There is little that Agent Mike Wynn takes more seriously than the
life of Vice President Nate Fick. When the number of death threats
starts to climb, he calls in the one person he's sure he can trust,
USMC Sgt. Brad Colbert, and assigns him the 24/7 task of being the
Vice President's shadow.

Notes

See the end of the work for

notes

"There's some folks that'll be pissed that I called you in on this, like it's
favoritism and all that shit. As far as I'm concerned, they can fuck off.
There's nobody else I'd think to ask. I talked it over with Person, and yours
was the only name he brought up as well."

Seated across the desk from Mike Wynn, in a suit he hasn't worn in years,
Brad lets one side of his mouth turn up slightly. "You ended up with Ray
after all, huh? And forget about all that other shit; I think my CO was looking
to get me out of Pendleton for a while anyway. Afraid I was going to go stir-
crazy with no war on. So thanks, Gunny."

"You, go crazy," Wynn snorts. He leans forward; his expression sobers and
his voice turns serious. "There have been a number of serious threats made
against the Vice President's life in the last six weeks, starting in late July,"
he says. "This past week, it has become apparent that the threat could
potentially be working inside the Senate or the White House. References
have been made to things that no one outside those places should know. It's
definitely not some extremist in a log cabin somewhere."

He gestures at a collection of scribbled notes, all in protective plastic
sleeves, pinned up on a bulletin board that covers an entire wall of his
second-floor office. "Now, my agents - even Person - are somewhat bound by
shift hours, rotations, things like that. I can't assign a single one of them to
be with the Vice President constantly, as much as these threats concern the
Agency. And if it's someone on the inside, as fucked up as that would be, I
don't want someone who could potentially be my perp getting that close to
the VP. My biggest fear is that we've got a leak, somewhere. So that's where
you come in. I need you to be his shadow, Brad."

"Roger that."

"Active-duty Corps doesn't care about pesky things like forty hours a week
when it comes to shit like this," Wynn says, with a half-smile, half-grimace.
"But it won't be a hundred percent, not unless something goes bad. My
night team is the best I could get, so you can sleep in your own hotel bed, at
least for now."

"I'm ready for anything."

Wynn scrawls his name on a couple forms and slides them into a faded,
fraying inter-office envelope. "All set. I think you'll like Fick."

Brad knows how he means it – the man, not the politician.

Wynn tosses the envelope at him, then tilts his head just a few degrees to
the right. "You'll know one or two of the boys, I reckon. I pulled a few strings
to get who I wanted." He pauses briefly. "Think it's strange so many military
folks ended up doing this?"

Brad shakes his head. He's just here on loan, but he could probably come up
with something if he thought about it long enough. Now's not the time.
Somewhere there's a common thread; he's just not going to hunt for it. "Nah,
Mike, we just like getting shot at."

Wynn laughs and holds out his hand for Brad to shake, a formality that had
long passed them by, left back on the highways of Iraq but somehow fitting
here, right now. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Welcome to the Secret
Service, Sergeant Colbert."

Nathaniel Fick, Vice President, is even better-looking in person. Until now,
Brad had only seen him in pictures and on the news: grainy video from his
Marine days (strangely enough, most from a one-day humanitarian mission
in East Timor), footage from his Senate campaign, various impassioned
speeches. Brad spends the weekend before he has to officially report to the
White House learning the names and faces of all the staff members – and
seeking out everything he can find on Fick. He learns all the things he'd
ignored during the campaign, like how Fick has a pretty blonde fiancée who
had decided to postpone their wedding until his term ended. That strikes
Brad as odd, how the VP and his fiancée hadn't gotten around to getting
married yet, but as far as Brad can tell, Fick had finished his military service
and gone straight into politics without so much as a breath.

Monday morning, his first impression is that Fick carries himself like a
Marine officer, and that's a definite plus in Brad's book. Body language is
important. Fick looks him straight in the eyes and his handshake is firm and
dry, none of that macho crushing shit that Brad knows some soldiers are
prone to, and Brad says crisply, "Mr. Vice President."

"Good to meet you, Brad. You should know Mike's done nothing but regale
me with stories of the Iceman since he knew he could get you."

Brad brings his hands to his sides. "Gunny's a liar, sir. Any tales he tells you
about me are surely pale and lackluster imitations of what actually
happened."

The corner of Fick's mouth quirks slightly as Wynn coughs nearby.

