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aeroport_artA new chapter, finally! You can blame its lateness on the fandom that is The Social Network taking over all my free time. So much amazing fic to catch up on!!!
Well, that aside, this chapter took a lot of wrangling. I was trying to figure out how to proceed with Brad and Nate's relationship / dynamic after they've wanked to the sounds of each other wanking (the chapter of which I've tweaked quite a bit and just updated online, thanks to everyone's lovely feedback). Please, continue to make thinky-thought comments as you see fit ;) It's a load of help as I crank this story out and gear up for the big edit.
On a RL note, just went to see Bill Cunningham New York today after work. It's a really great documentary, much recommended to anyone who can get their hands on it!
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13
Unbeknownst to Nate, the events of that night would trigger somewhat of a downward spiral.
It doesn’t start with the meeting, though; that passes unremarkably, even if the news they share is all a bit disappointing. Stafford and Christeson explain the ultimately useless firefight in Ross Alley while Nate tries to maintain an air of positivity by shifting everyone’s attention to the headway he’s made with Roth.
If Brad seems less morose than usual as Nate recounts his time, Nate still wouldn’t bet his mortgage on it.
No, nothing really flags until the day after.
-----
Nate tries to leave the room, only to get blocked by an outstretched arm.
It’s Brad.
Brad is in his way.
Nate says nothing, just quirks an eyebrow as Brad leans in close enough that his lips graze past the apple of Nate’s cheek. He says into Nate’s ear, “Have a good day.” Then, dangerously, “Sir.”
Nate feels his body flush, some unnamable emotion flooding through him like a dam’s been lowered. Before he can patch it over with a glib reply, though, Brad drops his arm and turns, almost jauntily, back to his bed where he’s got sheaves of Pacific Mail dock schedules fanned out across neatly-made covers.
Nate should address Brad’s overly familiar tone. Or at least dismiss it from his mind with silent reproach.
Instead, he allows himself a small, private smile, and exits the door.
-----
Nate doesn’t see Roth that day. Nah, on this particular morning, Nate’s got a list tucked into his vest pocket of every guest that showed face at Roth’s cocktail party, and he’s taking it to the precinct to cross-reference against their dossiers.
Chief Patterson has his aide set him up in the records room of the brick-walled basement. Underground, the hours pass quickly and productively. By the time Nate’s researched every name on the list, there are two candle stubs in the trash and he’s got more than a few individuals circled in blue, each offender charged with anything from petty crime all the way to grand larceny. Tellingly, all charges were related to the drugs and arms trade.
Nate makes a note at the bottom of his paper—underlines it twice—that all of the offenders were un-convicted, having gotten away scot-free through mysterious, serendipitous means.
Galvanized by the prospect that they might actually have a case to build around Roth, Nate claps his last book shut and slides it back into the shelf where it belongs.
He can’t wait to show his men the new leads. And while he won’t lie to himself and deny the fact there’s a small sense of disappointment in face of the new, hard signs that point to Roth’s culpability, Nate is more than glad that his time with Les hasn’t been for naught.
It means they made the right decision, sending Nate into a covert operation. It means he hasn’t been wasting his time drinking wine all day and making eyes at another man.
Best of all, it means the surface affection Nate’s begun to feel for Les hasn’t the room to mature into anything troublesome. There’s nothing attractive about a man who earns his bread on the backs of drug addicts and the disenchanted (except, when Nate is feeling cavalier enough to admit it, the strength of Roth’s shoulders, or his unruly hair in the Pacific breeze—those attributes remain unchanged).
Nate bustles back to the Embarcadero, tipping his black Stetson to women in the streets and chasing after the cable car to swing himself aboard.
He gets back close to dinnertime. Pounds his way upstairs and lets himself into the room, eager to share the day’s findings with someone. It turns up empty though, Nate feeling the wind let from his sails just a little bit.
He throws his bag onto his bed and plunks himself down next to it. Slowly tips backwards until he hits the mattress. From there, he stares up at the ceiling in silence.
The exposed rafters are bowed at the center. Maybe he should stop going up to the rooftop every other day to shoot the shit with Gunny or Brad.
Nate’s stomach growls.
It’s followed by the sound of footsteps echoing up the stairs. They’re definitely Brad’s; the heel tap on his left boot is worn all the way through, so it makes a softer sound than the right boot. He ought to get that repaired.
