stop. look. listen.

A hundred different things (within the measure of a day)

Brad's pretty sure it would have gone diferently if he had actually seen Nate's movies.

Well, he did see the first one, everyone did. Judging by the numbers it pulled, at least a few times - the box office numbers, both domestic and abroad, were truly impressive. This is what Ray tells him.

But he's been deployed while the next three or four premiered, and you don't really get to enjoy Netflix in Afghanistan or Iraq. So, sure, he heard the name, but not like he had seen Nate Fick's face up close on the big screen at least twice a year, or bought dvds and studied the fucking gloss rags like everyone else in the fucking country.

The whole thing could have gone differently if he did, maybe, but as it is, it goes like this.

Brad's having a bad day. Actually, that's an understatement, he's having a day that rivals the more tedious days of driving in a shitty humvee across the neverending desert and trying to unfuck the utter stupidity of pretty much every officer in his chain of command.

It's not as bad as the days when people tried to blow them up, or the days when they rode straight into an ambush and acted like it was the plan all along... but at least then Brad had something he could do about it, even if it was just shooting back or yelling at Ray to fucking turn the car around.

Brad's bad day is the mundane sort, the one where little things pile up until it's hard to see the way out, or even believe that the way out is there. It's the retardation of the clients and the suppliers, the sheer idiocy of the drivers, and the fact that his upstairs neighbour left the water running and flooded his bathroom for the sixth time this year.

"You seem out of sorts," Ray tells him. "Should I schedule an appointment with your doctor so he could check what crawled up your ass and died there? Or would you prefer me to call and order you a whore who could fuck you with a nice and thick strap-on? It's one or the other, I can tell, gotta have something to do with your ass, the way your panties are in a twist."

It's the fact that his fiance, ex-fiance, sent back the ring, finally, through a messenger service. Brad's not sure if he'd prefer face to face. He's not sure of much, beyond the fact that the ring is heavy in his pocket and he can't quite figure out what to do with it. Do you actually go to the shop and return an engagement ring? Do you sell? Do you keep it in a drawer forever like some pathetic little bitch?

"You spend too much time thinking about my ass, Person, and not enough time shelving the new merchandise."

"Your ass is marginally more interesting than the USB drives," Ray shrugs. "And someone has to watch it," he adds in a more serious tone. He worries, Brad knows, especially since Brad left the Corps and since Jess left him.

Brad still didn't tell him about the ring that's burning his pocket. "You think you can watch the shop for a while instead? I need to step out. Maybe I'll get some lunch."

Ray's eyes narrow with suspicion but he just nods. "Just not Thai. I had some last week and I think I still haven't shat it all out."

"Thank you for that image," Brad mutters and walks out, squinting when the sun hits him. It's late September but you wouldn't know it, the sun is merciless like it was still full-blown summer. There's a jeweller's on the other side of the street and he puts his hand in his pocket and fingers the smooth curve of the ring, the sharp edges of the twin diamonds in the setting.

Someone honks impatiently in the slowly moving traffic and Brad looks away, lets go of the ring in his hand. It would probably be smarter to get rid of the thing sooner rather than later, but he doesn't feel like it today, not yet.

Nothing to do but go and get lunch. He's in the mood for Thai ever since Ray mentioned it, to be honest, regardless of the shitting thing, but he knows a rant will follow. Sometimes he does welcome the rants, sure, Ray has a way of being entertaining even while being irritating, but maybe not today.

And speaking of bad days, because he's still having it and it's not even late afternoon yet, his cellphone perks up with Poke's id. Gina must be on his case and he's going to get roped into coming to their anniversary dinner and he won't be able to beg off because you don't say no to Gina Espera unless you're dying. Or you want to die.

He gives it two days before she herself calls, though, and until then he's going to ignore Poke. He pockets the cellphone, still shaking his head, and it's that moment of distraction that keeps him from noticing a guy coming out of the coffee shop, until they collide and the coffee spills all over Brad's shirt.

At least it's a fucking frappe shit and not something scalding hot.

"Fuck, sorry," the guy says immediately, takes a step back to survey the damage. "Wasn't quite looking where I was going here, sorry."

Brad shakes his head. His first instinct was to tell the moron to watch where he's going but when he looked up, his annoyance seem to have evaporated. The kid looks flustered enough as it is, biting his lip as he's looking down at Brad's shirt. "Yeah, neither was I. Don't sweat it," he says, not unkindly.

He's not quite sure why he's being relatively nice to people, but fuck, maybe he's just tired. And the coffee spilled fairly on both of them, the front of the kid's shirt is soaked even more than Brad's, and that's a much nicer shirt.

"I feel like I should at least pay for your dry cleaning or something," the guy offers earnestly and there's something in his face that keeps Brad from saying that the best thing he could do would be to kindly fuck off.

"I'm pretty sure dry cleaning would be more than this shirt cost in the first place."

"New shirt, then? I think there's a store on the corner," he says and Brad stares at him, because seriously?

"Most people would just give me ten bucks and move on."

"How do I know you're going to buy a shirt and not spend it on hookers and blow?"

Brad laughs, startling at the sound of it. "Where the fuck are you from and how ugly are the hookers there?"

The kid looks at him for a strangely long moment. Brad notes that his eyes are really fucking green. It's an odd thought, passing through his head like a ghost of something familiar but forgotten. "I'd be glad to stand here and discuss the current rates and possibly follow that with the prices of blow too, but I'm kind of cold and slightly sticky. New shirts," he concludes.

"You know, I actually work right there," Brad says, waving in the general direction of the shop. "Bound to have an old t-shirt or two in the back. You don't have to..."

"You know, might as well go with me and buy that shirt because now that I know where you work I could just buy it and drop it off there. And my taste is atrocious, I've been told" the guy tells him, the corner of his mouth rising in a smile. Brad feels an answering grin press itself against his mouth.

"Okay," he says and isn't sure why he feels warmth spread through his chest at the way the guy beams at him.

Could be the fact that the coffee is drying in the sun and he doesn't feel cold anymore. Yeah, going with that.

"I'm Nate, by the way," the guy says, a curious curl to his lips, like there's a joke hidden somewhere. Brad nods.

"Brad," he offers and the whole thing seems just a little bit ridiculous, with the way his shirt is sticky and uncomfortable and they probably look fucking strange, shaking hands in the middle of the street. Brad's mouth quirks in response, because most of the time he enjoys the fucking strange.

And they must look stranger than he feels, because the girl behind the counter in the male clothes department looks at them as if they had, at least, a few tentacles sprouting of their chests, or a few additional heads or whatever the fuck, and not just a frozen beverage melted and staining their shirts.

Brad grabs a shirt from the nearest available hanger, one that doesn't look like someone puked on it. There's something wrong with colors this year, most of the selection available makes his coffee-stained shirt look good.

When he comes out of the changing room, Nate's writing something on a piece of paper and the sales girl is giggling, flustered and flirty, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Brad shakes his head.

"Is your friend..." she starts and stops immediately, stumbling to an awkward stop. "Thanks," she says instead, picking up the piece of paper, holding it to her chest with near-reverence.

Brad doesn't know what the hell, but he mostly doesn't care so it's all fine. "I'm just gonna ring those up," she adds and takes the tag Brad hands her, along with the one from Nate's shirt. "Do you want me to pack those up?" she gestures at their soiled shirts.

Brad shrugs. "I think it's beyond helping. If you wouldn't mind throwing it away?"