"I'm here to work, sir," Brad continues. "Agent Wynn has promised me the
security tour and a round of introductions of some sort, and I should
probably get to it."

"I'll bring him back shortly, Mr. Vice President," Wynn says, "although you
might be sick of him already. I know I am. Let's go, Colbert."

Fick has already been called away by the President's secretary – Lilley – and
Brad follows Wynn from the office.

For the most part, it's all a series of routines, and there is little that Brad
loves more. The town car picks him up at the hotel every morning at 0500,
with Person or Espera in the front next to the driver, who is usually a Marine
Corporal. Another car with two more agents always follows behind. They
reach Observatory Circle between 0520 and 0535, and relieve the night
guards. The Vice President is most often awake, sitting at a table in the sun
porch in PT gear with a cup of coffee, ignoring the toaster set up on the
buffet. He takes his coffee black. He doesn't sleep in even on the rare
occasions he has the opportunity. His fiancée is rarely there.

"So you turned down the personal chef, sir?" Brad asks one morning, as he
pops up the toast before it can burn. "And who the hell decided to put the
kitchen in the basement?"

"Seriously, you can call me Nate inside the house," Fick replies. He looks up
from the day's agenda and frowns. "Are you buttering my toast?"

Brad finds a napkin and hands Nate the slice of toast. "You're reading. It
would have burned. And I'm a Marine, not a firefighter."

Nate chuckles. "To answer your questions: no, I don't know who decided to
put the kitchen in the basement, and yes, I turned down the chef. Do you
know how many meals I actually eat here? It's not many."

"Breakfast nearly every day, if I make it, and occasionally you pretend a bowl
of cereal is dinner," Brad says.

Fick – Nate, he amends, at least in his head – blinks at him. Brad raises an

eyebrow, as if to remind him that knowing details is what he gets paid to do.
Nate picks up the toast and takes a bite. After a moment of chewing, he
says, "You can have a cup of coffee, you know. Or take some out to Ray."

Brad finds a mug, allows himself a half-cup, then takes the coffee pot out to
Ray and refills his travel mug. When he returns to shut off the machine, Nate
has finished his toast and is checking the laces on his running shoes. "Ray
says thanks, sir." Ray had said more than that, mostly about a barista ex-
girlfriend and the liberal fucking lattes she used to make, but Brad wasn't
about to repeat it.

"Make sure you do that every morning from now on," Nate replies. He
glances at Brad's feet. "You get new go-fasters?"

"I did. Mileage on the old Nikes was getting the fuck up there."

They run every morning, six miles round trip. Brad is always to Nate's left,
Ray a few steps behind them, and with the extra car following. It's quiet this
early. The sidewalk is mostly empty, a few other joggers here and there.
After a few weeks, Brad knows just about everyone's face, because of course
the same people run the same route every day, and they consistently pass
the same people going to work at the Observatory. Brad's not worried about
them; they're just trying to go to work like any other person. He's more
worried about the guy who might jog parallel to them across the street,
though, or someone lingering on a corner before a business even opens.

If he was Nate, he would worry about those things too, but Nate just runs,
and leaves Brad and Ray to keep an eye out for the misfits, since they're
armed. Jogging with two guns doesn't bother Brad in the slightest. It's still
better than running in a MOPP suit with an M-16 banging into his side and a
gas mask on his face.

He meets with Wynn again one morning, two weeks after starting. Fick is at
the White House, one of the safest places he can be. Brad had felt an odd
twinge at leaving him with Ray, despite knowing Ray, and knowing he was
good at his job. He'd then shoved the twinge aside, refusing to think on it.

There's a television on in the corner playing CNN. The top international
news for the last week has been Iran's refusal, yet again, to allow inspectors
in to check on their nuclear program. There's a clip of Ahmadinejad, still in
power, his hair gone completely gray and his face a mask of calm as he
argues with a British reporter about the jurisdiction of the UN.

"Fucking mess, isn't it?" Wynn asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the
television.

"Absolute shitstorm," Brad agrees.

"Ahmadinejad's grip on the country is tenuous at best right now. And if
there's an invasion I'm not sure I'd be allowed to keep you around."

More than three decades in and out of the Middle East, Brad's sure that the
various conflicts will continue long after he's dead and gone. "Surely you
didn't call me in here to talk about the theoretical liberation of Iran, Gunny,"
he says.

Wynn moves right to the point. "How's everything going with the Vice
President?"

"We get along."