Brad unlocks the door and steps inside. Nate doesn’t bother to sit up, but Brad greets him anyway with something thrown at his chest.
He automatically catches it and rolls up, looking down at his hands. It’s a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper.
“Buying me dinner now, Special Deputy?” Nate asks. He adds, hopefully, “Please tell me you got Enid to go easy on the mayonnaise.”
“I told her extra mayonnaise, extra tomatoes,” Brad says, sauntering into the room to throw his own pack at the foot of his bed.
Nate is allergic to tomatoes. He isn’t worried, though, and hides a smile when Brad, instead of eating on his own bed, compels Nate to budge up by dropping down next to him so that their thighs are flush.
Nate scoots, but not that much. Brad sends him a sidelong glance.
“You look like Trombley when I tell him he gets to shoot somebody,” Brad says, pulling the twine free from his sandwich and unwrapping the crinkly paper. “Happy, I mean. Not deranged. Did you find something good at the station?”
Nate takes a bite of his chicken and apple sandwich, groaning a little. There’s extra spicy mustard in there too, just the way he likes it. “Yeah,” Nate mumbles, chewing first and swallowing before speaking, “Great stuff. Four of the guests from Roth’s turned out to have criminal charges, and none of them were ever convicted. Smells fishy, don’t you think?”
“I’ll say,” Brad nods agreeably.
They eat the rest of their dinner together, exchanging information about the case and strategizing on how to go forward. Brad interjects the meal with anecdotes about what the boys have gotten up to lately, and Nate parries with retellings of some of the ridiculous conversations he’s held with bored, genteel women.
Nate finishes up his sandwich, brushing his hands free of flour and sucking mustard off the side of his palm. Brad’s still got a few bites to go, but he suddenly catches Nate’s wrist with one hand.
“Brad?”
“You have flour on your face,” Brad says, as if it’s an explanation for what he does next.
Nate’s eyes widen when Brad leans in and licks the corner of his mouth. His tongue is wet and warm as it flicks across skin, then turns hesitant, almost reverent as Brad trails his tongue along Nate’s lower lip.
Nate stifles a gasp and pulls back. Brad has his wrist in a firm hold, though, and despite the fact that Nate could easily stand up and leave, the simple presence of Brad’s grip keeps him from doing so.
Brad doesn’t push the point, though. He pulls back and watches Nate carefully with sharp, intelligent eyes, like he’s waiting for instructions.
Nate lowers his eyelids against the sun melting into his eyes. Not all the way, just enough to focus on Brad’s mouth. He shifts forward, nudging Brad’s nose with his own to get him to tilt his face up.
Nate brushes his lips against Brad’s. Brad smells like street dust and his mouth tastes like roast beef. The small thup of something falling to the ground must be Brad tossing the rest of his sandwich aside, and Nate grins at the notion before Brad smothers it with a kiss hard enough to cut Nate’s teeth on the inside of his upper lip.
He hardly notices though. It’s just a minor sting, comparable to the surprising scrape of Brad’s stubble against his chin. Nate’s never actually kissed another man before, openmouthed pass at Roth notwithstanding, and the real life details of it are nothing like Nate imagined.
Unlike the composed, practiced way Nate thought Brad would kiss—as collected between sheets as the Iceman is behind a rifle—Brad is practically shaking. He devours Nate with a fierceness like if he stopped, this would all evaporate into thin air. And Nate doesn’t blame him; he’s got half a mind to blink and wake up, himself.
Nate folds his legs onto the bed and kneels up, never letting his mouth stray as he cradles Brad’s head with both hands, keeping him steady so Nate can take everything he wants, how he wants it.
He coaxes Brad’s mouth open with the slightest pull at his jaw and licks his way inside. He feels Brad’s groan so much as hears it, swallows it down eagerly as they push and pull with their mouths, their tongues, in some greedy, desperate facsimile of fighting.
There’s no violence, though. Just simple, unchecked desire. Nate has never denied the fact of their chemistry, only deflected it because there’d always been other factors to consider. Factors that once seemed insurmountable, but now, thoroughly frivolous.
Justice.
Integrity—Brad bites at Nate’s jaw, earning a groan.
Service.
If this—being with Brad—isn’t an homage to all three of those heavily laden words, well. Nate’s going about this the wrong way.
And even if he is, even if this is just a colossal fuck-up on his part, it’d be some magnificent feat to pretend they were never going to come to this. To Nate swinging his knee over Brad’s lap and rubbing himself against tautness of Brad’s stomach.
