cerebellum: ([gk] write happy end or die)
[personal profile] cerebellum
Okay. So. WIPs. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to finish writing any of these, so if someone is up for taking over the idea, go ahead. All of this is un-beta-ed, so - you have been warned. My English is weird, too. But I think they're better here than covered by dust and on my hard drive.

And, um, all of these are Brad/Nate, but you may encounter an accidental Ray/Walt.

CASTLE AU. (Brad is a cop, Nate is a writer and Brad is annoyed.)

Nate shuts the door to his apartment and sighs heavily.

“You’re early,” says Julie from behind the pile of books on the kitchen table.

“Two words. Evil publisher,” Nate says and slips down onto the chair next to her. She moves her notebook to make some space and eyes him curiously. Nate looks at her with tired and glassy eyes.

“I'd make you a drink, but you're already drunk,” she sticks her tongue out and smiles, all teeth.

“I'm not,” he says and reconsiders. “Well, maybe slightly. But then, this fucking premiere would be a complete success if she just dropped the topic for one night.”

“Which one?” Julie asks and Nate glances at her like she just grew a second head. “Oh, you mean the writer’s block?” She smiles innocently and stands up to pour her brother a glass of red wine she’s been drinking for the better part of the evening. He stares at her like he’s going to deny her suspicion about the writer’s block, but eventually just shakes his head and gives it up.

“How’s studying going?” he asks with a smug smile and she sticks her tongue out again. “Very mature, Julie,” he answers and they both laugh. Juliette handles him the glass of wine and sits on the kitchen counter, crossing her arms.

“How much?” she asks and Nate stares at her for a few seconds before he realizes what she’s talking about. He shrugs, like he doesn’t care, but it’s obvious for Juliette who knows him too fucking well. “Nate.”

“Four weeks for a new script,” he says and sips the wine, letting the bitter flavor take control over his sense of taste. “Because I’m five weeks behind.”
Julie sighs and Nate smiles, because he can hear the concern even in the way he lets out the big amount of air.

“I told you that killing Mark was a bad idea,” she says that in tone that might suggest Mark was a real person, not a fictional character from his novels.

“I needed a change,” he declares, his voice a little bitter. Maybe they’re all right and killing his golden duck was a bad idea. His face has to speak volumes, because Julie sighs again.

“I know. And now you need to go to sleep, because the look of drunk and tortured writer doesn’t suit you.” The end of sentence dies in the loud sound of the doorbell. Nate gets up slowly and wonders who the fuck is this, because it’s almost three am. He gets his answer when the first thing he sees turns out to be a police badge.

“Detective Brad Colbert, LAPD. Are you Nate Fick?”

“Yes, but what is this all about?”

“You're under arrest.”

RADIO FREE ROSCOE AU. (Big mix-up and High School AU and Nate playing guitar. Okay, this one is one of the things I really wanted to write, but. I think I hate High School so much, that I'm not capable of writing fics about it. Also, [livejournal.com profile] noelia_g 's fault.)

It seems that starting up an underground radio station is what every teenager does after school.

Except it isn’t.




Every story has its proper beginning and Nate thinks their starts with him, his Nachos and Brad. And, well, wet floor.

His sneakers are not exactly immune to slippery surface and it’s quite possible the world hates him (or he broke a fucking mirror and has absolutely no recollection about doing so). It’s a simple equation. Add his sneakers to wet floor, then his Nachos to black t-shirt, multiply everything by physics and what you get is a catastrophe. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he only regained his balance before catching this guy’s elbow and falling on the floor dragging him on the top.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Nate says before the guy has the chance to start yell at him about his utter idiocy. But he just looks at Nate with weird expression on his face. “I’m really really sorry…” Nate repeats, waiting for the guy to pick himself up. It takes way too long and despite the stickiness between their chests Nate feels a blush appearing on his cheeks. And fuck, because when the guy sees it, he just smiles wickedly, flashing his teeth and it makes Nate blush even more (if that’s even possible).

“Brad,” the guy says and Nate has no idea what he’s talking about.

