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aeroport_artArgh, my rommate saw James Ransone at the local cafe again!! THIS IS HER THIRD SIGHTING. Clearly I need to start writing there instead of at home :P Apparently he looked pretty hot today, slicked-back hair and wearing all black with a black leather jacket, his dog in tow. He hangs out there too, not just a coffee to-go. *sigh* Someday, right?
Here's a quick chapter as things roll along. The next few should be fun to write...too bad I'm gonna be busy on the weekends doing some graphics work, then Europe for a week (which I am SO FRIGGIN' EXCITED ABOUT).
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 | 14 | 15
Nate stops by Chinatown on the way home to pick up laundry. The large, canvas bag their clothes come in proves extremely heavy, so he’s more than relieved when he chances upon a cable car going up Powell. He tucks himself into the side of the car and makes good time back to the Embarcadero.
Arms laden with laundry, Nate doesn’t see the owner, Mr. Vento, beckoning him over until he calls out in his gruff baritone:
“Signor Fick!”
Nate veers over to the front desk, shifting the laundry bag to rest on his hip. “Mr. Vento, how are you?”
The hotel owner scratches at his moustache, which is thick and raven-black, incongruous to his thinning hairline. The moustache quivers as Mr. Vento grumbles, “I have telegram for you.” He holds up the presumed message with fingers that could probably crush a walnut.
With no free appendages himself, occupied as they are with holding laundry, Nate angles towards Mr. Vento and waggles his hand until the owner shoves the cream-colored envelope into it.
“It come this morning, maybe ten o’clock, eleven o’clock? But nobody home,” Mr. Vento complains.
“I was out,” Nate murmurs, hoisting the bag up to get a better grip. “But thank you, Mr. Vento. If you’ll excuse me, now, I’d like to put this away.”
He gets a dismissive wave in response. Mr. Vento goes back to his pockmarked, wooden chair behind the counter and the day’s newspaper comes up immediately, obscuring his face from view.
Par for the course. They’ve been at the Embarcadero for about a month now, but none of the Marshals have been able to get anything more than a grunt or the most perfunctory of verbal exchanges out of Mr. Vento.
So long as he doesn’t get locked out of the building, though, Nate could really care less. He’s no stranger to making enemies. For whatever reason that he has yet to discern, people always seem to either love Nate or loathe him—never anything in between.
With a small, mental shrug, Nate heads up to their room.
Inside, he immediately ditches the laundry to the foot of his bed, more interested in the telegram than in idle chores.
Nate tears into the envelope.
The telegram is time-stamped from the morning.
In blue, stately script:
Dearest Nathaniel
Please allow me the pleasure of your accompaniment this evening.
I’ll bring a carriage round at six o’clock.
(Real adults don’t “meet up” for dinner, despite your ill-conceived fondness for the custom. I am taking you out despite the frown—
The writing shrinks, crammed tightly into the last two lines of the telegram.
—I can imagine marring your face at this moment, so please, do refrain lest it stick that way.)
Les
Nate would be reluctantly charmed by the message if he weren’t wrenching his watch from his coat pocket.
5:51.
Shit. Their reservation at the Old Poodle Dog wasn’t until seven o’clock, and yet Les is picking him up at Nate’s hotel—the one he shares with three other U.S. Marshals—in less than ten minutes.
Roth can’t come in. There’s enough evidence lying around to blow his (and Brad’s) covers entirely. Roth absolutely cannot come inside.
Nate snaps the cover shut on his watch and immediately flies into a frenzy of undressing, spinning off his street clothes to yank on black trousers and a stiff, starched shirt. Over that goes the low, scooped vest, and the double-breasted tailcoat which he leaves hanging open. He checks his watch—5:59.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Nate chants as he yanks a pot of hair cream out of his bedside drawer and hops into the bathroom, using the small mirror there to quickly side-part and comb his hair into something resembling neatness.
The white bowtie takes him another few minutes to wrangle into shape, and by the time he’s rummaging through the high shelf of his closet for the top hat he’d worn at the cocktail party, it’s ten past six and Nate can practically hear the ominous sound of footsteps echoing in his ears. He expects any minute now for Les to catch him, hassled and guilty-looking in the middle of his next, damning preparations.
Nate kneels by his bag and pulls out the day’s purchases. The jar of graphite powder gets tipped into a smaller vial he’d picked up, not unlike that of an apothecary’s, which Nate slides into the inner pocket of his tailcoat. Then, thinking better of it, he relocates the vial into the ankle of his woolen stockings.
Done.
With one last sweep of his eyes across the room, Nate swipes his gloves off the bedside table and dashes out the room.