Brad moves away, their mouths sliding apart with a slight suck. “Fuck, sir,” he pants, broad hands yanking Nate’s shirt free from his jeans. “Can we. Can I—“
“Don’t,” Nate says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t make me say it.“
Brad shuts up immediately and favors the side of Nate’s neck with his teeth. He drags them down, using his face to push aside the open collar of Nate’s shirt as he chews on the juncture of Nate’s neck and shoulder, sucking hard in what will inevitably be a purple bruise he’ll have to keep covered for the next few days. God, Brad can be a possessive fucker when he wants to be.
Meanwhile, Brad’s hands fumble with the front of Nate’s jeans, scrabbling his belt open and twisting each button free, one-by-one.
“Oh God,” Nate breathes out between kisses, hearing his voice waver in a way that’d be embarrassing if he gave a shit about anything besides Brad’s roving hand. Brad fishes Nate’s cock out of his shorts and immediately starts to jack him hard with quick, short motions of his wrist.
Fuck—Nate wrests himself free from Brad’s insistent mouth to catch his breath, but quickly gets distracted by the fascinating sight below. In his lap, the messy head of Nate’s dick pops in and out of Brad’s tight grip, sliding easily from sweat and precum. It’s so hot, he thinks his eyes might cross.
“Took you—“ Brad gnaws on Nate’s neck, his words barely intelligible. “—fucking—long enough.”
“Shut up,” Nate laughs, though it comes out sounding like a gasp. If Brad keeps this up, he ain’t lasting long. Far from being self-conscious though, Nate pumps his hips back and forth in tiny ministrations to goad Brad on. They might’ve waited a long time for this, but fuck if Nate doesn’t want to get it done now.
“C’mon,” Nate pants. He puts his hands on Brad’s broad shoulders, thumbs pressing into either side of Brad’s throat, and fucks into Brad’s twisting fist. “Fuck, I’m close—“
With a sound like bullets firing, three loud, wooden knocks rattle through their front door.
Underneath Nate, Brad freezes like a stalked deer. Nate’s no less shaken by the interruption—which comes again, a curt trio of knocks—but they’ve got to deal with this and so he clambers off Brad’s lap, clumsily because he can’t feel his legs, and starts to yank up his trousers as he strides over to the door.
He sends a glance over his shoulder to check on his deputy marshal, who still looks shocked, but at least he’s rolled off Nate’s bed and begun straightening out his clothes.
Nate gives himself a quick once-over, hopes his dick isn’t tenting the front of his jeans too bad, and opens the door.
In front of him, Gunny blinks at Nate.
-----
“Gunny,” Nate says, as casually as possible.
“Nate,” Gunny says, peering curiously into the room. Nate has to steel himself not to turn around and make sure Brad isn’t stretched out naked on his bed, or something of that ilk, but Gunny doesn’t cover his eyes or anything so it’s a safe bet they’re okay.
“Wanna come in?” Nate asks, opening the door wider.
Inside, Brad’s in the bathroom with the faucet on. He comes back out from behind the white door, wiping his hands on a small towel and nodding at Gunny with a murmured, Marshal.
“Sorry to interrupt—“ Gunny looks at the sandwich wrappers littered on Nate’s bed, “—dinner. But I wanted to show you this right away.”
Nate collects their trash, surreptitiously picking up the stub of Brad’s roast beef sandwich from the hardwood floor and dumping it all in the bin. With the space clear now, Gunny spreads out the afternoon newspaper on Nate’s coverlet and points out the day’s society column. It’s penned by no other than Mr. Evan Wright, who he’d met at Roth’s party the night before.
“I’m sure you’re aware of this ball being thrown next Saturday,” Gunny says as Nate scans the article, which describes the event taking place at the Roth estate.
“Yeah,” Nate agrees. He backs up to give Brad access to the newspaper too. “Didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal, though,” Nate admits. “That must be why Mr. Wright was at the cocktail party. I didn’t get the sense he’d known Les—“ Nate feels Brad’s eyes flick up briefly—“from before.”
“Well, whatever your impression was, Nate, we’re lucky this party’s as big as it is,” Gunny says. “News of Cocheta’s inventory should’ve hit the grapevine by now, so there’s sure to be talk. With just a bit of basic recon, we’ll be there to hear it.”