"Glad to hear it. Anything standing out to you as strange, so far?"

Brad shakes his head. "There's nothing on my end. Something you're not
telling me?"

"Truth be told, it's the same old, same old right now. Our foe hasn't surfaced
yet this week, a fact that concerns me more than if another letter had
arrived."

Brad understands this for what it is: keep an even closer eye on Nate.
"Roger that."

There are long stretches during the day that Brad spends standing at
attention outside of various meeting rooms in various buildings on Capitol
Hill. He and Ray call it fire watch, joking under their breath when they trade
off positions. Right away, Brad gets used to picking out the VP's voice from
the dozen or so others also in the room, following the lifts and lulls, the
measured replies, the sharp rebuttals. He's never cared much for politics, at
least, not the way he's seen it played. Now he finds himself paying attention.
Quickly, he realizes that Ferrando's administration runs much like Recon –
the President sends Fick out to gather information, then has him report
back. Brad appreciates that approach.

The Senate's not in session yet. Brad feels almost - almost - lazy as he trails
Fick around Washington, drinking fancy expensive coffee out of cardboard
cups. "You really like this stuff, sir?" he asks, as he hands the Vice President
his coffee through the open door.

"It's black coffee, Brad," Nate says dryly. "You should know, you got it for
me."

Brad gives him a half-smile and checks his sectors before he slides back into
the car. "You don't like the beverage service at the White House?"

"I like making you run in to Starbucks to pick up my coffee more."

Brad knows for a fact that the White House only serves Jamaican Blue
Mountain, so he simply narrows his eyes at Nate over the lid of his cup,
blowing on the hot liquid through the small hole. "What's on the agenda this
evening?" he asks after it's cooled enough that he can take a few sips.

"Iranian nuclear policy."

"With Godfather?"

Nate nods and tries to hide a yawn with his cup. No wonder he'd wanted to
stop.

"You know, I think you are the most well-informed Vice President in history,

sir," Brad says.

"Godfather doesn't believe in secrets. Not about the Middle East. Not when
it's someplace I've been." Nate reaches up to adjust his tie. It's blue with a
diamond pattern today, an excellent tie on him. "You know we could have
served together?"

"Yes." Brad can imagine Nate sweating alongside him in a stinking MOPP
suit, woodland camo when they should have had desert, driving across Iraq
in a tin-plated Humvee with twenty other guys amped on Ripped Fuel. "I'd
say we did, sir, just a few companies apart."

Nate gives him a look as if to say that's acceptable, Sergeant, and the car
slows to a stop. Inside the White House, Nate hands Brad his paper cup. "I
should probably switch to the Blue Mountain now," he murmurs, and Brad
keeps a straight face until Nate's gone into the Oval Office and the door's
been shut.

Then he shakes his head, grinning. "Mr. Lilley, you got a trash can around
here?"

"This White House recycles, Sgt. Colbert; there's a sink down the hall there
to your left." Lilley points.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm in a sitcom," Brad murmurs to Ray.

"No sitcom could ever get this right, homes, you gotta be in it to know it,"
Ray replies, and follows him down the hall. Brad empties the cooling coffee
into the sink, and drops the cups into the appropriately labeled bin. This
White House recycles. Jesus.

He turns to Ray, who is checking out the box of doughnuts that had been set
on the counter. "Those are probably old," he says.

Ray shrugs and picks one up, squeezing it a little. "Nah, still okay."

Brad rolls his eyes. "So just how did you end up here?"

Ray looks at the bottom of his chosen doughnut like he's afraid it's going to
give up and give out, and drip red jelly all over his suit. "Went to college
after I got out of the Corps, man. Then I was a cop for a few years, real Law
and Order shit."

"So you wrote innocent people speeding tickets."

"C'mon, Brad, only to the ones who deserved it. I left the little old ladies
alone. Quit giving me shit just because you got a problem with the law,
dude." But Ray's grinning, and Brad elbows him in the side. "Then I got
recruited by this outfit, can you believe it?"

"No, I can't," Brad deadpans, even though he's sure he knows what they saw
in Ray.

Ray snorts and takes a huge bite of the doughnut. "Fuckin' missed you too,
Sergeant." Jelly drips down onto his shoe. "Aw, hell."

"That's fucking disgusting. Hurry up and eat, you cretin." Brad's not entirely
sure how long Nate's meeting will last, and it wouldn't look right for Ray to
have powdered sugar on his jacket, ex-cop or not.