“What?” he asks, confused, and the boy grins, standing up.

“Me, Brad. And well, judging by your haircut and lack of jugs, you, not Jane.”

“Oh,” Nate utters, grabbing Brad’s outstretched hand to lift himself from the floor.

“That’s your name? Oh?”

“I’m Nate,” he says, looking at his white checked shirt and Brad’s black t-shirt.

“Hello, Nate. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen you here, are you new?” he asks, but before Nate has a chance to response, Brad draws a logical conclusion. “You have to be. Everyone knows that this fucking floor while wet is as dangerous as dropping your soap in the showers. It doesn’t look that way, but before you realize, you’re fucked.”

“Oh. Oh,” Nate breathes and Brad cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Not very talkative, are you?”

“No, just, you know. We have nacho sauce on us and people are staring, maybe we should go and change?”

Fuck. Someone tell him that he’s not blushing fucking again.

“Don’t mind them. And yeah, we should go, do you have something to change?”

“What are you, some kind of badass that everyone is afraid of? And your rage sends lightning and thunder?” Nate asks and laughs a little nervously, taking the rest of two nachos that glued to his chest.

“Kind of,” Brad says and shrugs. Nate raises his eyebrows in question and it earns him another shrug. “So, change?”

World hates him, because there’s nothing that he can change into and his shirt looks like one of Picasso’s finest works made with sticky orange paint.

“You go, I’m going to try to clean up this mess,” he waves his hand in random direction, meaning toilets.

“Another proof that you know nothing about this school. There’s a conspiracy theory that they make this sauce of leftovers and just add the pigment. Well, it’s obviously Ray’s theory, but it’s one of the two or three things he might be right about,” Brad laughs sincerely and closes his fingers around Nate’s wrist, dragging him in the direction of the hall, out of the school cafeteria.

“And the other things?” Nate asks curiously, ignoring the way his skin burns where Brad is touching him. It’s not ‘love at first sight’ thing, but sure as hell it’s ‘want at first sight’.
And the second. And third. And so on, Nate’s assured of that.

“You seriously don’t want to know,” Brad grins at him, all teeth and suddenly stops and sets him free. “I’m pretty sure I have at least two spare t-shirts, since the Great Banana Bomb Ray had designed. And made. And, well, that’s a long story,” he says, opening up his locker and even though Nate doesn’t do it in purpose, he memorizes the combination. Not that Brad is very wary about it. And not that Nate is going to use it. Ever.

“Green one or white one?” Brad asks, holding two t-shirts in his hands and watching Nate carefully.

“White.”

“Thought so,” Brad smiles wickedly and hands him the clothing. Nate’s no longer sure whether his first day counts as catastrophe or a success, but maybe he no longer cares. (He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t care when Brad eyes his chest carefully when they change in the bathroom and he looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.) They end up going together to the classroom because it turns out they have English together.

That’s how he met Brad Colbert.

More or less.

SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE AU. (Totally [livejournal.com profile] eiirene 's fault. It was my second project for YAGKYAS, because I was so desperate and the first one seemed to suck out loud. Eventually, I finished the first draft and this... IDK.)

Brad and Emma move to Seattle after he divorces Jessica.

*

“You look so thin, Nathaniel,” his mom says and Nate resist the urge of pressing his hand to his forehead.

“I'm fine, mom,” he says and smiles all teeth.

“So, Nate. Is there anyone close to you?” someone asks and before Nate has a chance to reply, someone else starts talking.

“You should be married already, dear,” his grandma says and Nate feels his cheek lighting up with bright red.

“And what happened to that nice girl you were dating, huh? What was her name? Kate? Cassidy?”

“Kay, aunt Monica. Her name was Kay. We broke up in the summer,” Nate says and wishes he could just disappear. Family dinners are always a nightmare and family dinners during Christmastime are a real catastrophe. Nate loves his family, really, he does, but everyone has their limits. Being asked the same question over and over again multiplies the awkwardness that it takes to answer it.

*

“Hello, my name is Emma.”