Nate looks thoughtful when she glances at him, almost reluctant, but nods after a moment. "Yes, thank you," he hands the shirt over and signs the credit card receipt. There's seriously no excuse for the way she seems delighted to be handed Nate's old shirt.

"I think there's something seriously wrong with her," Brad mutters when they leave and Nate shakes his head.

"I just hope it doesn't end up on eb..." he bites the word back and Brad doesn't ask. "Well. Sorry again."

"There's something seriously wrong with you, too," Brad tells him. "It was just a fucking shirt. Besides, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have happened if I paid a little more attention, so..." He can tell where this is going. It's unexpected, but he thinks he kind of likes Nate, his easy manner and the way he seems bemused by the whole thing, in-between the slight guilt. That's new too, most people would probably swear at Brad for spilling their coffee, regardless of who was really at fault. "So, you owed me a shirt and I got one, I think I owe you a coffee."

"Frappe," Nate corrects.

"A retarded, pussy beverage of your choice."

"With whipped cream and sprinkles?"

"Now you're just doing this to annoy me," Brad complains. Nate shrugs, confirming his suspicions. "Nothing that requires more than three words to order," he lays down his offer and Nate smiles, puts on his shades and nods, as if he's accepting a challenge.

In the cafe, he takes his glasses off in a slightly showy gesture and leans forward over the counter. "Same as before," he says and the barista nods, all smiles and cartoon hearts in his eyes.

Brad snorts. "You come here often?"

"No. This is the second time," Nate beams. Fucker. "I just make a lasting impression."

"Yes, I've noticed." He means it, and not in the sarcastic way he cares to pronounce it. It's not like he goes around and asks people out for a coffee, no matter how pretty their mouth is, or how green their eyes are.

Yeah, he noticed that too. Hard not to.

The barista hands Nate his coffee, a frozen thing with, yes, cream, but no sprinkles. Thank god for small mercies, Brad's not sure he'd be able to hold any respect for anyone who likes fucking sprinkles.

They sit at the table for a while and Nate asks about the city, says he's here only for a few days, work-related. He doesn't explain further and Brad doesn't push for answers. They talk about Brad's favourite places to surf and the diner near the beach that has absolutely best pie in the state. Nate looks a little wistful, his mouth working around a smile that's not quite there, and Brad finds himself offering to maybe teach Nate to surf.

No, he's not quite sure what the fuck either.

"I'd like that," Nate says, but the slight reluctance already gives Brad the answer. "But today's my only free afternoon, I'll be... stuck in meetings for the next few days."

The brief pause doesn't escape Brad. He shakes his head. "Let me guess. You're an assassin. Can't tell me why you're in town because you'd have to kill me."

Nate's expression is perfectly impassive, his green eyes suddenly serious and cold, staring at Brad unflinchingly. "Of course not," he says flatly and it even makes Brad uncertain for a second, before Nate cracks a smile, back to his easy warmth in no time.

Oh, he's good, Brad has to admit. "You're an asshole," he says, raising his coffee cup in salute.

Nate bows his head, like he's accepting praise, and catches the sight of his wristwatch. "Fuck," he mutters, an almost hilarious expression of panic crossing his features. "Sandra's going to kill me. I'm half an hour late already."

"Sorry," Brad offers without really meaning it and Nate shrugs.

"No, I'll just grovel for a while. Anyway, it's been nice to meet you," he says, polite and smiling. He's clearly been brought up right, and he waits for the handshake, his arm extended, and Brad can't quite disappoint him. He thinks Nate holds on for a second, two, longer than necessary, but he's probably deluding himself.

And even if he isn't, he has better things to do than waste time on pretty boys with warm smiles and nice green eyes, who have girlfriends and are leaving town in a few days anyway.

He's slightly annoyed at himself for wishing he could waste some time on Nate anyway. He obviously hasn't learned a lot from the whole Jess thing.

He finishes his coffee quickly and goes to pick up the Thai food. The way Ray sputters at that is reasonably amusing, so there's that.

"Took you long enough, though. Don't tell me, you used your lunch break to go and get some nice and warm pussy. You can tell your Ray, homes," he says, contradicting himself rather splendidly and Brad snorts.

"Believe me, Ray, you are the last person whom I'd tell about any kind of sexual encounter I might have."

"I get no love. Well, no, homes, I do get love, and for sure I get more love than you, because your hand doesn't count. You do need to find yourself some girl who'd spread her legs, paid or not, and you need to fuck Jess out of your system. Not that chicks don't go for the brooding type, but you spoil it by being an asshole with a stick up your ass."

The door chimes somewhere in the middle of it, but nothing short of a siren would stop Ray. Brad shakes his head and turns to the newcomer, calling up his look-for-customers which might not be cheerful and polite but isn't homicidal. They should consider themselves lucky.

"Bad time?" Nate asks, a wry smile on his lips.

"Motherfucker," Ray says, loud even for him.

"It's always bad time with Ray," Brad shrugs. "But he makes even more noise when we keep him in his cage, so. Do you need something? We have a good deal on external drives." He's not... not excited, definitely. Nate's here because he needs to buy something, or because he forgot something, or... And Brad's not doing this anyway.

He almost forgot how it was to deal with this, with the heavy rush of attraction and interest, but he'll deal with it. Maybe Ray's right, he needs to buy the services of a professional and fuck some things out of his system. It might not be Jess he needs to forget, though. Go figure.

"I find myself with a clear schedule for tomorrow, after all," Nate's saying and Brad doesn't quite get what's happening here. "If the surfing offer is available," he adds, just a hint of nervousness in his voice.

"Yeah," Brad says, too fast. "Sure."

The way Nate smiles, like Brad had just made his day, like surfing with Brad is the best thing ever happening to him... it's dangerous. Especially since Brad is not doing this, not letting himself even entertain the thoughts of how it would be to kiss Nate, feel that smile against his skin. This is why hookers are a better choice, no complications, no fuss, no skipped beats when his heart gets him in trouble again.

One surfing lesson can't hurt, though. And Nate's leaving town in a few days anyway.

"Here," Nate picks a piece of paper from the counter, a receipt one of the customers must have left behind. He takes a pen out of his pocket, a black sharpie, writes down a few lines in neat lettering. "That's my cell and the number for the hotel I'm staying at. Call me with details or text me the address and directions..." he says and hands Brad the note. "You okay with that?"

Not really. "I did offer, didn't I?"

Nate's smile turns wry, like he's pretty familiar with the fact that people don't always say what they mean. "You did," he nods, then glances at his watch. "An hour late now. Hope I survive until tomorrow."

"Would be a total waste of my time if you didn't, so you better," Brad tells him and gets one quick final smile before Nate disappears. Brad waits for a beat before he turns. "You're being awfully quiet, Ray," he says. "Not that I'm not thrilled with this surprising occurence, but it fills me with dread at what it may be a sign of. An impending apocalypse, perhaps."

"Did you just get Nate fucking Fick's fucking phone number?"

"You know him?" Brad's eyebrows rise up, he can feel it. It didn't look like that at all, Nate just glanced at Ray for a second and then his eyes were on Brad again, no spark of recognition.

Ray snorts. "You really need to go out more. Or pull your head out of your ass, that should do the trick," he mutters and picks up his laptop from the counter, turns it around and types the name into google. It turns up an impressive number of results. Well into seven digits.

It's funny, Brad's brain clicks finally. Yeah, Nate seemed familiar, but when someone spills their coffee on you in the street your first thought is not going to be hey, it's that hollywood heartthrob guy. Besides, Brad had seen one movie with the guy. With Nate.

