(bank robber AU, taking things literally (ha!) enjoy!)
'And then what, we fucking, float down into the van from two stories up and blend into city traffic like we were never there? Superb plan, really, Brad, can't see one flaw..'
'There's a stairway, here..' Brad taps the building plan with the end of a pen which Ray has been worrying with his teeth on and off all afternoon. He looks kinda comically too big bent over an upturned milk crate like that, like he's sitting at the kids table and nobody told him. 'If you can run from the vault, there's a thirty second time delay to the alarm. We should make it no problem..'
'Yeah, and maybe you can carry all that shit at a full sprint without falling down the goddamn stairs, but some of us are human beings with ankles..' Ray mumbles, grumpy, slipping a knife into a sheath at his belt.
He wouldn't agree to this shit for anyone else. But, fortunately or not, Brad is his best friend, pretty much his only friend, and Ray is the reason Brad was dishonourably discharged. Fortunately, at least for Brad, Ray has been head-over-heels in big gay love with him for four years, two months and fifteen days. Since they first met in Afghanistan.
'For three million, I'll buy you new ankles.' Brad says dryly, folding up the building plan and sliding it into the pocket of his cargo pants 'You clear on the plan? Two bars bullion, in and out. I know that's difficult for you after generations of related grandparents but...' he holds up his fingers, one and then two 'That's one more than this, see?'
Ray shakes his head, good-natured, putting his not-gold, not-plastic shades on his newly buzzed scalp 'Fuck you, dude..'.
It's surprisingly easy to get into the vault, a few clicks this way and that, the code Ray had extracted works perfectly. Brad never really had him down as the femme fatale (homme fatale?) of their whole deal, but he absolutely did seduce the fund manager's pissed off and lonely wife. Some people are just into that shit, he reasons. Piss, feet, and weird little inbred hicks.
Two sparkling, beautiful gold bars, their whole future together, wrapped in towels and stuffed into backpacks, Brad catches Ray's eye. They have to time the door release just right, if the vault locks before they can get clear, they're screwed.
He holds up a gloved hand, watching the numbers tick down on the panel by the door, counting down from five, four, three..
The thought had occurred that they don't make it. That they end up separated, in jail, for the rest of their lives instead. He looks at Ray, wary brown eyes above his mask. He makes a hand gesture, indicating that they let the timer go one more cycle.
Ray's eyebrows knit together in confusion.
Brad pulls his own mask down past his chin, and reaches to do the same to Ray.
'What the fuck, man?! We gotta go, we're gonna get caught! You wanna go to jail? Because i-'
He is cut off mid sentence by Brad cupping his face, stroking his cheekbones with gloves fingers like he's trying to memorise the geography of them, and kissing him warmly and full on the mouth.
It's a lot of things, a goodbye, if they don't make it, a statement of belief, in Ray, in their whole deal, and a 'Yeah, so, this is all for you.'
Ray melts, briefly, hands resting on Brad's wrists and kissing him back fervently. It's all over too quick, he can't fucking process any of this. But Brad pulls up his mask, and is counting down again.
Three, two, one. He slams the door release with his gloved fist, the alarm blares, and they charge out into the sunlight of the corridor...
'All I'm saying is it's not something I'm fucking.. naturally inclined to..'
'Or naturally declined to.' Nate says cooly, trying to keep the smile from his face.
'Yeah, yeah, smart ass, we didn't all get fucking Ivy League prancing classes, some of us had to get fucking jobs.'
'I had a college girlfriend who was a dancer, and I-'
'Oh yeah? Real flexible, huh?' Ray cuts in with an obscene gesture
'Pretty flexible, yeah..' Nate says, smiling beatifically and refusing to take the bait.
'So you can do that fucking.. French Dip thing?'
'Like the sandwich?' Nate asks innocently
'I don't fucking know!' Ray throws up his hands, exasperated 'The thing where you tip the girl backwards and you gotta be real careful not to drop her..'
'A tango dip? Yeah, it's been a few years but I used to be able to. Need someone fairly small though, I'm not built like a damn fridge, unlike some people..'
Brad smirks cleaning his rifle, but says nothing.
'I'm small. C'mon, Lieutenant, show us whatcha got..' Ray reaches out his hands, flexing his fingers in a grabby gesture towards Nate, who is still sitting.
'Do you know how to tango?' Nate asks, positioning Ray's hand on his upper arm and taking his free hand, his own hand on Ray's waist.
'Not a goddamn clue, Sir!' Ray beams, taking his hands, shifting as Nate nudges his hip to offset them slightly.
'Then this is gonna be a very short demonstration. And you're gonna have to let me lead. Engage your core as you lean back, okay?'
Nate twirls them both gently round in the desert dust, to a few approving woops and wolf whistles from Walt, Rudy and Pappy, who are watching from the sidelines.
He's surprisingly elegant, light on his feet, and he doesn't shy away from touching Ray, hands sure and warm a way that makes his stomach flip.
The hand on Ray's waist slips into the small of his back, and he deftly tips him backwards, Ray's hand grasping at his tshirt for a second.
