aeroport_art | fic: The West Coast Two-Step (Part Two, 18/?)

I'm sorry these chapters are so short! But I'm kind of addicted to everyone's amazing feedback. It's like a really sneaky way to shape what I'm writing next, instead of doing a huge chunk at a time and then having to go back and re-work a lot of it. I KNOW, I'M SUCH A CHEATER RIGHT? *shamefaced* I can't help it, you guys are enablers...

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 | 16 | 17

In order to blend in, both Ray and Brad have donned formalwear.

While Ray looks like a reedy kid who’s gotten into his father’s coat closet, Brad looks…well.

Brad glances up from his steak, like he can read Nate’s mind. He reclines in his seat, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he stretches out, ankles crossed in the aisle because there’s no space beneath the table to contain his limbs.

“Nathaniel.”

In the slim, black trousers he’s wearing, Brad’s legs look impossibly long.

“Nathaniel,” Les growls, recapturing Nate’s attention. “Jesus, Nathaniel. Where is your mind tonight?”

“Sorry,” Nate says, ducking his head abashedly as he stabs at some peas with his fork. They just roll around on his plate though, slick with butter. “It’s nowhere. I’m just…” He gives up, putting his fork down to look up. “You were saying?”

For a moment it looks as if Les is going to let it go, but then his brows furrow and he leans in, pitching his voice low. “You keep staring at that man,” he says, jerking his head in Brad’s direction.

Something seizes in Nate, resembling panic. He squashes it down. “You’re right,” he eventually says. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. It’s just…he’s someone I know. It’s a surprise to see him here.”

Roth sighs, moving back from Nate again. “Well? Aren’t you going to say hello, then?”

Nate pauses, thinking it over. “I’m here with you,” Nate eventually answers. He has one objective for the night, and that’s to get a copy of Roth’s office key. He’ll need to stay close to Les in order to get it. “I don’t want to interrupt our dinner.”

“I’d rather you just go talk to him. It’s better than having half an ear for the whole night,” Roth says, sounding sullen.

Nate puts his napkin on the table, apologizing once more as he stands up from his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

As Nate marches over to where Brad and Ray are dining, Brad lights up with a cocky smile. Ray swivels around, and at least he’s got the decency to look guilty as he watches Nate approach.

“Mr. Person,” Nate says curtly. “If you don’t mind, can I borrow your companion for a minute?”

Ray nods dumbly, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Across from him, Brad’s eyes briefly flick to where Les is still seated.

He seems content with what he sees and unfolds himself from his seat, standing up.

“After you,” Brad says gallantly.

Nate pushes past him and heads towards the hallway, knowing Brad is at his heels. He briefly considers borrowing one of the private rooms that they pass, but he’s sure they’re either occupied or locked. So he leads them back where he came—the balcony.

Brad follows him through the burgundy drapes, pushing them aside as he steps onto the metal grate outside.

The air is cooler here, if sticky with street dust and San Francisco fog. Nate turns around, resting his elbows on the railing as he regards Brad with disapproval.

Brad doesn’t seem to take the hint. He chuckles, sidling forward with his hands rakishly hidden in his trouser pockets, tuxedo coat unbuttoned and pushed back.

“Na~ate, you were staring,” Brad quietly singsongs, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Clean up nice, don’t I?”

It’s beside the point. “What are you doing here?”

Brad finally seems to get that Nate isn’t amused, that he doesn’t find this little stunt charming. The smile comes off his face and Brad straightens up, taking his hands out of his pockets to cross behind his back.

“Christeson and I switched for the night.”

“That isn’t how I remember our conversation this morning,” Nate says. He can hear himself over-enunciate, which he does when he’s pissed off. “Christeson was to remain on detail tonight, and you were to handle the court files. Is there a reason you decided it was your prerogative to come anyway and put us both at risk tonight? Person, too?”

Brad wets his lips. “I saw no detriment to the exchange of duties tonight between myself and the Deputy Marshal, only benefits. I had the means to provide better cover than he could.” He breaks posture briefly, scratching the back of his ear. “He wasn’t even going to be in the same room as you, sir.”