“Good point,” Nate says, gaining enthusiasm. “If this party’s big enough to make the papers, Roth’s vendors will have to be there. They won’t be able to help but talk business, all them in one place like that.”
“Exactly,” Gunny says, leaning forward to pick up the newspaper and fold it back into quarters. “Now, I didn’t want to take up too much time with this. Just thought I’d flash it by you before the meeting tomorrow.”
As quickly as he’d arrived, Gunny whisks himself out of the room and politely shuts the door behind himself. Brad and Nate hold each others gazes, listening as Gunny returns to his room.
Once the noise has settled, Brad ducks his head to hide a smile. His mirth is infectious though, and Nate feels a chuckle bubble up through his lungs. Before they know it, Nate’s covering his face with his hands to hide his laughter and Brad’s falling back onto his own bed, toothy grin plastered on as he looks over at Nate.
Even if their laughter is half-nervous, or mostly nervous, really, it doesn’t make the gladness in Nate’s chest any less effusive as he spies Brad looking at him.
“Jesus,” Nate eventually manages. He buckles down onto his bed and splays out from there, letting the excess energy bleed from him like a receding tidal wave.
“You don’t think he suspects, do you?” Brad asks offhandedly. Nate can hear the tension behind it though, and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.
So he considers carefully. “No,” he eventually answers, which isn’t a lie because Gunny doesn’t suspect there’s something brewing between him and Brad. He knows there is.
Regardless, Brad has a point. If it’d been Christeson at the door, or anyone else, really, things might’ve ended very differently. “But we need to be more careful in the future,” Nate sighs.
Receiving no immediate reply, Nate looks over. Brad’s turned towards him, the bristles of his short hair glowing like a golden halo in the dying sun. His face is a smudge of shadow, right in front of the window, but Nate can see the gleam of Brad’s smile as he replies.
“Yes, sir.” Brad lets his gaze float back to the ceiling, laces his fingers behind his head, and stretches like a long, lean cat. His vertebrae pops in two places.
He seems content to leave their exchange at that.
Well, that aside, this chapter took a lot of wrangling. I was trying to figure out how to proceed with Brad and Nate's relationship / dynamic after they've wanked to the sounds of each other wanking (the chapter of which I've tweaked quite a bit and just updated online, thanks to everyone's lovely feedback). Please, continue to make thinky-thought comments as you see fit ;) It's a load of help as I crank this story out and gear up for the big edit.
On a RL note, just went to see Bill Cunningham New York today after work. It's a really great documentary, much recommended to anyone who can get their hands on it!
The West Coast Two-Step: Part One
MASTER POST
The West Coast Two-Step: Part Two
Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13
Unbeknownst to Nate, the events of that night would trigger somewhat of a downward spiral.
It doesn’t start with the meeting, though; that passes unremarkably, even if the news they share is all a bit disappointing. Stafford and Christeson explain the ultimately useless firefight in Ross Alley while Nate tries to maintain an air of positivity by shifting everyone’s attention to the headway he’s made with Roth.
If Brad seems less morose than usual as Nate recounts his time, Nate still wouldn’t bet his mortgage on it.
No, nothing really flags until the day after.
-----
Nate tries to leave the room, only to get blocked by an outstretched arm.
It’s Brad.
Brad is in his way.
Nate says nothing, just quirks an eyebrow as Brad leans in close enough that his lips graze past the apple of Nate’s cheek. He says into Nate’s ear, “Have a good day.” Then, dangerously, “Sir.”
Nate feels his body flush, some unnamable emotion flooding through him like a dam’s been lowered. Before he can patch it over with a glib reply, though, Brad drops his arm and turns, almost jauntily, back to his bed where he’s got sheaves of Pacific Mail dock schedules fanned out across neatly-made covers.
Nate should address Brad’s overly familiar tone. Or at least dismiss it from his mind with silent reproach.
Instead, he allows himself a small, private smile, and exits the door.
-----
Nate doesn’t see Roth that day. Nah, on this particular morning, Nate’s got a list tucked into his vest pocket of every guest that showed face at Roth’s cocktail party, and he’s taking it to the precinct to cross-reference against their dossiers.
Chief Patterson has his aide set him up in the records room of the brick-walled basement. Underground, the hours pass quickly and productively. By the time Nate’s researched every name on the list, there are two candle stubs in the trash and he’s got more than a few individuals circled in blue, each offender charged with anything from petty crime all the way to grand larceny. Tellingly, all charges were related to the drugs and arms trade.