"You know, I can't even," Ray's saying, obviously over the brief and wonderful silent phase. "You go out to get fucking take-out and manage to get a date with the guy of whom an entire generation of chicks thought when discovering what the showerhead was best for," he says and shakes his head. "And you don't even recognise him. It's a classic, Brad."

Brad ignores him in favor of clicking through the google results. The imdb listing, the fucking wikipedia page, entertainment blogs and fan fucking pages. There's the official site and the facebook group and the twitter. Google images has pages upon pages of screencaps and candids and promos and photo shoots and Brad stares at it for a moment. He really hates the new google images design, to be honest.

The photos themselves, though... Seems the entire world is as infatuated with Nate Fick as Brad could be, if he let himself.

"It's not a date," he tells Ray belatedly and Ray just stares at him.

"Yeah, whatever you say. So, he gave you the number for the hotel and his cell phone?"

Brad scowls at him but that had never really worked on Ray. "It's not like that," he insists and Ray looks at him for a moment longer, serious and searching, until he nods.

"If you say so, homes. Hey, listen, we had an idiot customer while you were gone," he starts and rambles on. Brad tunes him out, sometimes it works best.

Brad second guesses himself for the rest of the afternoon and the better part of the evening, but he calls anyway. He's not quite sure if he's not calling to cancel, though.

Nate answers after two rings, warm voice in Brad's ear.

"Brad Colbert," he offers. "So, you're still alive."

"Barely. But I have been informed that I haven't yet outgrown my usefulness, so the execution was postponed. On the plus side, it means I'm still up for surfing tomorrow," he says and Brad thinks there's some nervousness in the following pause, in the way Nate's breathing is just that little bit uneven. "Unless you've changed your mind."

It's the uncertainty that's Brad's undoing. Apparently the guy who's been announced the sexiest man on earth by the People magazine is worried that Brad's going to cancel their... whatever it is.

"No," he says, as if he wasn't thinking of saying just that. "You have something to write? I'll give you the address."

"Moment. Yeah, okay," Nate says and jots down what Brad tells him. "When do you want me there?"

It's not quite the phrasing Brad needed. "Six am too early for you?"

"Not at all. Looking forward to it."

Brad is giving up. Giving in. Whichever. His whole fucking body reacts to Nate's wisftul tone and he just doesn't fucking know what to do with it. "Okay, then. Six am, don't be late," he says and disconnects even while Nate's soft 'okay' rings in his ears.

It's fine, he has it all under control.

Or at least he thinks so, until the next day, until Nate shows up in the designated spot by the beach, carrying a surfboard and two coffee cups in their carton tray. Brad's coffee is the exact same thing he ordered yesterday. He has his shades on and Brad's pretty sure he looks even better than yesterday.

Better in flesh than the few pics Brad might have looked through on the Internet, but you can't prove anything and he cleaned up his internet history anyway.

"Thanks," he says and is careful in picking up his coffee cup. Their fingers don't even meet around it.

Nate isn't bad, he obviously hasn't surfed before but he's no stranger to water and he takes orders easily, needs only to be shown something once to take to it. He's obviously had some martial arts training for the movies and has good reflexes.

Brad might be even impressed. It's not at all easy to manage that.

"Yeah, okay," Nate says after a while, draped over his board, rubbing at his eyes. "I think I've drunk enough of the salt water to last me a lifetime and fell of this thing enough times for my ego to be sufficiently bruised."

"You're not half bad," Brad tells him.

Nate looks at him for a long moment, squinting at the sun that's behind Brad. When he smiles, it must rival the shine, Brad thinks. "Since I don't think you offer praise lightly I'm suitably flattered. Now, breakfast?"

"Only if there's bacon," Brad agrees easily. Some time more, some time with Nate, can't hurt.

And there is bacon, and pancakes, and scrambled eggs. There's also a rather flustered waitress who disappears for a few minutes right after taking their order and when she comes back, she's holding a photo of Nate, torn out from some magazine. "Would you mind?"

If Brad wasn't looking for it, he'd miss the way Nate's eyes flicker to his for the briefest of moments, before he smiles widely at the girl and asks what's her name, then writes down the dedication and signs with a perfected flourish.

"So, not an assassin for hire," Brad deadpans after the waitress goes away, smiling widely.

"You don't sound surprised."

"You felt guilty about spilling coffee on me, you'd be a fucking lousy assassin," Brad shrugs. "My coworker recognised you," he adds and Nate nods, looks away for a moment. Brad's not sure what it means, maybe Nate wanted to spend some time with someone who didn't know who he was, maybe he enjoyed the anonymity and nothing more. "Look, I don't care..." he starts.

Nate does look up then. "I've figured that much," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Listen, I'm in town only until the day after tomorrow."

"You've mentioned that."

"There's a party tonight I absolutely can't get out of. I've been assured that if I even try, I will get straight up murdered and believe me, my manager can be fucking scary."

"Is this going somewhere?" Brad asks, smiling to take the sting out of his words.

"Come with me?"

"To your murder?"

"To the party," Nate clarifies, licks his lips as he's leaning slightly forward. It's hypnotic, Brad wants nothing more than just kiss him, lean over the table and lick at his mouth, find out how Nate tastes, what sounds would he make, if his fingers would tangle in Brad's shirt and pull him closer. "And yes, I mean it as a date."

Brad swallows the first response, the one word on his lips. He wants this, that's the whole problem. "You think it's a good idea?"

Nate shrugs. "I'm not asking you to be my plus one to a publicised event. I'll get you a ticket and you can show whenever you want, even for five minutes. By date I mean that afterwards I can take you out for pizza and beer."

"No pizza or beer at the party? I don't even know why you're going."

"Brad," Nate says seriously and his eyes are wide and open and unbelievably green.

"So, by date you mean that afterwards you can take me out for pizza and beer, or take me back to your hotel room," he offers and watches the flush spread on Nate's face, his mouth open just slightly as he breathes out, an almost inaudible sigh. Something twists in Brad's stomach, low and warm, and he's almost overwhelmed by the want, the way he reacts to Nate's closeness. "Alright," he mutters.

This is roughly how he finds himself in a sea of suits and evening gowns, trying to keep away from the photographers and wondering if it's a bad idea to take off his tie.

"He's going to be a few moments more," a woman tells him, standing a few inches away and following Brad's gaze to where Nate is talking to a group of people, two pretty girls hanging on his every word. "I'm Sandra," she adds when Brad doesn't respond. "And you're Brad Colbert. Are you going to be trouble?"

Her voice is matter-of-fact and direct, which is why Brad doesn't go with the first response that appears to him but waits for a beat before answering. "Wasn't planning on it."

She narrows her eyes. "Very few people do," she tells him then smiles at Nate when he joins them. "I'll make excuses for you, you have an early day tomorrow, yadda yadda. Try and behave."

Nate laughs, bowing his head when he does. "Now, Sandy, what are the chances of that?" he asks her and pulls lightly at Brad's sleeve, his fingertips brushing over Brad's wrist. "Come on, let's get out of here before she changes her mind."

"I always thought your manager works for you, not the other way around."

"I don't think anyone told Sandra," Nate shrugs, stops once they're outside. "Did I tell you how good you look?"

"I pretty much hate the tie. I'm actually hoping to take it off soon." He realises how it sounded only when Nate's eyes widen, darker now, amost black. "Have you decided yet if it's pizza or your hotel?"

"There's no reason it can't be both, we can order in."