“Hello to you too, Emma. How come you're calling us? You sound younger than our usual callers.”

“It's not late in Seattle.”

“You sure are a smart little girl.”

“I'm not little. I'm eight.”

“So, what's your Christmas wish, young lady?”

“It's not for me. It's for my dad. I think he's lonely.”

“And what about your mom, darling?

“We don't live together anymore. That's why dad needs someone to take care of him when I'm away with my mom.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Emma.”

“I'm okay. But my dad is pretty sad.”

“And you're worried about him?”

“I'm worried about him, he's worried about me. And I'm going to mom on this Christmas. People shouldn't be alone on Christmas.”

“Have you talked to your dad about this?”

“He always says he's fine. He's stubborn, just like me. Mom always says I got it after him.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“Are you out of your mind? He says shows like this are dumb and--”

“Is he home?”

“Yes, but I don't think it's--”

“He won't be angry, Emma. I'm sure he won't once he realizes how worried about him you are.”

“Okay, but if I get yelled at, I'm never gonna listen to your show again.”

“Fair enough.”

*

Brad's lying in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling, before Emma enters his room.

“Dad?”

“What's up, kitten? Why are you not in bed?” he asks, sitting up.

“This is for you,” she says and adds 'his name is Brad' before handing him the phone. Brad cocks an eyebrow at her before rushing to her room.

“Hello,” Brad says, when the door to Emma's room fall shut.

“Hello Brad, this is Dr. Monica Pillsbury on Network America,” he hears on the other side and eyes carefully the yellow poster on Emma's door.

“I don't know what my daughter told you, but I'm not buying anything.”

“Good, because I'm not selling anything. You daughter called us and asked about finding you someone to talk to when she's away with her mother.”

“Are we on the air?” he asks bluntly and moves his phone to yell 'Emma!' in the general direction of her room.

Brad has to admit, though, Emma has a great survival instinct.

“Yes, we're on the air right now,” the woman on the other side says in this calm, supposed-to-be reassuring voice that makes Brad fucking annoyed.

“Emma, come here,” Brad yells when he sees that the door is cracked open.

“Dad, please, just talk to her!” Emma says behind slightly opened door.

“I will, if you come out,” Brad says, patting the spot on the bed next to him.

“You're mad,” Emma says all teary-eyed and Brad pats her head.

“I'm not mad. Well, maybe a little,” he says and looks at her and smiles. “I'm just kidding, Em. I'm not mad at you.”

“Your daughter is very worried about you, Brad.”

“Well, that doesn't mean that she should just call a radio station in the middle of the night,” Brad says and lets Emma lay her head on his thigh. He strokes her dark hair lightly, staring at the blue fabric of her pajama.

*

“People call up these shows and you wouldn't believe the stuff they say. It's the end of privacy as we know it and this country is just one big global asshole with everyone buying and blabbing all the time. Fucking consumption.”

“Like you know anything about privacy, Ray,” Walt laughs and goes through his bag, obviously looking for something.

“You lost your lollipop, Walt?” Ray asks and Walt sticks his tongue out as the answer.

“You're like a fucking kindergarten,” Nate says and sighs heavily, when Walt sticks the lollipop into his mouth with a wicked grin. “But you know what?” he asks and continues not waiting for the answer. “I'm going to do an article on these brain-washing night-time radio stations with their bullshit advices.”

“Go you, Nate!” Ray yells, raising his hands.

“I'm with you, buddy, but you should take a break. You work too much,” Walt says and Nate's surprised how well he understands him despite the sweet in his mouth.

“Walt's got a point,” Ray nods.

“Thank you, Ray.”

“Thank you, gents, but I don't think I need a babysitter,” Nate says, smiling a little despite himself. Maybe he does work too much.

“We know. It's more like you need to get laid, sir,” Ray salutes and goes back to his sandwich.

*

“You're going to meet this dad-Brad, aren't you?” Walt asks leaning over Nate's desk neglectingly, sucking a lollipop.

“I don't know,” Nate says, staring at his blank Writer page.