Three hours later, Nate comes out of the Oval Office with a dark look on his
face and a stack of folders under one arm. In the car, he says nothing. Brad
doesn't attempt to engage him in conversation. Inside the residence, Nate
drops the files on a table and shrugs out of his suit jacket, then loosens his
tie with a single harsh pull.

"Brad, with me," he says, not looking back as he strides into the study.

"Sir."

Nate gestures for him to shut the door, which Brad does, then waves a hand
towards the chair. Brad continues to stand. Nate shrugs and sits down
behind the desk, opening a drawer and taking out a bottle of scotch and two
glasses. He pours one. "You're one of us," he says.

"What's your feeling on this Tehran thing?"

"I'm just a grunt, sir," Brad tells him. He only knows what's been on the
news, and the snippets of conversation he picks up here and there, and he's
sure there's more to it that even his ridiculously high security clearance isn't
high enough to know.

Nate pins him with a look.

"I'm just a grunt, Nate, " Brad amends.

"Don't play like I'm stupid. I read your file. The classified one." Nate's right
eyebrow goes up, just a bit. "Don't ever run for public office, Brad, you've
been naughty."

"Were you planning on punishing me, sir?" Shit. Flirting with the VP was not
on Brad's to-do list for today. Even if the way Nate's mouth twitches is
rewarding. Not quite rewarding enough to make up for getting sent back to
Pendleton, though. He sort of likes it here. He sort of likes Nate.

Brad clears his throat, intending to apologize, but Nate holds up a hand.
"Tehran?" he prompts.

"Not going to back down in my lifetime, or yours. And definitely not in
Ahmadinejad's."

"Tell me something I don't know."

There isn't really anything Brad can say that Nate doesn't already know, but
Nate is still looking at him expectantly. "Fundamental differences," Brad
says finally. "Any international studies major could tell you that. He says one
thing and does another. Remember when he told TIME Magazine that the
time for bombs has come to an end? And then he went right back to his
nuclear activities? Short of sending in a black ops team to dispatch him to
the great beyond, you're fucked."

"I don't think Godfather's ruled that out."

Brad huffs a laugh. "I love that everyone calls him that, not just the
protection detail."

"Catchy, isn't it?" Nate's smile is nothing short of disarming. "Did you want a
drink?"

"I'm on duty."

"You're not, because I say you're not. Rudy's in the kitchen, has been since I
dragged you in here. This is purely a social visit, now."

Social visits with Nate aren't on Brad's to-do list, either. "In that case, Nate, I
should go back to my hotel and get some sleep," he says, as plain as
possible, "seeing as Christopher will be around to pick me up at 0430 before
we come collect you for the airport."

"Brad-"

Brad shakes his head, stopping whatever Nate had been about to say. "I'll
see you in the morning."

"Brad." Nate pushes the second glass across the desk. "I know you have a
bag already packed in the car. And I have a second bedroom, and a third
bedroom."

He sits down and takes the glass. "They're going to talk about why I didn't
go home."

Nate shrugs. "So we'll say there's been a change in the ROE. And
furthermore: they're not going to talk about it at all. You know why?
Because I'm the Vice President of the United States, and they'll be so fucked
if they say anything that it will be years before they get un-fucked. No one
ever wants to sit down, have a quiet drink and play a game of chess with me
without having it be a goddamn meeting at the same time. So I'm deciding
right now that you're going to, Colbert. Because I say so."

"Yes, sir," Brad says, saluting.

Nate smirks and gets up to fetch the chessboard. Brad turns the bottle of
scotch so he can see the label, then pours. "A gift from some foreign
dignitary?"

"My fiancée's parents," Nate says with a wry smile, sliding the chessboard
onto the desk.

Oh, the fiancée. Brad has met Tricia several times now. He's not entirely
sure he likes her.

"You do play, right?" Nate asks.

"What military man doesn't?"

It's more vicious than Brad expects. Each move is its own battle. Nate wins,
and immediately accuses Brad of letting him triumph. "I would never, Mr.
Vice President," Brad scoffs.

Nate bites at his bottom lip and glares at Brad darkly. "Rematch?"

"It's past midnight," Brad points out, keeping his gaze off Nate's mouth.
Fuck. He's definitely attracted to the VP. This isn't right at all.

"I'll sleep on the plane."

"You won't sleep on the plane."

Nate returns the pieces to their starting points. "You're not my babysitter."