"I do like the way you think," Brad mutters, already tugging at his tie, loosening the knot. He's done talking himself out of it, he supposes, even though the uneasy feeling remains. But he doesn't have expectations so he can't be disappointed.

Inside the room Nate presses him against the doors the moment they close. Brad expects him to lean in for a kiss, even bends his head to meet him halfway, but instead Nate busies himself with undoing Brad's tie with swift fingers, the soft sound of silk sliding against the collar of his shirt unnaturally loud in Brad's ears.

"Better," Nate mutters and his fingers slide down Brad's neck, like he's admiring his work. He deals with two top buttons of Brad's shirt and runs his knuckles against the newly exposed skin, down and back up again.

"Enjoying yourself?" Brad asks dryly and Nate smiles, doesn't even bother to even slow down in his exploration. Brad forgets he was going to complain further when Nate leans in finally, his lips over the throbbing pulse point, mouthing the sensitive skin.

"Very much," he says and Brad can't quite remember what he even asked about in the first place, Nate's warm breath rippling over his sensitised skin.

When he finally gets to kiss Nate, when he pulls him up and crashes their lips together, he's already breathing harshly, his body moving out of its own accord under Nate's hands and mouth. "Fuck," he mutters into Nate's mouth and Nate swallows it eagerly, steals the rest of Brad's breath away.

When he pulls back his lips are red and slick and he licks at them, smiling like he's enjoying the lingering taste. "Got the MTV award for the best kiss a few years back," he tells Brad and he looks like he's holding back laughter, he looks young and reckless and almost drunk, his eyes clouded and bottle green.

"Of course you did," Brad shakes his head and steps forward, his hands finding the closest bare skin with amazing accuracy. "Any other skills I might want to know about?"

Nate pretends to think about it. "I'll show you," he decides finally and pulls Brad closer again.

It's a long while before they remember the promise of pizza and beer, before Nate fumbles for the phone and orders room service. Brad's legs are tangled with his, his skin is still flushed and warm and covered with a sheen of sweat and Nate doesn't seem to mind when he noses a path down Brad's shoulder and arm, like he can't be bothered to move closer but he needs to be touching Brad somehow, and that's the easiest way.

They eat pizza sitting on the floor, Brad's back against the bed and Nate leaning back against the nightstand. One of his legs is propped up, bent at the knee and pulled close, the other extended, his foot against Brad's thigh. The alarm clock by the bed tells Brad it's three am in bright green digits, two dots blinking between them hypnotically.

He knows he's on borrowed time, the feeling is familiar enough. He used to get it with Jess too, the low pressure in his chest, like a breath half held back, like something half forgotten and yet everpresent. He didn't know what it was then, not until she left him. If he knew, he'd make a better use of it.

He doesn't realise his hand is on Nate's foot until Nate groans and slides down just a little bit, his movement smooth and liquid. "Yeah," he mutters, eyelids fluttering and Brad presses with his fingers into the sole, runs his hand up Nate's ankle. It's almost unbelievable that just this, just Brad's touch, can elicit this reaction from Nate, make him look at Brad with undisguised want.

They barely make it back onto the bed.

Brad wakes up in a still warm bed and to the sound of Nate's voice, barely above whisper, explaining to someone, presumably Sandra, why he's late for whatever. "I'll make it in time for the lunch, don't worry. No. No, it's fine. You said it yourself that they want me for the role. Yes. Fine."

Brad wonders who in their right mind wouldn't want Nate Fick.

It's a dangerous thought, more dangerous than letting this happen, letting himself enjoy the break from reality for a day.

He closes his eyes anyway, wills his breathing to even out. He wants the moment to last.

The bed sags when Nate comes back, slides under the cover carefully, like he doesn't want to wake Brad up. His arm is pressed against Brad's side but it's comfortable, almost unbearably so.

"I know you're awake," Nate mutters, his voice still a little bit rough, from sleep or from the way he kept repeating Brad's name few hours before, until it almost lost its meaning, until Nate made it a part of himself. "You're fucking lousy at faking it."

"I'd be pretty damn glad for that, if I were you," Brad tells him. "Are you late for something?"

"Nothing important enough."

"Are you lying?"

Nate huffs a laugh and then leans in, his lips brushing Brad's nose. "Wouldn't lie to you. I do have to get to that lunch, though, or Sandra will castrate me with her nail clippers."

"Wouldn't want that," Brad mutters and he's already sliding down, eyes still closed but pretty efficient at finding Nate's cock anyway. Once more, then he's done.

Nate's phone starts ringing an hour later, when they're out of the shower already and Nate's towelling his wet hair. He ignores it the first two times, until Brad picks it up and looks at the caller id. "Sandra," he tells Nate, as if it could be anyone else.

"She's probably calling to tell me which tie to wear," Nate mutters but picks up with a sigh. "I'm on my way," he tells her after a few seconds of what seems to be a tirade.

"So," Brad nods. He's not quite sure how to say goodbye. Should have stuck to hookers, that was much easier.

But then he wouldn't get this, the way Nate seems to melt into his body like he's familiar with it, like he knows a way to fit in perfectly after just a few short hours. His hair is still wet, his shirt sticking to his skin in few places, he smells of the hotel shampoo Brad used as well, one he'll be able to smell for the entire day.

"I really wish I had more time," Nate mutters against Brad's mouth, the words resonating on his lips. "But I'm pretty sure I actually wanted to go to this lunch, at some point."

"I figured it's important."

"Best script I ever got. Sandra thinks I shouldn't tell them that. Play hard to get and all."

"Not your style?"

Nate smiles, Brad can feel it more than he sees it. "I'm regretfully easy."

"Yeah," Brad agrees. It's a complete lie and nothing but the truth at the same time. Being around Nate, with Nate, seems like the most natural thing, yes, but those are the most difficult too. Those are the ones that end in disaster.

"How about the evening?" someone says and Brad realises it's him. He's well and truly fucked now.

"I was going to turn in early, got a morning flight. What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing," Brad says quickly. Nate tugs at his hand, his fingers wrapped around Brad's wrist in an easy hold, his thumb skiding over the sensitive skin on the inside of it. "It's... I couldn't make it anyway, I'm obligated to show at my idiot of a coworker's boyfriend's birthday dinner."

Nate watches him for a long moment, his lips parted, before he swipes his tongue across his lower lip and nods. "Not a thing to which you bring a date?" he says and it sounds like it's supposed to be a joke but it falls flat. Nate sounds like he wants this, like he actually fucking wants to go to Walt's birthday with Brad, have them be something more than this, then the hotel room and one night and cold pizza in the morning and quite probably the best sex of Brad's life, because yeah, it might have been.

"Are you going to bring a gift?" he asks and has to close his eyes, because Nate's smile is blinding.

"Can't I just sign the card on yours?"

"Sure, if you're that kind of a cheap asshole."

Nate's cellphone rings again and Nate jabs at it with his thumb, silences it. "Where and when?" he asks, words stumbling out in a hurry.

"Come by the shop around six?"

He hadn't thought it through. Ray's going to be there. Poke's going to be there. God help him, Gina Espera will be there and that can only end badly for Brad. Nate's kissing him even as they make their way towards the door and Brad doesn't fucking care about any of that.

He thinks better of the whole thing in the late afternoon and calls Nate to cancel, but the only thing that comes is a dry "Just thought I should mention, it's not a black tie affair."

"I'll send back the Zegna suit that just arrived," Nate shoots back, easily. He doesn't seem surprised Brad's calling him, he sounds as if they've been doing this for a long time, like answering the phone and engaging in some banter with Brad is something he expected, maybe waited for.