-----
He runs into Les halfway down the stairs with a small, “Oh!”
“Nathaniel,” Roth says, holding his arm out to steady him. “Oh good, I was beginning to worry you weren’t home. Even though the delightful clerk downstairs reassured me you were.”
Nate raises a doubtful eyebrow. Roth doesn’t sound sarcastic, but he’s never heard anyone call Mr. Vento ‘delightful’ without being just a little bit facetious.
It comes as a surprise, then, when they reach the base of the stairs and Mr. Vento gives a hearty wave at Roth from behind the counter.
“Le auguro una buona serata, Signor Roth! ” he calls out jauntily, dark moustache dancing up into a furry smile. Nate feels his eyeballs come precariously close to falling out of his head.
“E tu, Signor Vento,” Roth responds warmly.
When they get outside, Nate turns to Roth. “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”
“My dear Nathaniel,” Roth replies, gloved palm to Nate’s lower back as he leads them towards the two-horse carriage parked in the street. “The things you don’t know about me.”
“I’d like to learn,” Nate says. He looks up at Roth from under the brim of his top hat, knowing his flushed cheeks from the dashing about earlier don’t go unnoticed as he adds, shyly, “If you’ll let me.”
Roth’s hand slides around Nate’s waist and pulls him in, their hips bumping against each other.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing tonight?” he says suggestively.
Nate feels his cheeks grow even warmer.
They bundle into the carriage, sliding next to each other on the velvet bench. Roth’s coachman shuts the wooden door behind them, deadening the street noise.
Nate picks at the braid on the outer seam of his trousers while Roth reclines, content to be silent.
“It’s a big early, isn’t it?” Nate eventually asks. “I thought the reservation was for seven.”
“I’m meeting an associate at the restaurant, actually,” Roth explains, patting Nate’s knee. “I hope you don’t mind, it shouldn’t take but ten or fifteen minutes.”
Nate sighs theatrically, earning a quiet chuckle. But inwardly, he’s rubbing his palms together in anticipation. ‘An associate’ could mean anyone—somebody legitimate from Roth’s gunstock operations, or perhaps an opium vendor. Perhaps even Cocheta.
A muted ha! echoes from outside, and their transport jostles into life.
Here's a quick chapter as things roll along. The next few should be fun to write...too bad I'm gonna be busy on the weekends doing some graphics work, then Europe for a week (which I am SO FRIGGIN' EXCITED ABOUT).
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 | 14 | 15
Nate stops by Chinatown on the way home to pick up laundry. The large, canvas bag their clothes come in proves extremely heavy, so he’s more than relieved when he chances upon a cable car going up Powell. He tucks himself into the side of the car and makes good time back to the Embarcadero.
Arms laden with laundry, Nate doesn’t see the owner, Mr. Vento, beckoning him over until he calls out in his gruff baritone:
“Signor Fick!”
Nate veers over to the front desk, shifting the laundry bag to rest on his hip. “Mr. Vento, how are you?”
The hotel owner scratches at his moustache, which is thick and raven-black, incongruous to his thinning hairline. The moustache quivers as Mr. Vento grumbles, “I have telegram for you.” He holds up the presumed message with fingers that could probably crush a walnut.
With no free appendages himself, occupied as they are with holding laundry, Nate angles towards Mr. Vento and waggles his hand until the owner shoves the cream-colored envelope into it.
“It come this morning, maybe ten o’clock, eleven o’clock? But nobody home,” Mr. Vento complains.
“I was out,” Nate murmurs, hoisting the bag up to get a better grip. “But thank you, Mr. Vento. If you’ll excuse me, now, I’d like to put this away.”
He gets a dismissive wave in response. Mr. Vento goes back to his pockmarked, wooden chair behind the counter and the day’s newspaper comes up immediately, obscuring his face from view.
Par for the course. They’ve been at the Embarcadero for about a month now, but none of the Marshals have been able to get anything more than a grunt or the most perfunctory of verbal exchanges out of Mr. Vento.
So long as he doesn’t get locked out of the building, though, Nate could really care less. He’s no stranger to making enemies. For whatever reason that he has yet to discern, people always seem to either love Nate or loathe him—never anything in between.
With a small, mental shrug, Nate heads up to their room.
Inside, he immediately ditches the laundry to the foot of his bed, more interested in the telegram than in idle chores.
Nate tears into the envelope.
The telegram is time-stamped from the morning.
In blue, stately script:
Dearest Nathaniel
Please allow me the pleasure of your accompaniment this evening.
I’ll bring a carriage round at six o’clock.