Nate makes a note at the bottom of his paper—underlines it twice—that all of the offenders were un-convicted, having gotten away scot-free through mysterious, serendipitous means.
Galvanized by the prospect that they might actually have a case to build around Roth, Nate claps his last book shut and slides it back into the shelf where it belongs.
He can’t wait to show his men the new leads. And while he won’t lie to himself and deny the fact there’s a small sense of disappointment in face of the new, hard signs that point to Roth’s culpability, Nate is more than glad that his time with Les hasn’t been for naught.
It means they made the right decision, sending Nate into a covert operation. It means he hasn’t been wasting his time drinking wine all day and making eyes at another man.
Best of all, it means the surface affection Nate’s begun to feel for Les hasn’t the room to mature into anything troublesome. There’s nothing attractive about a man who earns his bread on the backs of drug addicts and the disenchanted (except, when Nate is feeling cavalier enough to admit it, the strength of Roth’s shoulders, or his unruly hair in the Pacific breeze—those attributes remain unchanged).
Nate bustles back to the Embarcadero, tipping his black Stetson to women in the streets and chasing after the cable car to swing himself aboard.
He gets back close to dinnertime. Pounds his way upstairs and lets himself into the room, eager to share the day’s findings with someone. It turns up empty though, Nate feeling the wind let from his sails just a little bit.
He throws his bag onto his bed and plunks himself down next to it. Slowly tips backwards until he hits the mattress. From there, he stares up at the ceiling in silence.
The exposed rafters are bowed at the center. Maybe he should stop going up to the rooftop every other day to shoot the shit with Gunny or Brad.
Nate’s stomach growls.
It’s followed by the sound of footsteps echoing up the stairs. They’re definitely Brad’s; the heel tap on his left boot is worn all the way through, so it makes a softer sound than the right boot. He ought to get that repaired.
Brad unlocks the door and steps inside. Nate doesn’t bother to sit up, but Brad greets him anyway with something thrown at his chest.
He automatically catches it and rolls up, looking down at his hands. It’s a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper.
“Buying me dinner now, Special Deputy?” Nate asks. He adds, hopefully, “Please tell me you got Enid to go easy on the mayonnaise.”
“I told her extra mayonnaise, extra tomatoes,” Brad says, sauntering into the room to throw his own pack at the foot of his bed.
Nate is allergic to tomatoes. He isn’t worried, though, and hides a smile when Brad, instead of eating on his own bed, compels Nate to budge up by dropping down next to him so that their thighs are flush.
Nate scoots, but not that much. Brad sends him a sidelong glance.
“You look like Trombley when I tell him he gets to shoot somebody,” Brad says, pulling the twine free from his sandwich and unwrapping the crinkly paper. “Happy, I mean. Not deranged. Did you find something good at the station?”
Nate takes a bite of his chicken and apple sandwich, groaning a little. There’s extra spicy mustard in there too, just the way he likes it. “Yeah,” Nate mumbles, chewing first and swallowing before speaking, “Great stuff. Four of the guests from Roth’s turned out to have criminal charges, and none of them were ever convicted. Smells fishy, don’t you think?”
“I’ll say,” Brad nods agreeably.
They eat the rest of their dinner together, exchanging information about the case and strategizing on how to go forward. Brad interjects the meal with anecdotes about what the boys have gotten up to lately, and Nate parries with retellings of some of the ridiculous conversations he’s held with bored, genteel women.
Nate finishes up his sandwich, brushing his hands free of flour and sucking mustard off the side of his palm. Brad’s still got a few bites to go, but he suddenly catches Nate’s wrist with one hand.
“Brad?”
“You have flour on your face,” Brad says, as if it’s an explanation for what he does next.
Nate’s eyes widen when Brad leans in and licks the corner of his mouth. His tongue is wet and warm as it flicks across skin, then turns hesitant, almost reverent as Brad trails his tongue along Nate’s lower lip.
Nate stifles a gasp and pulls back. Brad has his wrist in a firm hold, though, and despite the fact that Nate could easily stand up and leave, the simple presence of Brad’s grip keeps him from doing so.
Brad doesn’t push the point, though. He pulls back and watches Nate carefully with sharp, intelligent eyes, like he’s waiting for instructions.
Nate lowers his eyelids against the sun melting into his eyes. Not all the way, just enough to focus on Brad’s mouth. He shifts forward, nudging Brad’s nose with his own to get him to tilt his face up.