"And don't overdo on the gift. Don't know what passes for appropriate birthday gift among those who earn up of ten million dollars for a single job."

"Ten million?" Nate sounds like he's smiling. "You really think I'm that cheap?"

"I got a pathetic pizza and beer on the first date. You are beyond cheap."

"Then why would you worry I'd overdo on the gift?" Nate pauses for a moment, and then his voice is all serious and earnest, Brad can tell he's full of shit. "Does your friend have a ferrari yet?"

"You're not half as funny as you think you are."

"I know, it's my greatest regret. SNL never calls me back."

"I have a newfound respect for them. So, six o'clock, don't be late."

In fact, Nate's early, wearing jeans and a white shirt, collar undone and sleeves rolled up, carrying a brightly wrapped gift. He smells like shaving cream and toothpaste when he leans in and kisses Brad, quick and chaste but without any doubt to his intent.

"I've changed my mind," Brad mutters. "Fuck the party, how do you feel about going back to the hotel room?"

Nate nods. "Sure. But I thought you need to be at that party."

"I do need to be at that party," Brad agrees mournfully. His hand is still on Nate's arm, where he grasped it instinctively, his fingers digging gently into the material of his shirt. He leaves it there, reluctant to lose the connection.

Seems like Nate feels something like that too, as he reaches out, fingers comfortably resting on the nape of Brad's neck, pressing slightly. "And you want to go to the party," he points out softly.

"There's no need for such vicious accusations," he says with reproach, but it doesn't change the fact that Nate's right, that he figured that out about Brad already. "Hey," he adds when Nate steps back, smiling. "Just for the record, I'm deeply sorry for that bunch of retards. Well, the bunch of retards and Gina, but I'm even more sorry for her."

"Can't be that bad," Nate says and Brad snorts. Sure.

He's pretty sure Nate is rethinking the validity of this statement a mere twenty minutes later, when they're standing in front of Walt's door and Ray is grinning like a fucking crazy person. With Ray, it's not a stretch.

"Hey, fuckers, you all owe me money!" he yells, craning his head back. "They all thought I was full of shit," he explains to Nate mournfully. "Aspersions were casted and fucking hurtful words were said about my rumoured drag habits. They all should be ashamed of themselves."

"All I said was that you should lay off Ripped Fuel," Walt says, and then comes to a sudden halt in the corridor, almost dropping the dish he's holding, hands clad in over mitts. "Motherfucker," he mutters, then shakes his head. "I meant, hey."

Ray snorts. "Hey, I said the same thing," he says proudly.

"Walt, stop spending time with Ray. All my hopes of you being a good influence has already turned out to be for nothing, and instead he's rubbing off on you."

"Well, I'd fucking hope so," Ray nods, but Brad ignores him. It's the only thing, sometimes.

"This is Nate," he says instead. Nate smiles and offers a slight wave, looking, for all the world, actually fucking nervous. Brad is pretty sure someone who, as google assured him, has done signings at the fucking Comic Con of all places shouldn't get nervous about meeting a couple of strangers for dinner, but that doesn't seem to stop Nate from shuffling his fucking feet and stepping forward awkwardly.

"Nice to see you again, Ray. And I gather you're Walt? Happy birthday," he adds and hands over the gift, fingers skimming the bright ribbon.

"Yeah, thanks," Walt smiles and reaches to tug at Ray's sleeve, pulling him a step back so that Brad and Nate can get inside. "You didn't have to."

"Are you fucking kidding? If you don't like it, we can sell it on ebay and make a ton of money," Ray proposes in a scenic whisper. "Come on in, Nate," he adds louder, as if they couldn't hear the first part, stending two feet away. Brad sometimes doesn't know why he bothers.

"Again, I'm very sorry for everything," he tells Nate, only half joking, but Nate just smiles at him, his hand brushing Brad's as if by accident. But there can't be anything accidental about the way his thumb is placed right over the pulse point, a comforting pressure, however brief.

"Holy fuck," Gina says when they enter the living room and Brad snorts.

"At least there's some variation?" Nate offers under his breath, and he sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "Hi, I'm Nate," he tells her.

This is quite probably the only time Brad had seen Gina Espera speechless. It's something he'll cherish for years to come.

But the strangest thing is, the whole situation seems weird only for the first few minutes. Walt opens the gift, revealing a bottle of a decent whisky, and Nate comments that he thought it was one thing he could bet wouldn't go to waste. His hands are in his pockets and he's smiling slightly, and Gina looks ready to coo over him. Brad shoots her a look and she doesn't, but it's a near thing.

And then they get into a discussion on what's the best scotch they've ever had and Ray tells the old story about that one time in that liquor store... it's only mildly offensive, for Ray, and it makes Nate laugh, head bowed as his shoulders shake. "I can't even tell if you're for real or completely full of shit," he tells Ray.

"What's your guess?"

"Both," Nate shrugs and Ray beams at him, then nods at Brad, quick, like he's giving his approval. Not that Brad fucking needs it, because fuck no, but there it is. There's Nate fitting in at Walt's scratched table, getting into a discussion on some senator's idiocy with Poke, and dodging Gina's questions with well aimed smiles.

It's all maddeningly inconvenient.

"They fucking like you," Brad complains, when they're getting more beer from the kitchen. Well, Nate is, after having offered, Brad has just followed him in.

"I'm sorry? Was I supposed to be aiming for ambivalence, only mild approval, or open hatred?" Nate pushes three bottles into Brad's hands and bends down to get some more from the fridge. "You need to specify the mission objective beforehand, Brad."

"Ah, so that's why you fit in so well. You're a fucking asshole."

What he's thinking is: Nate's going to leave soon. It would be easier if Brad wasn't tempted with what he can't have, what isn't even in the fucking ballpark of what is possible and plausible.

His sister always accuses him of sabotaging himself in relationships and maybe that's exactly what he was going for. He needed to see that he and Nate are fucking worlds apart and that the few days were just an aberration and a pleasant distraction, nothing to overthink or get himself worked up over.

Nate wasn't supposed to be writing down Walt's fucking e-mail address. Wasn't supposed to like Brad's friends, shoot him amused looks over the table, or kick his foot lightly whenever Ray said something outrageous and, according to Nate, pretty damn hilarious.

"That's true, I am," Nate agrees readily. "But you pretty much knew that, so it can't be what's bothering you."

"Forget about it."

Nate looks at him for a longer moment and then nods, doesn't push. Brad's grateful and a little bit disappointed at the same time, and it's a fucking strange feeling.

Gina takes one look at them, her eyes narrowing when she contemplated Brad's expression, and then turns to Nate, draws him into a conversation on Prague and Warsaw and other European cities on his promotional tour last month. It gives Brad a moment to breathe, a moment to think.

He's not in love with Nate. He knows better and it's not as easy as that. But the possibility itself, the thought that the rather obvious attraction and the fondness and the appreciation for Nate's sense of humor and the way he seems to see through most of Brad's bullshit and still wants him... the thought that all of that could turn into love at some vague point, that's petrifying.

A part of Brad wants to get out and leave, get on his bike and drive until he runs out of gas, until it's just him and the night sky, everything else left behind.

Instead he waits until Nate announces he needs to be going, explains that he has an early flight and says proper goodbyes to everyone. Even Poke seems to be charmed, for fuck's sake, he pats Nate's back and tells him to not be a stranger. Brad rolls his eyes and waits on the steps outside for Nate to join him, their arms brushing when Nate steps in closer.