(Real adults don’t “meet up” for dinner, despite your ill-conceived fondness for the custom. I am taking you out despite the frown—
The writing shrinks, crammed tightly into the last two lines of the telegram.
—I can imagine marring your face at this moment, so please, do refrain lest it stick that way.)
Les
Nate would be reluctantly charmed by the message if he weren’t wrenching his watch from his coat pocket.
5:51.
Shit. Their reservation at the Old Poodle Dog wasn’t until seven o’clock, and yet Les is picking him up at Nate’s hotel—the one he shares with three other U.S. Marshals—in less than ten minutes.
Roth can’t come in. There’s enough evidence lying around to blow his (and Brad’s) covers entirely. Roth absolutely cannot come inside.
Nate snaps the cover shut on his watch and immediately flies into a frenzy of undressing, spinning off his street clothes to yank on black trousers and a stiff, starched shirt. Over that goes the low, scooped vest, and the double-breasted tailcoat which he leaves hanging open. He checks his watch—5:59.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Nate chants as he yanks a pot of hair cream out of his bedside drawer and hops into the bathroom, using the small mirror there to quickly side-part and comb his hair into something resembling neatness.
The white bowtie takes him another few minutes to wrangle into shape, and by the time he’s rummaging through the high shelf of his closet for the top hat he’d worn at the cocktail party, it’s ten past six and Nate can practically hear the ominous sound of footsteps echoing in his ears. He expects any minute now for Les to catch him, hassled and guilty-looking in the middle of his next, damning preparations.
Nate kneels by his bag and pulls out the day’s purchases. The jar of graphite powder gets tipped into a smaller vial he’d picked up, not unlike that of an apothecary’s, which Nate slides into the inner pocket of his tailcoat. Then, thinking better of it, he relocates the vial into the ankle of his woolen stockings.
Done.
With one last sweep of his eyes across the room, Nate swipes his gloves off the bedside table and dashes out the room.
-----
He runs into Les halfway down the stairs with a small, “Oh!”
“Nathaniel,” Roth says, holding his arm out to steady him. “Oh good, I was beginning to worry you weren’t home. Even though the delightful clerk downstairs reassured me you were.”
Nate raises a doubtful eyebrow. Roth doesn’t sound sarcastic, but he’s never heard anyone call Mr. Vento ‘delightful’ without being just a little bit facetious.
It comes as a surprise, then, when they reach the base of the stairs and Mr. Vento gives a hearty wave at Roth from behind the counter.
“Le auguro una buona serata, Signor Roth! ” he calls out jauntily, dark moustache dancing up into a furry smile. Nate feels his eyeballs come precariously close to falling out of his head.
“E tu, Signor Vento,” Roth responds warmly.
When they get outside, Nate turns to Roth. “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”
“My dear Nathaniel,” Roth replies, gloved palm to Nate’s lower back as he leads them towards the two-horse carriage parked in the street. “The things you don’t know about me.”
“I’d like to learn,” Nate says. He looks up at Roth from under the brim of his top hat, knowing his flushed cheeks from the dashing about earlier don’t go unnoticed as he adds, shyly, “If you’ll let me.”
Roth’s hand slides around Nate’s waist and pulls him in, their hips bumping against each other.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing tonight?” he says suggestively.
Nate feels his cheeks grow even warmer.
They bundle into the carriage, sliding next to each other on the velvet bench. Roth’s coachman shuts the wooden door behind them, deadening the street noise.
Nate picks at the braid on the outer seam of his trousers while Roth reclines, content to be silent.
“It’s a big early, isn’t it?” Nate eventually asks. “I thought the reservation was for seven.”
“I’m meeting an associate at the restaurant, actually,” Roth explains, patting Nate’s knee. “I hope you don’t mind, it shouldn’t take but ten or fifteen minutes.”
Nate sighs theatrically, earning a quiet chuckle. But inwardly, he’s rubbing his palms together in anticipation. ‘An associate’ could mean anyone—somebody legitimate from Roth’s gunstock operations, or perhaps an opium vendor. Perhaps even Cocheta.
A muted ha! echoes from outside, and their transport jostles into life.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 03:56 am (UTC)“My dear Nathaniel,” Roth replies, gloved palm to Nate’s lower back as he leads them towards the two-horse carriage parked in the street. “The things you don’t know about me.”
“I’d like to learn,” Nate says. He looks up at Roth from under the brim of his top hat, knowing his flushed cheeks from the dashing about earlier don’t go unnoticed as he adds, shyly, “If you’ll let me.”
hahahahahha OH NATE. USING YOUR GIRLISH CHARMS FOR JUSTICE. BLESS.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 12:44 am (UTC)Heeheehee this made me giggle like nobody's business XD
OH NATE. USING YOUR GIRLISH CHARMS FOR JUSTICE. BLESS.