Nate brushes his lips against Brad’s. Brad smells like street dust and his mouth tastes like roast beef. The small thup of something falling to the ground must be Brad tossing the rest of his sandwich aside, and Nate grins at the notion before Brad smothers it with a kiss hard enough to cut Nate’s teeth on the inside of his upper lip.
He hardly notices though. It’s just a minor sting, comparable to the surprising scrape of Brad’s stubble against his chin. Nate’s never actually kissed another man before, openmouthed pass at Roth notwithstanding, and the real life details of it are nothing like Nate imagined.
Unlike the composed, practiced way Nate thought Brad would kiss—as collected between sheets as the Iceman is behind a rifle—Brad is practically shaking. He devours Nate with a fierceness like if he stopped, this would all evaporate into thin air. And Nate doesn’t blame him; he’s got half a mind to blink and wake up, himself.
Nate folds his legs onto the bed and kneels up, never letting his mouth stray as he cradles Brad’s head with both hands, keeping him steady so Nate can take everything he wants, how he wants it.
He coaxes Brad’s mouth open with the slightest pull at his jaw and licks his way inside. He feels Brad’s groan so much as hears it, swallows it down eagerly as they push and pull with their mouths, their tongues, in some greedy, desperate facsimile of fighting.
There’s no violence, though. Just simple, unchecked desire. Nate has never denied the fact of their chemistry, only deflected it because there’d always been other factors to consider. Factors that once seemed insurmountable, but now, thoroughly frivolous.
Justice.
Integrity—Brad bites at Nate’s jaw, earning a groan.
Service.
If this—being with Brad—isn’t an homage to all three of those heavily laden words, well. Nate’s going about this the wrong way.
And even if he is, even if this is just a colossal fuck-up on his part, it’d be some magnificent feat to pretend they were never going to come to this. To Nate swinging his knee over Brad’s lap and rubbing himself against tautness of Brad’s stomach.
Brad moves away, their mouths sliding apart with a slight suck. “Fuck, sir,” he pants, broad hands yanking Nate’s shirt free from his jeans. “Can we. Can I—“
“Don’t,” Nate says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t make me say it.“
Brad shuts up immediately and favors the side of Nate’s neck with his teeth. He drags them down, using his face to push aside the open collar of Nate’s shirt as he chews on the juncture of Nate’s neck and shoulder, sucking hard in what will inevitably be a purple bruise he’ll have to keep covered for the next few days. God, Brad can be a possessive fucker when he wants to be.
Meanwhile, Brad’s hands fumble with the front of Nate’s jeans, scrabbling his belt open and twisting each button free, one-by-one.
“Oh God,” Nate breathes out between kisses, hearing his voice waver in a way that’d be embarrassing if he gave a shit about anything besides Brad’s roving hand. Brad fishes Nate’s cock out of his shorts and immediately starts to jack him hard with quick, short motions of his wrist.
Fuck—Nate wrests himself free from Brad’s insistent mouth to catch his breath, but quickly gets distracted by the fascinating sight below. In his lap, the messy head of Nate’s dick pops in and out of Brad’s tight grip, sliding easily from sweat and precum. It’s so hot, he thinks his eyes might cross.
“Took you—“ Brad gnaws on Nate’s neck, his words barely intelligible. “—fucking—long enough.”
“Shut up,” Nate laughs, though it comes out sounding like a gasp. If Brad keeps this up, he ain’t lasting long. Far from being self-conscious though, Nate pumps his hips back and forth in tiny ministrations to goad Brad on. They might’ve waited a long time for this, but fuck if Nate doesn’t want to get it done now.
“C’mon,” Nate pants. He puts his hands on Brad’s broad shoulders, thumbs pressing into either side of Brad’s throat, and fucks into Brad’s twisting fist. “Fuck, I’m close—“
With a sound like bullets firing, three loud, wooden knocks rattle through their front door.
Underneath Nate, Brad freezes like a stalked deer. Nate’s no less shaken by the interruption—which comes again, a curt trio of knocks—but they’ve got to deal with this and so he clambers off Brad’s lap, clumsily because he can’t feel his legs, and starts to yank up his trousers as he strides over to the door.
He sends a glance over his shoulder to check on his deputy marshal, who still looks shocked, but at least he’s rolled off Nate’s bed and begun straightening out his clothes.