*

“Dad, you can't date her,” Emma says matter-of-factly.

“Why?” Brad asks, helping Emma put her winter coat on.

“I don't like her. Her smile is weird. And she acts like I'm five. I'm eight, dad!”

“I know that, honey, but you'll get along when you'll get to know each other better,” Brad says and sighs, pulling the cap onto her eyes teasingly.

“I don't want to get to know her better. I want to see Nate,” she complains loudly, taking her cap off.

“Cap on, kitten,” Brad says and tries to ignore her raised eyebrow. Where has she even learnt that, anyway?

*

“You know what?” Emma asks and waits for Brad to respond with his question, a game they always play.

“What, Em?”

“I like Nate.”

“Me too,” Brad says and is about to leave the room to let Emma fall asleep, but she stops him.

“I like him,” she says and Brad sighs and sits next to her on the bed (he had to buy a normal-size bed, just because he couldn't fit into smaller one and after the divorce there was the time Emma insisted that he should sleep with her in her bed). “I like him because he makes you happy. And because he is nice and he thinks I'm smart. And because he is smart,” she says and Brad laughs at the last sentence.

“He is, and you're too. You're my little Einstein,” Brad says and ruffles her hair, stopping when she complains loudly.

“I love you, dad,” Emma says, yawning.

“I love you too, kitten. Now goodnight,” he says and kisses her forehead.

“Dad?”

“What, honey?”

“Why Nate can't come live with us?” she asks and stares at Brad with the pair of perfectly blue eyes, almost the same ones that he watches every day in the bathroom mirror.

“Nate has his own life, Em,” Brad says, not skipping a heartbeat.

“But you like each other” she says, like stating a fact. Brad sighs.

“Sometimes it takes a little more than that,” Brad answers and adds before closing the door, “goodnight, kitten.”

*

“My dad dates this stupid Ingrid and I don't like her. And he don't want to visit Nate. I miss him.”

“So, what you're going to do?” Addie asks and packs her notebooks to her bag pack.

“I guess I have to go by myself,” Emma shrugs.

*

Next day, when dad drops her and waits for her to go to the school, she waits until he's gone and snicks out before anyone can see her.

I can do this, she tells herself, clenching her fists on the arms of her Garfield bag pack. She came back from school on her own few times, she can handle finding Nate's apartment. Last time she went with dad by the bus, too.

When she looks up at the buildings, it's like a forest, only the trees are made of glass and cement.

Emma doesn't feel lost.

*
“Brad... your daughter is here.”

“What? She's supposed to be in school,” Brad says, perfectly calm and flips through his calendar, looking for Emma's teacher's phone number.

“Apparently, her friend is covering for her,” Nate says and Brad's certain that there's a smile playing on his lips. “But she's fine. I don't know how she got here, but she's fine. You want to talk to her?”

*

“You want to talk to her?” Nate says to the earpiece and Emma shakes her head vividly.

“Yes, give me her to the phone,” Brad says and Nate stretches out the hand with the phone, handing it to Emma.

“I'm not going to talk to dad, he's mad at me,” Emma says, crossing her arms.

“Wait a sec, Brad,” Nate says to the phone and stares at Emma. “He's not angry and he won't be yelling. He's as cool as a cucumber,” Nate smiles. That earns him a raised eyebrow from the little girl.

“He never yells and that's the problem.”

“But you have to talk to him and tell him you're okay.”

“I'm okay. You can tell him that, can't you?” Emma states simply, like it's as obvious as the fact that the sun is bright.

“She says she's okay but she won't talk to you because you're mad at her,” Nate says and hear a deep sigh on the other end.

“Of course I'm mad at her, what the fuck she thought when she was wandering on the streets alone!”

“Okay, he is mad,” Nate says and Emma gives him a glare.

“Told you.”

“But he's also worried.”

“Nate, talk to me, not to her. I have a meeting in half an hour, but I will reschedule...”

“No, Brad, it's okay, she can stay with me. I'm not going anywhere today, I was going to stay home and write an article, so I can take care of her,” Nate says, looking down at Emma's wide smile.