"That was fun," Nate offers and all thoughts of running away seem to fade into nothing, Nate's smile like an anchor keeping Brad in place.

"Of course you'd think so. No one told embarrassing stories about you."

"What dinner were you at? Because all I've heard were tales of your amazing exploits and superhuman feats. Scaling mountains with a broken leg and all that shit."

"Sprained ankle."

"Not the way Ray tells it," Nate says, shrugging. "But if you feel you've been treated unfairly, I can introduce you to one or both of my sisters. I'm assured they'll be more than glad to not only tell you all about my awkward phase in junior high but also share a frightening amount of baby pictures."

Nate's clearly aiming for levity, but his words resonate deep inside Brad, make his stomach twist with utter and unexpected want. It means he should cut his losses and get out now.

"How early is your early flight?"

"Five a.m." Nate checks his watch, head bowed and closer into Brad's space, enough so that Brad could lean in just an inch and kiss his forehead. "Which means in four hours. I should..."

"I'll walk you to your hotel," Brad says quickly. He should call for the cab instead, there's no use postponing the inevitable, but Nate agrees readily, his hand twitching like he wants to slip it into Brad's. He doesn't, thankfully, because Brad would be forced to first mock him for being a fucking teenage girl and then admit he doesn't want to let go.

They don't talk much on the way, and it's surprisingly easy to be silent with Nate, no awkwardness stretching between them, no tension apart from the low buzz of regret in Brad's chest, regret that the hotel is so close, that the moment can't last forever.

They're just turning into the right street when Brad gives in and stops in his tracks. It takes Nate maybe half a second to realise and turn, quicker than Brad expected. His eyebrows rise in a question Brad doesn't let him voice, he just covers Nate's mouth with his own, swallows the words forming there.

If there needs to be a goodbye, it's on his own terms, with Nate easily pulling him in, licking at Brad's mouth like he too can't get enough.

"You have a piece of paper?" Nate asks when he finally pulls back, breathless. He licks his lips, dark pink and raw now, and pats his pockets. "I only have a pen."

"Of course you have a pen," Brad shakes his head. "No, I'm all out of random pieces of paper I carry," he adds dryly and Nate shoots him a look then pulls at his hand, twisting it so he can write on it, starting from Brad's wrist and towards his elbow, the first digit curling right over Brad's quickly speeding pulse.

"You have my cell, right? This is the home number for the LA. Just..." he starts and caps the pen, the words coming to a stop in tune with the barely audible click. "I don't know when I'll have time to get back in here. I'm pretty sure the schedule Sandra has me booked on for the next week will require someone inventing a teleport pretty damn fast."

Brad pushes down on the surge of hope rising in his throat, warm and liquid. He swallows the words forming in his tongue, they'd lead him nowhere. "I'm sure Sandra has someone working on it," he says instead.

"Highly probable," Nate agrees, reaching to drag his fingers along Brad's jawline, have them rest on the nape of Brad's neck, curled comfortably, his thumb lightly, almost absently, caressing the skin right under the shell of Brad's ear. "Thanks," he says.

"Nathaniel Fick, so fucking polite."

"What would you have me say, then?"

"You're right, inane phrases are the way to go. It's been a pleasure to meet you," he says formally, schooling his expression down, only the corner of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a grin.

"A pleasure, eh?" Nate drawls, overdone and theatric, and then smiles earnestly, leaning in, his forehead to Brad's chin, his hair tickling Brad's mouth. "Yeah, okay," he says, the whisper something like a caress over Brad's skin. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Brad Colbert," he adds and it sounds much better when he says it, it sounds like a confession and a secret. "Hope to see you soon."

"Likewise," Brad nods and steps back. He needs to be first to walk away or he'll fucking follow Nate to the hotel and they don't need this. "I'll see you."

He's not even lying, probably. With the way Nate career is going, he'll keep on seeing him, if only on the screen, even when Nate forgets all about him, about this, about those few days.

He nods and turns and walks away.

"Your boyfriend left already?" Ray asks him the next day and laughs when Brad tells him to fuck off. "Apparently so. Don't worry, he'll be back. I mean, the man took one look at the Iceman dick and decided he'd rather spend time having dinner with us and not partying it up with Natalie Portman. Not that we're not fucking awesome but fuck, Natalie Portman."

It takes Brad half an hour of this before he snaps and walks out, tells Ray to mind the shop and goes to get his bike. Sometimes it's the only thing that works, that gets his mind off everything. It doesn't help much now.

His days turns for worse when Jess calls, like she does, asking how he's doing. He's never quite sure what she wants to hear, if she needs him to help her get over the guilt and say he's doing fine, or does she secretly wishes he'd say he feels like crap, that he still wants her.

He doesn't, not really. He wants what they had, a little, but he doesn't even know Jess anymore, not the person she's now, not the woman she became.

His thumb presses on the buttons of his cellphone after he disconnects, scrolling all the way down to N, but he can't bring himself to call.

There are really only two possible outcomes, and he's not in a hurry for either.

Nate could be distant and surprised that Brad took the whole thing for something more than a pleasant distraction, a few days' worth of escape. All it was, and he'd be sorry that Brad confused it with something more.

Or maybe he would be happy that Brad called, maybe the brilliant smile would be audible in his voice. Maybe he'd want this as much as Brad's slowly admitting that yeah, he does.

But even if that was the case, it couldn't last. Brad's life is in this town and maybe Nate could visit once or twice, but never for long, never to stay. Brad's damn tired of people who can't be bothered to stay.

He turns the cellphone off and pockets it, the plastic clinking against something in his pocket. The ring, still there. He almost forgot about the fucking thing.

He throws it away. It's a grand fucking gesture that doesn't suit him at all, but it's better than second guessing himself for the next week, the next month. It bounces against the road and rolls away, maybe someone'll find it and have a better luck with it. He's half tempted to throw his cellphone away, too, but there's fucking melodrama and there's just impracticality, he runs a business and most people use that number and not the landline.

And getting it replaced would be a bitch.

"I'm not your fucking secretary," Ray tells him. "I might be occasionally persuaded into making you coffee, but that's just because it's easier to make the whole pot when I'm making it for myself, and besides, the coffee you make for yourself is a travesty and a tragedy and I pity anyone who drinks it."

"Was there a point you wanted to make?"

"Yeah. Turn your fucking cellphone on, because I'm not taking your messages. Your sister called, something about your niece's birthday. There were three frantic calls from Landon about the latest shipment but I'm awesome and I've dealt with that. And your boyfriend called because he missed you terribly," he adds in the sing-song that usually means he's full of shit.

Brad briefly contemplates asking if Ray's actually for serious, but that would just add fuel to the fire, making sure that Ray has the mocking repertoire for weeks on end. No, thanks.

"I don't suppose you wrote any of the fucking messages down?"

"You didn't get any of the part where I'm not your fucking secretary? Jeez, Brad, how long does the brain damage caused by being fucked by Nate Fick last?"

Sadly, not long enough. Maybe then he'd be able to at least tolerate Ray's mummblings as a background noise.

He turns the cellphone on. There are indeed three calls from his sister, seven from Landon, and three from unknown number or numbers. He hesitates for a moment before calling his sister back and listening to her panicked diatribe on agreeing to invite seventeen eight-year-olds to the party. He gets roped into putting in an appearance, of course, because Hannah rivals their mother in guilting Brad into doing things he'd rather neuter himself with his own K-bar than do.

At least it distracts him from obsessing over the other calls. Not that he is obsessing, despite current evidence to the contrary, he's not a fourteen year old girl with a crush.