"Funny, I thought I was." Brad leans back in the chair, hand cupped around
his glass. He raises an eyebrow at Nate, who scowls and finishes his scotch.
"I know I've only been around a few weeks," Brad continues, "but I think I can
say with reasonable certainty you won't sleep on the plane."

"Neither will you."

Brad will allow that, because it's true. He looks at Nate across the desk,
taking in his open collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Point," he says,
drawing out the word.

Nate stares back at him. "I think we're at a stalemate," he says finally.

"You should get Ahmadinejad to sit down at a chessboard with you, sir."

"I think the more exciting game would be to watch him play you."

Brad can't help but chuckle, shaking his head. This time, he lets himself
watch as Nate's mouth curls into a smile.

"On second thought, I don't want you to play chess with anybody but me."

Okay, Brad's going to have to have a stern talk with his to-do list and how he
isn't supposed to flirt with the VP. Even if Nate seems to be flirting back.
Still, he doesn't stop himself from replying, "I think that could be arranged,
sir," if only to see the satisfied look on Nate's face.

The plane lands with a squeal, and Brad raises his eyes from the book he's
only sort of paying attention to. He meets Nate's gaze and quirks an
eyebrow. Nate jerks his chin at the book and Brad lifts it up a little so Nate
can see. "Can I borrow that sometime?" Nate asks.

"You don't have time to read," Brad replies.

Nate looks at the stack of briefs on the seat next to him. "Strange, I get a lot
of reading done for someone who has no time for it."

"I take it back. You don't have time to read for fun."

"And you're reading a book about societal collapse for fun?"

Brad ignores this and slides the book back into his rucksack. There's several
things he could say, but there are four other people within hearing distance,

and Brad thinks it's bad enough that Mike Wynn has figured out that Brad
has actually entered into something that could be called friendship with the
VP. "It's weird," he'd said to Brad, grinning. "I haven't seen you be this nice
to someone in forever."

Brad had flipped him off and gotten on the plane.

It's quiet as they disembark and slide into the waiting car. Nate gazes out
the window while they wait, and Brad can hear Person speaking in a low
voice to someone from the police escort that's staged all around them. "Does
it ever get old?" Brad asks.

"What's that?"

"All this, just for you." He waves a hand, indicating the squad cars and
motorcycles. For a brief second, Brad feels a flash of longing for his own
bike, darker and sleeker than the bulked up police cycles.

The front passenger door opens, and Ray gets in. "Ready to hit the road,
sir."

"Thank you, Ray."

The car starts moving, and Nate tips his head from side to side. Brad can
hear joints popping. "No," Nate says after a long moment, "no, it doesn't get
old."

Red and white lights flash through the windows as they travel towards the
primary lodging, a hotel that Brad knows to be about ten minutes from the
airport. It's late, and traffic is light. He's almost to the point of being lulled
by the smooth ride of the car when there's a loud pop and bang, and the car
swerves. Instinctively, he grabs Nate and pushes him to the floor, covering
Nate's body as much as he can with his own. The car speeds up; Ray is
yelling something into his radio and yelling at the driver to floor it at the
same time.

Nate makes an aborted, restless movement beneath him. "Stay the fuck
down, Nate," Brad hisses, pressing into him. The car puts on another burst
of speed, then screeches to a stop. Doors open, and then Ray and Espera
are pulling both him and Nate from the vehicle. They'd immediately detoured
to the smaller, closer secondary lodging, and ahead Brad sees the service
entrance. Wide-eyed hotel employees hurry out of their way as they run, as a
group, through the swinging door and into an empty room.

Then they stop. Brad counts Ray, Poke, and six uniformed police officers all
standing as a barrier between Nate and the door of the room. Ray is still
shouting into a radio. He looks at Nate. "Are you all right?"

Nate's eyes are huge as he nods. Brad resists the urge to check him for
injuries.

"I doubt we'll be coming back to Chile anytime soon, Mr. Vice President," Ray
says. "There's a motherfucking bullet lodged in the side of your car. Who the
fuck shoots at a closed motorcade?"

"Whiskey tango motherfuckers, that's who," Nate replies, and that breaks
the tension just enough that Brad sees people start to breathe again. "And
to think, we just got here. Might as well turn around and go home."

"All units, secure the hotel," Ray says into his handset, then gestures for
Poke to take some of the uniforms and go. "Sir, I'm gonna leave you with
Sergeant Colbert while we do this thing, but there's gonna be two uniforms
outside this door."