“I don't want to make you...”

“Brad. I just told you she can stay. You can pick her up after work,” Nate says and it sounds a little like an order even in his own ears.

“Yeah, okay. You sure?”

“Yes, Brad, I'm sure. Emma waves you. See you later, Brad,” Nate says and ruffles her hair.

“See you later, and Nate?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

LORD OF THE RINGS AU. (No, don't ask me what I was thinking when I was writing this. I'm so so sorry. PURE CRACK. I'M REALLY SORRY.)

„You have to destroy The Ring.”

Nate didn’t blink. Blinking would be a sign of disbelief in the capabilities of endless retardation of the command.

Nate wasn’t surprised either, really.

“Sir?”

“The Ring, Captain Fick. Long time ago The Ring became the Secret of the United States Government. Now, Saddam knows about it and he wants it,” says Godfather, completely serious.

“Saddam. Wants. To have. The Ring,” Nate repeats, not quite processing.

“Correct.”

“With all due respect, sir, but are you kidding?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding, Captain?”

“You certainly do not, sir. I’m just surprised. Wasn’t that just the book, sir? Lord of the Rings?”

“It was one of conspiracy theories that we couldn’t stop. It was written in code and only the ones that knew what was going on could decipher it. Later, we only managed to turn it movie with weird creatures.”

“So, Tolkien was a fan of conspiracy theories. Wasn’t he from United Kingdom, sir?”

“He got a lot of money for saying that.”

“And why are you saying all of this to me, sir?”

“Your Platoon is going to destroy the Ring. General Mattis asked specifically for the First Recon and you, Captain. Although you have to remember this is top secret operation. Major Schwetje has been already informed and now he’s gathering the data about your mission.”

Nate feels the sudden urge to press his palm to his forehead.

“You’ll be the one taking care of the Ring, Captain.” Godfather pauses and Ray would certainly describe the room as filled with fucking teenage girl drama. Oh yes, Ray is going to love this whole fucked up situation. “You have to remember that this is one of the most important missions ever planned. Godfather regards you to be one of the most competent officers picked by the higher command to complete this task.”

Nate closes the door behind him and starts to laugh.

---

“Everything is made in China. Why this fucking thing had to be made in here, in this fucking country without pussy? Tell me, Brad, because I have no fucking idea. I’m sure they have plenty of pussy in China. Because, you know, unlike Iceman, we, little and uneducated men have to fuck a nice and tight pussy from time to time. And if this fucking thing was made in China, we’d get some. And here, in this fucking desert country? The thing closest to pussy that I can get is Walt’s ass.”

“Walt, please stop Ray from telling me things that I didn’t ask for. And, Ray, please, shut up. I wonder how you can be high already, since we've left Mathilda only half an hour ago,” Brad says, looking at Ray’s wide grin.

“I hate this country,” Ray says and shuts up.

Of course, he eventually starts again and Brad does nothing, but presses his hand to his sweaty forehead.

“I mean, seriously, homes. If this fucking ring was made in China, we would be all spyish and shit, and here—“

“Ray. What did I tell you about this?” Brad turns from his side of the road and looks at Ray hidden behind his fucking Elvis sunglasses.

“Yeah, yeah. The first rule of the Fellowship of the Ring: Do not talk about the Ring. I get it, Gandalf,” Brad narrows his eyes.

“I can’t imagine why your whiskey tango ass would read Tolkien,” asks Walt from the backseat.

“I didn’t. I waited for the movie, homes.”

“And why I’m not surprised?” Walt laughs.

“Down, everybody down!” comes from the vehicle behind them, probably Rudy. Seconds later it’s like a scene from a fucking cheap action movie, when bullets fly just a few centimeters above their helmets.

“I hate this fucking country!” Ray hollers, when one of the bullets destroys the half of the steering wheel only few inches before his face.

“Ray, just shut the fuck up!” Brad yells, losing his calm for a few seconds. Before he has the chance to recollect himself, the bullets are gone.