Nate gives himself a quick once-over, hopes his dick isn’t tenting the front of his jeans too bad, and opens the door.
In front of him, Gunny blinks at Nate.
-----
“Gunny,” Nate says, as casually as possible.
“Nate,” Gunny says, peering curiously into the room. Nate has to steel himself not to turn around and make sure Brad isn’t stretched out naked on his bed, or something of that ilk, but Gunny doesn’t cover his eyes or anything so it’s a safe bet they’re okay.
“Wanna come in?” Nate asks, opening the door wider.
Inside, Brad’s in the bathroom with the faucet on. He comes back out from behind the white door, wiping his hands on a small towel and nodding at Gunny with a murmured, Marshal.
“Sorry to interrupt—“ Gunny looks at the sandwich wrappers littered on Nate’s bed, “—dinner. But I wanted to show you this right away.”
Nate collects their trash, surreptitiously picking up the stub of Brad’s roast beef sandwich from the hardwood floor and dumping it all in the bin. With the space clear now, Gunny spreads out the afternoon newspaper on Nate’s coverlet and points out the day’s society column. It’s penned by no other than Mr. Evan Wright, who he’d met at Roth’s party the night before.
“I’m sure you’re aware of this ball being thrown next Saturday,” Gunny says as Nate scans the article, which describes the event taking place at the Roth estate.
“Yeah,” Nate agrees. He backs up to give Brad access to the newspaper too. “Didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal, though,” Nate admits. “That must be why Mr. Wright was at the cocktail party. I didn’t get the sense he’d known Les—“ Nate feels Brad’s eyes flick up briefly—“from before.”
“Well, whatever your impression was, Nate, we’re lucky this party’s as big as it is,” Gunny says. “News of Cocheta’s inventory should’ve hit the grapevine by now, so there’s sure to be talk. With just a bit of basic recon, we’ll be there to hear it.”
“Good point,” Nate says, gaining enthusiasm. “If this party’s big enough to make the papers, Roth’s vendors will have to be there. They won’t be able to help but talk business, all them in one place like that.”
“Exactly,” Gunny says, leaning forward to pick up the newspaper and fold it back into quarters. “Now, I didn’t want to take up too much time with this. Just thought I’d flash it by you before the meeting tomorrow.”
As quickly as he’d arrived, Gunny whisks himself out of the room and politely shuts the door behind himself. Brad and Nate hold each others gazes, listening as Gunny returns to his room.
Once the noise has settled, Brad ducks his head to hide a smile. His mirth is infectious though, and Nate feels a chuckle bubble up through his lungs. Before they know it, Nate’s covering his face with his hands to hide his laughter and Brad’s falling back onto his own bed, toothy grin plastered on as he looks over at Nate.
Even if their laughter is half-nervous, or mostly nervous, really, it doesn’t make the gladness in Nate’s chest any less effusive as he spies Brad looking at him.
“Jesus,” Nate eventually manages. He buckles down onto his bed and splays out from there, letting the excess energy bleed from him like a receding tidal wave.
“You don’t think he suspects, do you?” Brad asks offhandedly. Nate can hear the tension behind it though, and he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.
So he considers carefully. “No,” he eventually answers, which isn’t a lie because Gunny doesn’t suspect there’s something brewing between him and Brad. He knows there is.
Regardless, Brad has a point. If it’d been Christeson at the door, or anyone else, really, things might’ve ended very differently. “But we need to be more careful in the future,” Nate sighs.
Receiving no immediate reply, Nate looks over. Brad’s turned towards him, the bristles of his short hair glowing like a golden halo in the dying sun. His face is a smudge of shadow, right in front of the window, but Nate can see the gleam of Brad’s smile as he replies.
“Yes, sir.” Brad lets his gaze float back to the ceiling, laces his fingers behind his head, and stretches like a long, lean cat. His vertebrae pops in two places.
He seems content to leave their exchange at that.
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Date: 2011-03-23 10:21 am (UTC)I don't get the downward spiral part though. I'm sure Brad's not seeing anything downward about the events of this part ;-) Poor boys though, getting interrupted by Gunny. I'm glad Nate has got over himself enough to stop pushing Brad away.
Okay, I'm not very coherent, cause I'm kinda in the middle of things, but suffice to say, happy to have more of this story, especially boys having a nice time.
Wheee!!!