The evidence is circumstantial anyway.

Of course, the world insists on making everything difficult for Brad Colbert, and when he settles on his couch with a beer and leftover Chinese, there's nothing decent on tv except for a fucking Nate Fick movie on the fucking HBO. Brad's half-tempted to call and cancel his cable.

Instead, he closes his hand around his cock and tries not to feel like a complete delusional asshole.

He comes all over himself well into the second half of the movie, when Nate, or rather the character he's playing, is delivering the closing statement in the trial, his face earnest and open.

Brad realises he might have a bigger problem than he thought.

The clock on the dvd player blinks at him, red and annoying, announcing it's three a.m. Probably too late, or too early, to be calling anyone, but Brad's listening to the dial tone before he thinks better of it.

He has just fucking jacked off to a courtroom drama. His brain is clearly not functioning at its top capacity. It feels a little like being drunk, except not even slightly entertaining.

"Nate Fick's cellphone," a girl says, picking up, and if Brad was indeed drunk, this would have sobered him up quick.

"Sandra?" he tries and the girl laughs.

"Nope. Do I sound like her?" she asks cheerfully and doesn't give Brad time to answer. "If you wait a minute I'll go get Nate. Can I tell him who's calling?"

"Don't bother. I... It was a bad idea," he disconnects on her "wait" and stares at the phone until it rings, uncommonly loud to his ears. Nate tries three times until he gives up, and Brad's fingers itch to answer it, to maybe hear an explanation that wouldn't mean he's already lost what... what wasn't his to have in the first place.

He doesn't sleep well, wakes up after three hours and goes for a run, run until he's tired. It takes a long fucking time for Brad to get tired.

"Why is Nate calling me and asking if something happened to you?" Walt asks him first thing Brad comes into the shop. Ray's in the back, his voice audible but words undistinguishable, which is probably for the better. Walt's behind the counter, reading a newspaper, sipping from one of the three coffee cups he must have brought in.

"No idea. Why is Nate even calling you?" Brad shoots back and reaches for one of the cups, takes off the lid and downs half of it in one go.

"Maybe because I'm the one picking up."

It's almost impossible to get annoyed with Walt, but Brad gives it a good try anyway. "None of your fucking business."

Walt gives him a look, one that says he has a few good responses to that but isn't going to go for the cheap shots. "I'll tell him you're fine in body but clearly fucked in the head, shall I?"

Brad shrugs, meaning 'do whatever the fuck you want.'

Nate calls twice during the day and then stops. Brad feels the loss deep in his gut, checks his cellphone like an idiot and calls it from the landline to see if it's working. He knows he should have just picked up in the first place, or he should just call back now, but torturing himself is so much more fun apparently.

"He's in New York," Walt informs him, even though Brad hadn't asked and doesn't really care, except that the idea that Nate might simply be too busy to call is comforting. "They're doing some on location shooting."

"Hey, is setting up google alerts less or more creepy now that we've met the guy?" Ray asks like he's actually interested in the answer.

"Less, I think," Walt shrugs. "Or maybe more. Fuck, I don't know, who's the expert in online stalking here?"

"That would be the Iceman over there."

"Have you been dropping acid again? A bit of good advice, get back to Ripped Fuel, Ray, it still made everyone around want to kill you, but at least your braincells weren't disappearing fast enough to do the job for them."

"A bit of good advice, Brad, clean your internet history."

Ray's talking out of his ass, but the mere fact that he's not that far off - Brad has contemplated more than one internet search - is actually really sad, bordering on pathetic.

On the plus side, he's not the one setting the alerts, so there's that.

New York or not, Nate stops calling after that. Brad spends the Saturday at his niece's birthday party, organising water balloon fights and hide-and-seek games and he goes hiking on Sunday, with a couple of guys from his old platoon who happen to have leave.

On Monday he's prepared to accept that the few days with Nate were just a pleasant distraction, a brief interlude in reality, something to look back on and not regret.

Except that he feels hollow in his chest when he forgets to tell himself it's supposed to be a pleasant memory. That a guy on the street who looks just a little like Nate, same heigth and posture, same haircut, makes Brad not only do a double take but hold his breath, for long enough he's not sure he can ever exhale again.

On Wednesday, once he's pretty sure the whole thing is really over, he gets a phone call from Sandra. It's unexpected to say the least, and he doesn't see it coming at all, especially since she sneakily calls the shop and not his cellphone.

"What exactly is your damage, Colbert?" she asks in lieu of a greeting, and Brad certainly could appreciate the frankness and the whole getting-to-the-point thing, except he doesn't think he likes her that much.

"Who's calling, exactly?" he asks, even though he recognises her voice. But fuck it.

"Sandra Dewitt. We've met," she says and sighs. "Do me a favour and don't play dumb."

"I'm not playing at anything. Maybe I really am dumb?" he says dryly and gets a low snort in response.

"I'd be really disappointed in the Recon Marines, if that was the case. Don't burst my bubble," she offers. What she means is: checked you out and you don't impress me at all. "Now, care to tell me why Nate is on my case to clear his schedule for the upcoming week? It took me a long while to work out all the arrangements so there better be a good reason."

It's not what he expected. "No idea what you're talking about."

"Really?" She doesn't sound like she believes him. Brad's not sure he believes himself, so that's probaby fair. "And you're also going to tell me you don't have the slightest idea why Nate is moping around and looking like someone run over his fucking puppy?"

"I thought knowing things about him was in your job description?" he says tersely. "Look, I've just met the guy. It's been..." he starts, but it sounds just like the big fucking lie it is so he abandons it mid-sentence. He doesn't think Sandra takes kindly to bullshit and he doesn't have the time or patience to deal with her. "What do you want from me?"

"Clear rules. You break it, you buy it, Colbert. Or in this case, you broke him, you fix him. Or call him and tell him it's over, whatever the fuck it was," she says and sighs. "Ya know, with other stars all you have to do is prepare contingency plans for dead hookers and sex tapes. But with Nate Fick I worry he's getting his heart broken and shit. I don't even know," she mutters.

He doesn't either. "It wouldn't work anyway." It's not at all what he wanted to say, but he spills out of his mouth, unbidden, and he can't take it back. Sandra makes a low noise, something between a sigh and a groan, like she gets it, like she can sympathise.

"Not if you run away first," she points out. "Well, I'm clearing his schedule like he wanted. Just a heads up," she tells him, the irritation all gone from her voice, weariness bleeding in instead. "Try not to... yeah, nevermind."

She disconnects and Brad's left with a warm phone in his hand and a feeling he can't allow to turn into hope. She's guessing, or reaching, Nate's behaviour might not even have anything to do with him, it can all be about the girl on the phone, or maybe an appointment with his psychic or whatever bullshit craze is sweeping the tinsel fucking town now.

It would be better for everyone involved if it had nothing to do with Brad.

It would be better if he didn't have the sinking feeling twisting in his stomach, like he's losing his balance, the ground moving under him.

It would be much better it he wasn't pretty fucking sure he's been falling in love with Nate fucking Fick when he wasn't looking and it's all so fucking typical.

Just, fuck.

And then, two days after Sandra's phonecall, just as Brad is making progress in convincing himself she was full of shit and Nate's weird behavior could indeed be explained in a myriad different reasons, none of them concerning Brad, Nate shows up in the shop.

Ray's out on his break, the little shit has a really dicksuck timing, and Brad doesn't even get a moment to gather his thoughts, a moment that would surely be provided by Ray's inane ramblings and Brad telling him to shut the fuck up. It would ensure he got his voice back.