“Don’t you think I realized that, Brad? I weighed the pros and cons. I thought this out. And above all, I determined I couldn’t have you shadowing me.”

Brad reels back the slightest bit, looking hurt. “I didn’t realize your decision was based on a shortcoming of mine.” He looks as if he’s warring with emotions as he adds, bitterly, “I apologize.”

He’s coming off too harsh, Nate realizes. “Look,” he says, softening his words. “It isn’t a shortcoming of yours. If anything, it’s mine.”

Brad avoids his eyes, so Nate pushes off the railing and steps closer. The movement brings Brad’s attention back, and Nate holds it with a steady gaze. “I find you…extremely distracting, Special Deputy.”

Brad looks confused. Nate almost laughs, because how could Brad not get it? Does he have no idea the things he does to Nate?

Nate runs a pointed look up and down the length of Brad’s body, taking in the well-cut tuxedo, the daring, black waistcoat contrasted against the moon-white pleats of Brad’s shirt…

By the time Nate’s eyes have traveled back up to Brad’s face, he spies a faint flush on his cheeks. Nate repeats, “You distract me. And for now, we can’t have that.” He retreats a step, feeling the railing nudge up at his back. “We’re so close to finding Cocheta, I can practically smell it. The mission has to come first and until we see this through, we need to be perfect. No mistakes. Hell, I almost had Roth barging into our room today—”

“What do you mean?” Brad asks concernedly.

Nate sighs, “It was bad luck. I didn’t realize Roth was picking me up at the Embarcadero, so I was late meeting him downstairs. He almost came inside our room.”

Brad says nothing, but he’s clearly upset by the news.

“I know,” Nate agrees. “So we need to stay focused. There are things I need to extract from Roth tonight, and you aren’t helping by showing up unannounced. This isn’t a game. This isn’t why I hired you.”

Something closes off in Brad’s expression. He sounds reserved when he replies, “Yes. Of course, sir.”

Brad excuses himself and disappears through the French doors. Nate can’t help feeling like he fucked something up, but he reminds himself, this is precisely why they need to cool off. There will always be time to sort out their complicated relationship after the mission’s over.

Nate shakes his head, preparing himself to slide back undercover. He repeats under his breath, Justice. Service. Integrity.

He squares his shoulders and heads back inside.

-----

Nate feels bad when he returns to the table. Les has polished off half the bottle of red cabernet and he’s checking his watch just as Nate slides back into his chair.

“Sorry,” he apologizes sincerely. “That took a little longer than I thought it would.”

“It’s fine,” Les says distractedly. He resumes eating, apparently having waited for Nate to return if his still mostly-full platter of sole is anything to go by.

Their conversation continues, but it’s awkward and stilted through decadent bites of food. Nate adamantly tethers himself to the topics at hand, no matter how much he wants to slide his eyes past Roth’s shoulder to see what Brad and Ray are doing. It’s no small feat, though; Roth is uncharacteristically quiet, almost obstinate. Without the steady flow of hearty anecdotes or easy banter, Nate finds himself at a loss.

He drains the last of his wine, dismayed to find the bottle empty when he tries to refill his glass. Their waiter notices and comes by, collecting the bottle.

“The same, monsieur?”

Roth nods with a small hand gesture that says, be my guest.

When he leaves, Roth sits back and rests his ankle on his other knee, jiggling his foot.

Never a good sign. Nate instinctively reaches for his wine glass, but remembers at the last moment it’s empty. He switches to water, tipping it back and drinking thirstily.

He hears Roth curse under his breath and before he knows it, there’s a hand tugging down the side of his high, standing collar.

Nate splutters, “What are you—“

“I knew I wasn’t seeing things,” he murmurs. Then, clearer, “You have a hickey, Nathaniel.”

Nate his stomach drop. He sets down the water glass and wipes the condensation from his hands on his legs. “What?”

“Look, I’m not—“ Les cuts himself off, mouth twisting wryly. “No, that’s a lie. I am angry.”

“Les…”

“I’m angry, but I know I have no right to be.” He leans in, spreads a palm on the tablecloth. There isn’t a lot of room so his pinky nudges the base of the candle, causing firelight to flicker over his face. “I know we never officially agreed to be…exclusive. But I suppose I just assumed.” Roth chuckles lowly, and it isn’t a nice sound.