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Date: 2011-03-24 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-24 10:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 12:24 pm (UTC)He says into Nate’s ear, “Have a good day.” Then, dangerously, “Sir.”
So hot. I have such a kink for Brad calling Nate "sir", especially when he doesn't need to.
I love how Nate is so much more relaxed in this chapter and doesn't care that much, even though his brain can't stop thinking things. I love how Brad instigates the kiss and then slows down waiting for Nate to catch up. And then Gunny interrupting them! It made me laugh. Even when he finally gets with Brad, you still can't leave poor Nate to get off in peace. :)
Nate has to steel himself not to turn around and make sure Brad isn’t stretched out naked on his bed, or something of that ilk, but Gunny doesn’t cover his eyes or anything so it’s a safe bet they’re okay.
Ha! I know it is completely OOC and Brad would never do such thing, but it would have been so funny, if Brad did indeed stretch out naked on Nate's bed. Don't think that Gunny would cover his eyes though. :)
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Date: 2011-03-24 02:11 am (UTC)Brad calling Nate 'sir' is DEFINITELY HOT. I won't even try and be literary about it, it just is and that's why I throw it in everywhere :P
Thanks for the happy flail, cutie!
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Date: 2011-03-23 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-24 02:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-23 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-24 02:14 am (UTC)I do owe Brad and Nate some spectacular orgasms. There's some more angst up ahead, but after that, sex galore!!!
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Date: 2011-03-24 01:59 am (UTC)"Unlike the composed, practiced way Nate thought Brad would kiss—as collected between sheets as the Iceman is behind a rifle—Brad is practically shaking. He devours Nate with a fierceness like if he stopped, this would all evaporate into thin air."
OMG! This is almost hotter than sex! Great chapter, can't wait for more!
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Date: 2011-03-24 02:15 am (UTC)Hotter than sex? That is a HUGE compliment, thank you!!
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Date: 2011-03-29 12:43 am (UTC)As always, thanks for the super shiny commenty *_* Love the quote-backs.
That's like, telenovela-level finesse of cockblocking
HAHAHAH omg you're right, you are so right. I totally felt like it was a cheap shot, having someone interrupt them >.> But then I was like pfft whatever, I'm not writing the next War & Peace here. I am perfectly content to write an addictive telenova *__*
It might a couple more chapters of ridica-UST, but don't worry! I promise you our boys will get their rocks off soon ;)
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Date: 2011-04-02 11:32 pm (UTC)But, as usual, really liked this.
Tellingly, all charges were related to the drugs and arms trade.
Niiiiice. Love that you're more tangibly connecting Roth to illegal activity
“You look like Trombley when I tell him he gets to shoot somebody,” Brad says, pulling the twine free from his sandwich and unwrapping the crinkly paper. “Happy, I mean. Not deranged.
HA!!!! Love.
God, Brad can be a possessive fucker when he wants to be.
AHAHAHA! So true. Also, YAYYYY for Nate finally accepting the obvious.
With a sound like bullets firing, three loud, wooden knocks rattle through their front door.
You are so MEAN!
“Sorry to interrupt—“ Gunny looks at the sandwich wrappers littered on Nate’s bed, “—dinner.
HA! Gunny finding a polite way to complete that sentence had me grinning.
And Nate's last comment betrays that he thinks there IS a future. Very nice. Even if you are mean like a mean thing.
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Date: 2011-04-02 11:38 pm (UTC)And I know, the whole thing with Gunny interrupting was kind of a cheap shot ._. I'M SORRY, BOYS. BUT YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO HAVE SEX YET ACCORDING TO THE STUPID PLOT
And Nate's last comment betrays that he thinks there IS a future.
Exactly! Which is why Brad's being all smirky self-satisfied at the end. And it'll lead into him being smirky self-satisfied later on, when it becomes a problem...but I don't want to spoil anything!!!!
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Date: 2011-04-03 03:08 am (UTC)These two, I swear, will be the end of me. *_____*
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Date: 2011-04-05 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-26 09:35 am (UTC)Actually though, the sexiest bit I thought was the licking the flour off his lip - gold star for tension and anticipation. And humour and beauty too. (A RL friend loves the bit in Lolita when Humbert licks something out of her eye; when he told me he thought that was the most erotic bit I scoffed, but I can see it here; the build-up, the getting-close, the permission to touch and the ambiguity over what it means.)
I didn't expect you to take it further at that point, so was surprised you let them begin to get it on. Gunny, you mean old thing...