AS DID THIS. I DON'T KNOW WHY BUT MARSHALL!NATE IS SUCH A FRIGGIN' SLUT. No matter how manly I try and make him, all Nate wants to do is flutter his eyelashes and sex his way into Roth's pants because he's so hard up for Brad. *sigh* BOYS, JUST FUCK EACH OTHER ALREADY
no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 02:02 am (UTC)OH NATE. Clearly you just need to fuck your boyfriend and then you can stop having all those confusing feelings about the suspect. Although I am actually pretty fond of Roth, ngl.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 10:38 am (UTC)For whatever reason that he has yet to discern, people always seem to either love Nate or loathe him
What do you mean there are people who loathe Nate? That is not humanly possible! or maybe I'm biased. :)
“My dear Nathaniel,” Roth replies, gloved palm to Nate’s lower back as he leads them towards the two-horse carriage parked in the street. “The things you don’t know about me.”
“I’d like to learn,” Nate says. He looks up at Roth from under the brim of his top hat, knowing his flushed cheeks from the dashing about earlier don’t go unnoticed as he adds, shyly, “If you’ll let me.”
Oh for god's sake! Every time you put Roth in the scene I find myself utterly charmed by him and forget all about Brad. You, madam, are good! Also, I love Nate pretending to flirt shyly.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 12:49 am (UTC)INORITE
i dunno, i'm just like DDD: super scared if i see pj in real life i'll pee myself, or something equally attractive.
Every time you put Roth in the scene I find myself utterly charmed by him and forget all about Brad.
\o/ The funny part is i never even meant for Roth to be such a likeable character. But as I really got into the writing, it just became evident that if Roth was totally villainous, Brad would never get jealous over him because he'd know Nate had zero interest. AND THEN WHERE WOULD THIS FIC BE IF NOT FOR INTENSE, DRAWN-OUT ANGST??
no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 10:38 am (UTC)LOL! oh, I don't know. Maybe they could have intense, drawn-out sex instead?
I'm just kidding. Love all the angst.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-18 11:23 am (UTC)(just a heads up, a better italian answer to mr. vento would be "Anche a lei, Signor Vento", "e tu" is too 'latin' to be actually used)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-19 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-19 02:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-19 10:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-20 12:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-22 06:04 pm (UTC)But yay! Love!
For whatever reason that he has yet to discern, people always seem to either love Nate or loathe him—never anything in between.
Awww!
“Shit, shit, shit,” Nate chants as he yanks a pot of hair cream out of his bedside drawer and hops into the bathroom, using the small mirror there to quickly side-part and comb his hair into something resembling neatness.
Love all the detail about what he's wearing (so many clothes!). I can just imagine what Brad thinks of the mess when he sees it.
which Nate slides into the inner pocket of his tailcoat. Then, thinking better of it, he relocates the vial into the ankle of his woolen stockings.
Why, is someone thinking he might get felt up? Scandalous.
He looks up at Roth from under the brim of his top hat, knowing his flushed cheeks from the dashing about earlier don’t go unnoticed
TEASE!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:26 am (UTC)Why, is someone thinking he might get felt up? Scandalous.
Ooooh, nice catch. I wasn't sure if that detail was too subtle, but if I've learned anything from writing in fandom, it's that the readers should be given a lot of credit for being clever-ass motherfuckas. So yes, basically. NATE IS EXPECTING TO BE FELT UP, THE SCANDAL!!
Haha I can't help but make him such a flirt. I don't know why, it's just...he's so girly with his big doe eyes and slutty mouth! And it's too much fun to bounce him back and forth between Roth and Brad XD Hmm, that's like a threesome just dying to write itself.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:35 am (UTC)I wasn't sure if that detail was too subtle, but if I've learned anything from writing in fandom, it's that the readers should be given a lot of credit for being clever-ass motherfuckas.
::preens:: I was right, I was right, I was right!
But then the rational (?) part of my brain takes over and all I can think is how DARE he make preparations to do dirty things with anyone who is not Brad!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:00 am (UTC)I know, so stupid, right???? I'm having a hard time convincing them to just be happy :(
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:12 am (UTC)But all !!! aside, it's an interesting question, how you dropkick the stupidity out of Nate. Which I assume you'll do through some dramatic pickle that one of them gets into (and that's not meant to be pejorative, so I hope it doesn't come across thusly). Which is the best way I can think of to do it, short of having Brad give up his job and move somewhere he can live openly as a boy-who-likes-boys. 'Cause that'll happen.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 06:18 am (UTC)