'Let go of me, that's it, I got you, and slide your right foot back to support your weight..' Nate's voice is gentle, in control. Ray can't help believing him, the tension ebbing from his neck and shoulders, letting his arms flop back.
Nate tips him back until Ray's fingers, deliberately loose, brush the sand and pebbles of the ground.
A smile tugs at the corner of Nate's mouth as they are briefly nose to nose, arm tight around Ray's waist.
Brad let's out a long whistle through his fingers, cheering them on.
For something that's maybe comic effect, or maybe just because he thinks Ray might like it, Nate plants a soft kiss on his cheek before pulling him up again.
He's not sure he imagines the giddy, starry eyed look that crosses Ray's face for just a second afterwards.
It's been a long time - six years since Baghdad. They haven't actually had any reason to see each other in person since then. Nate's an officer, and then, not long after he leaves the Corps, a married man.
Brad goes to the wedding, of course he does, wears a smart suit and newly-shined shoes and laughs and cheers in the right places. Hugs Nate, who is so fucking handsome in his dress blues, and kisses his new brides cheek (Mandy? Morgan? Megan?), tells her how beautiful she is. She is pretty, bright blue eyes, honey blonde hair pinned up in elaborate curls, a peppering of freckles across her nose. She smells soft, powdery. He tells Nate he's a lucky guy. This is what people do. They go to the weddings of the people they've nursed crushes on for years, and stomp on their feelings because they are an affront to their warrior spirit. Or at least, he's pretty sure they do.
Not that Nate can't have friends, but to Brad, it never really seems like a good time to go and see him. He and his new wife are looking at houses after that, in 'areas with good schools'. Well, everyone knows what that means. No, if they wanna get busy with producing a whole bunch of smaller Ficks, Brad's gonna give them their space - and absolutely not think about the process too much.
What's weird is that they could've just fucked years ago. Got this out of their system and gone on to find a couple pretty girls to marry. Except that Brad never wants to get married, not to anyone, pretty or not, and especially not to Nate. And Nate, ever the consummate fucking gentleman, wimps out of their only chance at a one-night stand.
*
They were in some crappy bar, on a layover between deployments, getting slowly shit-faced and shooting pool. Brad let's him win the first couple times, until Nate tells him he doesn't appreciate being patronised. Brad hands his ass to him for the next couple rounds, and rinses him for twenty bucks in the process. Until they're both drunk enough to head back to their rooms. It's that or start dancing, and Brad does not fucking dance.
Nate walks him back to his room, arm lingering at his waist a fraction of a second too long when he says goodnight.
'Goodnight, Sir.'
Nate turns back from the door, a tipsy smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
'I told you, Nate is fine.'
'Of course. Sorry, Sir..'
Nate shakes his head, still smiling.
Brad smirks.
'I'm on the first flight out. I'd better get some sleep..'
The tension is there, tripwire-taut between them. Those glass-green eyes linger on his own, on his lips, in a way that Brad swears he isn't imagining.
Nate sighs, leans forward and presses one, lingering kiss to Brad's lips, hand on his chest.
'Goodnight, Brad..'
*
The marriage barely lasts two years. Nate gets posted back to peacekeeping duty in Afghanistan, just for one more tour. Brad is stuck training new recruits in San Diego. Just the way he likes it, he lies to himself.
The Bravo company round robin emails that Nate tried to keep going have kinda tailed off, along with the polite but friendly emails between the two of them. Brad awaits baby news. Any fucking day now.
It never comes. And he's slightly surprised at the very personal tone of the email at the end of Nate's tour.
'Got a bed spare for an old friend this weekend? Marina is divorcing me, I need to figure out somewhere else to go.
N.'
That 'N' is weirdly intimate. Fuck, for someone he's been calling Sir for the past few years, it makes his heart leap, traitorously hopeful.
There are more emails. Where he learns that he couldn't quite make it work with Marina. He's gonna get it out of him eventually what the fuck people mean when they say they 'wanted different things'. Where Nate tells him, without sarcasm or irony evident, that he missed him.
And finally, the night before Nate is due to fly back into California, one last email, that he still thinks about that kiss. Brad reads that email about fifty-eight times through.
He half expects him not to show up. He won't make fools of them both by meeting him at the airport. But the familiar, clipped rap at the door comes, in the early evening, the sinking sun washing the front porch in gold.
And when Brad answers, it's actually him. Tanned and exhausted, hair freshly buzzed, a broad smile. So their actual reunion, after a few years detour, is in Brad's hallway.
Nate's pack dropped to the floor, forgotten.
One slim, strong arm around Brad's neck, pulling him in to a warm, grateful kiss.
After being endlessly entertained by Nate and Encino Man's ship name being Schwick, @alone-on-takodana hit upon the fact that Nate and Doc Bryan would potentially be Brick 🧱
We are at WORK. There was no good way of explaining why we were laughing like drains.
After being endlessly entertained by Nate and Encino Man's ship name being Schwick, @alone-on-takodana hit upon the fact that Nate and Doc Bryan would potentially be Brick 🧱
We are at WORK. There was no good way of explaining why we were laughing like drains.