"Ah, so you're still here and not at all abducted by the aliens," Nate says, a slight artificial note in his voice, like the levity has been rehearsed, like he went through the lines and decided on this one before going through a few versions of the conversation stemming from it.

"What?"

"Couldn't get through to you. It was my working theory."

"Worked long on it?"

"Half of my flight here," Nate says and steps further in, his head bowed. "The other half I've been trying to determine whether I would be able to convince the pilot to turn the plane around."

"You didn't have to come," he stops when Nate looks up then, his gaze pinning Brad down, on the verge of angry, or pleading, or, fuck, a thousand other things.

"Well, I wouldn't have to, if you picked up your fucking phone." He sounds tired as he steps even closer, and Brad doesn't think he has a choice here, his hands are instinctively reaching out, fingers tangled in Nate's shirt as he pulls him in.

It's not supposed to feel like that, to be so easy. Nate isn't supposed to relax against him, whatever anger brought him here melting away in an instant. "I wasn't sure you wanted me to..."

"Why would I even call if I didn't want to talk to you?" Nate shakes his head, his hair tickling Brad's nose. Brad's lips move without forming words, or at least not ones he voices out loud. He can feel the contour of the sentence against Nate's forehead, wonders if Nate can feel it too. "Sandra was right, wasn't she? You're going to be trouble."

"I fucking hate Sandra."

"That's alright, she hates you right back," Nate smiles a little, pulls back anough to look at Brad. "Am I- Should I have tried to turn the plane around?"

"No," Brad says, too fast, or maybe just fast enough, before he has the chance to fuck this up. "Although it would certainly be interesting to see if you could manage that."

"Some other time," Nate shrugs. "You know, you've chosen a fucking weird time to play hard to get. After we fucked on the first date and you introduced me to your friends on the second one."

"What can I say, I like to keep people guessing."

"A little bit too much."

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly, because he's not blind, he can see the soft and tired look on Nate's face, the bags under his eyes. He hates the thought he could be even partially responsible for that, but the way Nate still clings to him, his fingers digging into Brad's forearm, it tells him Sandra wasn't kidding, that the whole week was hard on Nate. "I'm sorry," he repeats against Nate's lips, his voice dropping to whisper, to something like a prayer.

"You better be," Nate nods before kissing Brad lightly, just a brush of his mouth, like he's allowing himself only the slightest touch in fear that anything more would be too much, like he's scared he might not get to keep it. "I cancelled my appearance on the Daily Show for you."

It startles a laugh out of Brad and Nate uses the moment to lick into Brad's mouth, pull him close for a proper kiss, open-mouthed and messy, almost impatient, like they're teenagers making out for the first time, breathless with the strangeness of the sensation.

"No wonder Sandra wants my head on a platter," he mutters, once they pull back, breathing harshly, Brad's honed ability to hold his breath for more than four minutes apparently useless around Nate fucking Fick, whose mere presense sets his blood on fire.

"Sandra can't have any part of you," Nate shoots back and startles at his own words, his gaze flickering to Brad's, uncertain and questioning, like he said too much and too soon.

Brad's not sure how to say that Nate has every right to whatever part of Brad he wants, if he wants them. If he wants Brad. "No, she can't," he agrees.

"Okay," Nate nods, and Brad thinks that maybe he understands. His fingers curl at the nape of Brad's neck, light pressure guiding him closer.

"So I've heard you might have some free time," Brad mutters, his hand on Nate's hip, almost possessive, because maybe he has a right to it.

"Depends what you're asking," Nate shrugs, his voice deceptively light, unlike his gaze. He looks at Brad like he's willing him to understand. "I'm in town for the next four days, then I have to get back. But I hoped you could visit next week."

"Holy fuck, Fick's back," Ray announces from the doorway. "Gotta call Walt, he was really worried about you kids. Like a motherfucking yenta. We were gonna stage an intervention sometime next week, Gina promised to bake cookies."

"Hey, Ray," Nate nods at him pleasantly and doesn't move an inch, if anything, he's pressed even closer against Brad now, like he doesn't care at all that Ray's there.

"Yeah, good to see you, man," Ray nods magnanimously and turns the sign on the door to 'closed'. "So, we're closing for your dry-humping because seriously, we need more exposure but not this kind," he shakes his head. "Fuck, I never thought the Iceman would meet someone more stubborn than he is. This shit is brilliant."

Nate's shoulders are shaking slightly, like he's holding back laughter. "I'm seriously going to introduce him to Sandra."

"You have a death wish?" Brad asks incredulously and really enjoys the sound of Nate's laughter. He can feel it under his palm, when he craddles Nate's skull, the soft tremor, absolutely perfect.

Nate's making plans for them, however insane and bound to cause Brad an endless headache. Brad forgets why this was a bad idea, why it can't last. Nate's here.

"I'm not sure I'm gonna like whatever you're thinking about now," Nate mutters, his thumb skimming across Brad's brow.

"I'm just not sure it's a good idea."

"On the contrary, I think Sandra and Ray would cancel each other out. Or possibly kill each other," he says and nods at Brad's look. "I know it's not what you meant. And I think you're full of shit. I was afraid you might not want this to be anything more than what it was..."

"Never that," Brad shakes his head without second thought. He can't imagine not wanting Nate. That's not the issue.

"Then nothing else fucking matters. I can't- I can't promise you forever, but I want it anyway."

Brad tries for a smile, even if it comes out broken on the edges. "That's fine." More than he thought he'd get.

Nate sighs and leans in, his lips against the skin of Brad's neck, warm and slick. "I won't make you promises I can't be sure I'd get to keep. But I just went through a week without you and I never want to do that again. Alright?"

He breathes out, something unfurling in his chest, the hollow feeling disappearing, as if Nate's warmth is seeping through his skin and filling him up, liquid and amazing. "Alright."

Nate nods, his smile shifting into something that looks just like happiness. Brad thinks he could get drunk on that one. "Since your shop is conveniently closed up for the day, your place or my hotel?"

"My place is a mess and you probably have a fucking penthouse."

"Are you lying about the mess?" Nate asks suspiciously and Brad shrugs.

"Penthouse," he points out.

"Good point. So, not a tactic to keep me at arms' lenght?"

Brad shrugs. "You can fucking move in tomorrow, if you like." He's joking, but the answering look, humor mixed with want, on Nate's face, makes his breath hitch. Fuck, maybe he could get that, get Nate, for real. To keep.

"We'll figure it out later," Nate mutters, tugging at Brad's hand.

There's more than the usual crowd in front of the hotel and Nate stills in his steps for a brief moment, his head tilted in consideration. "I hoped it would take them a little longer to catch up," he mutters. "I did blow off a few scheduled appointments. It draws attention."

"Tell me, do you take Russell Crowe's or Britney Spears' approach?" Brad asks lightly. His skin itches, he's not sure why.

"Neither. I just smile," Nate reaches out and takes his hand, fingers lacing together. Brad's skin stops to itch. "You want to go back to your place?"

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks, trying to keep the surge of fear from his voice.

"Of course not. But it's not something anyone's prepared for, and I thought we'd have more time before, well. I thought I could schedule an interview with Ellen and come out nice and proper on a comfy couch."

"I can make do."

It was the right choice, Brad thinks, judging from the way Nate's smile is bright and clear and almost blinding. "I'll make sure it's better than making do."

"And you don't make promises you can't keep?" Brad mutters right before they cross the street, before someone notices them.

"That too."