---

Nate sighs. It’s not what he signed up for when he joined the United States Marines Corps. He stares at the thin line of the horizon where Iraq’s freakishly clean blue sky meets the sandy ground.

They stopped and someone calls Doc, Nate’s pretty sure Poke is injured. Nate’s amazed by the fact that Poke is the only one, it’s a miracle they got out of the fire range alive and in one piece. Nate took off his helmet so he could breathe and there’s something pleasant in not hearing the constant noise on the comms.

Nate made up his mind somewhere between the first bullets, even though he doesn’t know if what’s he’s about to do isn’t crazier than this whole thing. He sighs again, takes the box from under his seat and removes the smaller black box from the inside. He puts it in his pocket and it almost immediately feels like it’s burning a hole in the material.

He slowly steps out from his vehicle and goes in the direction of a bunch of trees next to their stop. He hopes he doesn’t look suspicious, walking slowly and breathing calmly, but his muscles are tensed, like he’s waiting for one of his boys to pat him in the shoulder, because he’s needed somewhere.

It doesn’t happen. He reaches the trees and starts running from there, his heart pounding.

---

“Captain Fick took the ring.”

“Ray, what happened to this whiskey tango motherfucking completely retarded brain of yours?”

“Our beloved platoon commander got pissed, took the ring and went off.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, homes! Probably around the time when they stopped shooting at us and fucking Encino Man told me to stop instead of getting the fuck out of here,” Ray splutters. His face is flushed and Brad knows it’s because Ray is pissed off. He’s not the only one, though. “Where the fuck have you been for the last twenty minutes anyway?”

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says and takes his M4. He stares at Person with cold gaze, thinking. He has only one solution that actually makes sense, but he has to gather more data and then get rid of Ray before he does anything. “Who went after him?”

“No one, man. Fucking no one, because fucking Encino Man is waiting for Godfather’s orders instead of trying to activate this monkey nut he uses as a brain.”

Fucking officers.

“Does anybody know in what direction the LT took off?”

“Yeah, he was heading West. Brad, what the fuck is going on in your fucked up mind?”

“Go, check our armory. Take Walt with you, we have to be prepared for next attack. Report back to me when you’re done. We’re going after our suicidal LT,” Brad says, clenching his jaw. Ray eyes him carefully, like he’s sniffing bullshit, but drops it eventually. He runs in the direction of their Humvee, yelling “Walt” and that’s when Brad takes off. Fast. He hopes that someone will stop Person before his own suspicious behavior will be discovered.

He runs in his full gear and after few minutes the only thing he hears is the sound of his own heavy breathing and the sand beneath his feet.

It’s craziness. Well, no. Craziness is sending Marines after tanks, craziness is calling danger-close air strike to kill a lot of sand. It’s pure fucking madness, going after their baby LT on feet. Brad almost hears Ray’s voice shouting “run, Forrest, run”.

Brad’s not entirely sure why his heart leaps when he spots the LT.

---

“Are you out of your mind, Brad?” he says instead of greeting, because he had to sit down eventually and that’s when he spots Colbert approaching him. At first he wasn’t sure who is it, since the sun had come down long ago, but after few minutes it became clear. He doesn’t know why he isn’t surprised or why he even might have been counting on it, somewhere within.

“With all due respect, sir, but I think you’re the one who’s out of their mind,” Brad says, sitting down on the ground next to Nate. He emanates warmth and Nate’s pretty sure he can see the smirk on Brad’s face despite the darkness.

“No one was supposed to go with me, Brad,” Nate says and he’s startled by the sadness he hears in his own voice. He hopes Brad didn’t hear it, but the chances are small. He’s a Recon Marine after all.

“Sir, you’re lucky I’m the only one and Person isn’t dragging his sorry ass right behind me. And Hasser, because I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t let Ray go anywhere without checking if he’s okay every fucking quarter. It’s like I’m living with an old married couple,” Brad says and Nate can see him smiling right before he laughs genuinely. It’s been always like that – Brad’s reassuring presence by his side lifts half of the weight he carries on his shoulders. He doesn’t know or doesn’t want to know why it’s the way it is. He licks his lips and lies back, staring at the black sky. He opens his mouth to say something and closes it with resignation when the words don’t come.

