for Nate as is, but to find out that his enemy may be not as bad as he thought and plus is extremely attractive! It must be so confusing for Nate. Can't wait to see how this tricky situation will be resolved!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 02:22 am (UTC)Oops! I totally christened your Roth to Ross [Geller] ( David Schwimmer) from "Friends"!! LOL
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Date: 2011-02-01 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 02:34 am (UTC)This is what separates mere mortals from great spies. Ordinary people always obsess over the tiniest of details. Spies are so nonchalant about flaws in their disguises that no one else ever catches on either. OMG! I'll never get to be a spy. I'm crushed. :)))
no subject
Date: 2011-02-01 03:58 am (UTC)I SEE WOT YOU DID THERE.
Nate follows him downstairs, his dick half-hard, blood pounding in his ears.
Nathaniel Fick you *wanton*. *makes scandalized yet delighted face at him*
Also Reporter! Yaaaaay, Reporter!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:11 am (UTC)HEE HEE YAY, YOU WIN SOMETHING. I DON'T KNOW WHAT. OH I KNOW, A NEW CHAPTER WHEREIN NATE COMES ALL OVER HIMSELF
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Date: 2011-02-07 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:14 am (UTC)Like jalapeno cheese, get it? Eh? *waggles eyebrows*
I like Roth, he's a great character.
YAY! \o/ Because lord knows writing an original character, especially one in a featured role, is touchy business. It's like fighting an uphill battle to get them likeable, because first reaction is "wtf, who is this made up character in my fandom?"
It's Brad's turn now, isn't it?
Ohhhhh, yes. Yes it is.