"Do what you need to do."

Ray leaves, and Brad looks at Nate. "You okay?" he asks again, but softer
this time.

"Shit, Brad." Nate rubs a hand over his close-cropped hair.

"I know." They're still standing close, and Brad puts his hand on Nate's
forearm and squeezes. "Congratulations, Nate, you just survived your first
assassination attempt. Whatever else gets accomplished on this trip, this is
all the news is going to report on."

Nate rolls his eyes. "Nothing is going to get accomplished. Shooting at me
guarantees that. In less than ten minutes, there's going to be a call from
Wynn, or maybe even Godfather himself, telling me to get my ass back to
Washington before anyone else decides to take a shot."

"Say no," Brad suggests.

"What?"

"Say you're going to stay here and do this." Brad's not exactly sure what
Nate's series of meetings with Chile's foreign affairs ministers is about, but
that's because he's made a conscious effort to avoid knowing. He doesn't
want to know those things. He just wants to complete this mission of
keeping Nate alive no matter where they go.

Nate looks skeptical at first, then thoughtful, but before he says anything,
there's a knock on the door and Person identifying himself. Brad opens the
door. "We're set, sir," Ray says to Nate. "I can escort you up to your room if
you're ready."

"Lead on."

They're in the sitting room for less than three minutes when the phone
rings. Brad picks it up. "Colbert."

It's an aide to the President of Chile, with the President holding for Nate.
Brad rests the receiver against his chest. "Prieto for you, sir," he says.

Nate nods and takes the phone. Brad slips through a door into the adjoining
bedroom, and stands to the right of the window, looking out of it at an
angle. Below him, Santiago glitters with lights. He can hear Nate talking but
can't make out any of the words. It's quiet for a moment, then the phone
rings again and Nate answers it. Brad wonders why no aide has appeared to
cover the phone. He's used to at least one of them tagging along most
places. There's more conversation, then footsteps.

"Brad," Nate says quietly from behind him, and Brad turns.

"We going home?"

"No, I told Ferrando I'm staying."

Brad nods. "Nate - how come you didn't bring an aide?"

"Yet another person to shadow my every step?" Nate asks, raising an
eyebrow. "I already have you for that. And I did bring Wright, Stafford and
Christeson. They were in the other car." He sits down on the bed, his
shoulders slumping. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, as if all the adrenaline is
bleeding out of him at once.

Brad crosses the room without thinking and kneels down at Nate's feet.
Nate blinks at him in surprise. "Brad?"

"Just - let me," Brad says. He unties Nate's black wingtips and slips them off.
"What should I have the staff bring you for breakfast in the morning?" he
asks, keeping his tone conversational as he skims his hands up the backs of
Nate's legs, squeezing his calf muscles through his slacks.

"What? Oh, um, toast. And coffee."

"You'll want more than that; you didn't eat dinner." He raises up on his
knees somewhat and reaches for Nate's wrist, unbuttoning the cuff of his
plain white shirt.

"Didn't we have a discussion yesterday about how you're not my babysitter?"

Brad reaches for Nate's tie, but Nate's hands get there first. He settles for
unbuttoning Nate's shirt from the bottom up instead. "I fail to see how being
observant about your habits makes me your keeper," he says, struggling for
a neutral tone.

Nate scoffs, sliding the tie from around his neck. "It's what you've been since
Wynn brought you on board." He shrugs. "I won't hold it against you."

"Well, thanks for that, sir," Brad deadpans, reaching the top of Nate's shirt
as Nate leans back slightly. Brad stands up. "I'm not sure where your bags
are."

"Probably still in the shot-up car, but I am assured they'll be here by
morning. What about yours?"

"Also probably still in the shot-up car, but slightly less assured to be here by
morning." Brad takes his gun from the holster and lays it on the desk, then
unbuttons his own cuffs. "I'll make do."

"I'd expect nothing less."

"Think you can finish getting yourself undressed?"

Nate grins, and Brad feels a wave of relief. "Yes. And I can probably also
wipe my own ass without much trouble."

"That's good, sir, since I think I'd have to tell Gunny Wynn to take this job
and fucking shove it if you asked me to wipe your Ivy League ass." He
finishes removing his shirt and picks up his gun again. "I'll be on the couch.
Get some goddamned sleep, Nate."