“Sir, how are we going to do this?” Brad asks, laying next to him.

“We don’t—I don’t know yet. My situational awareness went to shit, Brad,” Nate says and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“I doubt it, sir,” Brad laughs, his laughter light and controlled.

“Nate,” Nate whispers with his eyes screwed shut.

“Sir, I—“

“There’s no one but the two of us here, Brad,” Nate says and turns his head to look at him. “And we just doubled our chances that we’re going to get killed, so, please, call me Nate.”

“Okay—“ Brad looks at him, licking his lips. “Nate.”

---

“Your situational awareness really went to shit, sir,” Brad says, narrowing his eyes. “How come that you didn’t get us any food?”

“I wasn’t planning on taking anyone with me, you know. And I surely wasn’t planning that far ahead.”

“Level of your stupidity, despite your high intelligence, never ceases to amaze me, Nate” he says, looking directly at him, meaning something entirely different than their limited (understatement) food supplies. Nate licks his lips and bites his lower lip, thinking. “If we want to survive this fucking crusade of yours, we have to hurry up,” Brad says, lifting what’s left of his MRE package.

“The resemblance between this shit and Frodo Fucking Baggins’ begins to be scary,” Brad huffs, helping Nate get up from the ground.

“You should be thankful that Nazgûls don’t really exist,” Nate snaps.

“I refuse to be perceived as hobbit, just so you know,” Brad says when they fall in their usual pace, walking side by side.

---

“Not that I am a soft pussy civilian, but my feet actually fucking hurt,” Nate says, sitting down and looking at Brad towering above him. Brad shakes his head in what looks like resignation and sits down on Nate’s left side. The sun comes down now and after walking for the whole day Nate is surprised that he can actually still feel his lower limbs.

“Now you just need a shining bottle of whatever and you’re good to go, sir,” Brad huffs.

“Nate,” Nate corrects him, taking off his shoes.

“Fine, Nate.”

“Besides, Ray always says you should have rolled into battle with a sword, Brad.”

“As long as I get to be Aragorn.”

“Drop the reference, would you?” asks Nate, trying to hide the smile, but failing. It’s probably because the whole thing is even more ridiculous when you stop cracking yourself up with the whole Tolkien story.

“You just don’t want me to be the tall and handsome stranger from the bar,” Brad says and pouts.
Nate would never think that he will see Brad Colbert actually pouting. Well, he would have never thought that he will be carrying the Ring that allows ruling the world, but, yeah, here we are. In this situation thinking about getting into the pants of his TL doesn’t seem to be the biggest problem. Nate shrugs and smiles. There’s a few seconds of silence and Brad starts laughing, his laughter loud and genuine.

“What?” Nate asks, smiling widely, because Brad is contagious like that.

“You just don’t want to be Arwen!” he says between the spasm of laughter and Nate follows, because it’s funny. Well, maybe not that funny to literally roll on the ground, grasping for breath, but still funny. When they finally calm down, Brad looks at Nate and starts laughing again.

“What again?” Nate asks, smiling widely, still a little out of breath, like after a long run.

“You don’t want to know, sir,” Brad says and Nate’s pretty sure that he’s crying the tears of laughter now.

“Seriously, what is it, Brad?” Nate asks again, more serious.

“You really wanna know,” Brad says, more like a statement than a question.

“I really want to know,” Nate agrees, looking at him.

“Well, I pictured you in one of Arwen’s gowns,” he says deadpan.

“I’m sure Ray would appreciate the way your imagination works, Brad,” Nate says and tries to remain serious. “But I’m not a fan of cross-dressing, myself.”

“You just don’t want to admit that you’d love to be the Arwen to my Aragorn.”

As crazy as it sounds, it’s probably the truth. Or at least a part of it. It would be more like being the Boromir to Brad’s Aragorn, only without the dying part.

---
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cerebellum: (Default)
cerebellum

May 2012

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