Nate doesn’t even realize he’s watching Brad’s reaction to all of this until Roth noisily turns around in his seat, following the trajectory of his gaze.

He snaps back around and Nate bites his lip, knowing he’s pretty much been caught red-handed.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Roth accuses. “That’s the guy you’ve been—Jesus, I don’t even know what to say. I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“No—“

“Yeah, I am. All this time, I thought you were new at this. I’ve been so fucking patient with you, Nathaniel, thinking we had something real, and this entire time you’ve been fucking around with that Arian shithead behind my back.”

Roth clenches his fist. “What do you want from me, Fick? Money? Status? Why the fuck are you even here when you could just go home with him?” He tosses his head in Brad’s direction.

This is bad. This is really, really bad, and Nate needs to exercise some fucking damage control.

“Stop it, Les,” he says, voice steely. It captures Roth’s attention, because the Nathaniel he knows is never stern with him. “That guy—he means nothing.”

He puts his hand over Roth’s fist and swallows the lump in his throat, pushing past it to continue, “I’m with you. And yeah, I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending I haven’t fucked around, but you have to know, Les.”

Nate makes his eyes round and plaintive, silently begging Roth to believe him. “I care about you. A lot.” He coaxes Roth’s fist open with gentle fingers. “And I’m only moving so slowly with you because I don’t want to, I don’t know. Fuck this up.”

Nate repeats, firmly, “I don’t want to fuck up with you.”

Roth bores his eyes into Nate’s, searching for any indication he’s being untruthful.

God, he has no idea.

Eventually, Roth lifts Nate’s hand from the table, where it’s still ensconced in his. He presses a tight kiss to Nate’s pale knuckles.

Nate never knew that lies could leave a taste in your mouth. It tastes like metal and bile.

-----

The rest of dinner is absolute hell. At Nate’s fabricated admission, Roth grows so possessive he might as well be pissing on him like a dog marking his territory.

First, it’s the way he keeps touching Nate, their hands twined together on the tabletop even as the waiter resolutely refills their wine, eyes nowhere but on the deft pour of claret liquid. He barely lets Nate reclaim his hands for the use of his knife and fork, and only does so when he realizes he can sprawl in his chair and rub his knee against Nate’s inner thigh.

It’s all a show for Brad. Roth knows that Nate knows it—and fuck, Brad certainly knows it too. Even if Nate doesn’t dare look up to confirm the fact.

It’s an unspoken test. Who owns Nate’s heart?

For now, it has to be Roth.

Nate drinks his wine too quickly, and by the time they’re presented with dessert, he’s tipsy and loose-limbed. He feels reckless with so much pent-up tension, and it’s difficult for him to muddle together an optimal course of action.

He just knows he needs to obtain access to Roth’s office.

He needs to make of copy of Roth’s keys—the ones he keeps on him, always, in a little fold-out wallet.

“Les,” Nate says, drawing out the name on a sibilant hiss.

Les’ mouth is stained dark with wine. It looks inviting. “I want you to…” He loses his train of thought.

“What is it?” Les’ voice is deep, and so fucking rich. He sounds like a cello’s vibrato. “Want me to what?”

He wants Brad to take him home. Catches himself mid-thought—Roth, Roth, Roth, Nate reminds himself.

“I want you to take me home.”

Over the pulsing sound of blood rushing in his ears, Nate hears a clatter of silverware and then Ray’s voice, tinny and far away.

Brad—

A chair gets pushed back. Nate drags his eyes up to the noise. Brad’s stood up, one hand fumbling in his inner coat pocket—for a moment, Nate thinks the sheriff’s gonna pull out his peacemaker—but it’s just a billfold instead, Brad showering the table with what looks like a few too many dollars.

“Brad,” Ray says again, half-up as if he’s gonna follow him down the stairs, but Brad whirls around and points emphatically to the ground.

“Stay,” he scowls.

Ray sits back down.

Nate blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy. “I don’t care,” he says, because what’s one more lie for the night?

Roth grins at him, triumphant.

“Good,” he says, signaling for the waiter to bring their check. “Let’s get out of here.”