"That's definitely not babysitter language," Nate grumbles, and Brad grins
as he goes into the sitting room. The couch is too short for him, so he ends
up sleeping on the floor, but it's okay. He's slept in worse places.

By October, Brad is with the Vice President's team more hours than he isn't.
He takes to keeping his belongings in the car at all times and his hotel room
smells stale the few times a week he manages to key in long enough to jerk
off in the shower and change his suit. He tries not to think about the edgy
feeling that nudges at him when he has to leave watching the VP's back to
someone else.

It's the longest mission he's ever been on in his life, and somehow, he's not
bored yet.

Wynn finds him in the Russell Building one afternoon, at a table with a cup
of coffee. "Where's Bravo?"

"With Senator Winters," Brad replies, slouching back in the chair. "They
refuse to let me in."

"And that irritates you to no fucking end." This is punctuated with a grin.

Brad growls. "Were you here for a reason, Gunny, or is this your idea of
providing company?"

"Do I ever go anywhere without a reason?" Wynn asks, and Brad just stares
at him until he continues. "The Vice President gets, on average, a thousand
death threats a year. Most are from crackpots who are pissed about taxes,
or pissed about Medicare, or who are against whatever bill is currently
before the Senate. This past year alone, Fick has gotten eighteen-hundred
threats. He's gotten more than the President. And Chile was a fucking mess.
You're going to move into the residence, Brad."

What the fuck. "Aye-aye." He makes a little salute with his cup. Wynn rolls his
eyes and leaves.

The radio crackles a warning, and then Person's voice is coming through the
earpiece. "They're about to break, baby."

Brad checks his watch. It's past seven, earlier than he expected the VP to be
done. He gets up, aims his cup at the trash, and goes to pick up Fick like it's
the first day of kindergarten and someone needs to walk him to the bus.
"Are you calling me a five year-old, Colbert?" Nate asks when Brad shares
this.

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's milk and cookies waiting for me at home?"

"I guess that depends on whether or not you were a good boy today." He's
given up on trying not to flirt.

They step out into the chill air, walking close enough that Brad doesn't miss
Nate's swift intake of breath. "Oh, I was a very good boy. I mediated an
entirely civilized conversation between two Senators who downright hate
each other. I even got them to agree on a minor point regarding biodiesel
subsidies."

"That sounds thrilling, sir." He waits for Ray to finish checking the outside of
the car, then checks the interior before holding the door for Nate. "Also, I'm
moving into your house."

Nate leans his head back against the seat and gives him a tired smile.
"That's unfortunate for you, Brad."

"Is it?"

"I hope you enjoy tying my shoes for me every morning."

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

The corner of Nate's mouth twitches, and he shakes his head. Brad can tell
he's trying not to laugh. The car slows and Brad checks his sectors outside
the window. It looks like any other evening in Washington, people hurrying
home from work with their heads down against the cold. "I'm surprised you
finished up before ten," he says to Nate as they speed up again.

"Me, too. Now to go back to an empty house and a sandwich for dinner."

"You're the one that refused the chef," Brad says evenly.

"Well, according to Wynn, the less people that are going in and out of the
residence right now, the better."

Brad acknowledges this with a nod, then says, "I'm afraid that toast is the
height of my culinary abilities."

Nate snorts. "You're a terrible nanny. Can I trade you in for a more domestic
model?"

Brad withholds he wants to say about nannies, because it is highly
inappropriate, and instead merely narrows his eyes. Nate smirks at him, like
he knows exactly what Brad's holding back. That defeats the purpose of
keeping his mouth shut.

Brad likes to think he's made some good decisions in life, that he knows his
place in the world and he knows what he's here to do. Constant flirting
banter with the second most powerful man in the country is not a good
decision by any definition. Yet it's a choice he keeps making, and Nate keeps
firing back.

"Does it bother you that I'm always around?" Brad asks quietly.

"No."

The car stops. Brad retrieves his bag from the trunk as Nate goes inside.
When he closes the lid of the trunk, Ray is standing there. "Jesus, Person,
what's with the ninja act?"

"Wynn briefed us this morning," Ray says, indicating himself and Hasser,
who is standing at the open driver's side door. "This is all fucked up. Anyone
that would want to kill the VP like that is messed up in the head, dude. Like,
Ted Bundy, Ted Kaczynski levels of messed up."

"That seems to be common among pussy bitches who express a desire to
assassinate public officials," Brad agrees. He glances towards the porch.
Nate is chatting with Rudy.

"He should show his face soon so we can fuck it up for him, real good," Ray
opines. Brad doesn't disagree with this. "You know, I've been on detail for a
shitload of people since I started this job. And not one of them has been the
same sort of stand-up guy the Vice President is." He sounds
uncharacteristically serious.

"I believe it." He claps Ray on the arm. "See you on Monday."

"Bright and early," Ray sing-songs, and gets back into the car.

Brad turns to go up into the house, dodging Rudy's mock swing and feigning
a blow to his jaw before going inside. He locks the door, then does his
normal tour of the house, checking things as he goes. He notes that Nate is
moving around in the study, and makes that room his final stop.

"Everything secure, Sergeant?" Nate asks dryly, as Brad thumbs the lock on
the window.

"I would be very worried if it wasn't, sir, since no one's supposed to be in the
house when you're not."

"Sit."

Brad doesn't. "Don't you want something to eat?" he asks, and from the look
on Nate's face, he figures that Nate has forgotten all about food again. "How
about you sit, and I'll find something. I signed for the grocery delivery on
Tuesday so I know there's more than bread and that bag of Fritos you tried
to hide."

Nate groans. "Oh my God, you are my mother."

"No, I'm just Jewish," Brad calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room, and
hears Nate laugh behind him. He clicks his radio as he goes downstairs into
the kitchen. "Rudy, you want a sandwich?"

"Anything would be great, brother," Rudy answers.

Brad makes three passable sandwiches, and hands one off to Rudy, who's
taken up watch in the sun porch. The temperature had dropped suddenly
and unexpectedly tonight. Then he takes the remaining two to the study,
only to find that Nate's no longer there.

Brad finds him in the barely-used living room, a misnomer if there ever was

one, sprawled on the couch watching CNN. "Here," he says, pressing the
plate into Nate's hands, then strips off his kevlar and sits down next to him.
On-screen, analysts are discussing Iran. "You know, my deep-sea diving
skills are of no use in the middle of a desert."

"You'd go?"

"I would." It's not even a question. Brad goes where he's told. "If those were
my orders, of course."

Nate takes a bite of his sandwich. "Am I right to assume you'll stay in the
Corps until you can no longer perform?"

"That's been my intention, yes." Brad bites into his own sandwich, teeth
crunching through the cool lettuce. He glances over at Nate. After a
moment, he asks, "Why? You don't agree?"

"On the contrary, it seems to me like you've never wanted to do anything
else. It must be fucking weird to get pulled from Pendleton and thrust into
this bizarre clusterfuck."

"I'd hardly call you a clusterfuck, sir," Brad replies, voice dry. "And yes, it
does take some getting used to, not having my favorite M-4 with me at all
times."

"At least you've got a sidearm." Nate sounds petulant.

Brad smirks at him. "You could have one, too. It would be very Teddy
Roosevelt of you."

Nate groans. "I can only imagine what the American voting public would say
to their elected official being armed."

"I'd think your desire for self-protection would be understandable, especially
if word got out that there's some crazy fucking bastard who wants to kill
you." Brad picks up the other half of his sandwich.

Nate rolls his eyes, chewing. "To you and I, maybe," he says finally. "You
know it's been three years since I last fired a gun? On the range, I mean.
Since before the election."

Brad thinks for a second. He doesn't think Wynn would be opposed to Nate
getting in a little target practice. If worst came to worst, they could arm him
with one of the two that Brad always carries. "I'm sure Mike would let you
use the range that they like to pretend isn't in the basement of the Secret
Service building. Can I have the remote?"

"Set it up for me." Nate tosses the remote into his lap. "Tired of CNN?"

"It's all that's ever on in this fucking town. That and C-SPAN."

He finishes his sandwich before aiming the remote at the television and
starting to flip channels. FOX News has made a splashy graphic to go with
their latest update on Iran; Brad wonders how much money they spend on
that shit. Nate's knee knocks into his. "Pick something, would you? The first
time I've turned this thing on in weeks, and you're just fucking flipping."

"Christ, you complain a lot," Brad mutters, kicking at Nate's foot. "Are you
sure you're not really a preschooler?"

Nate kicks back. Brad glares at him, suppressing the urge to lean over and
kiss the smirk right off Nate's mouth. He's sure he dreamed about doing just
that last night, while he slept in Nate's guest bedroom, dreamed about
licking into Nate's mouth and Nate letting him.

He snaps his gaze back to whatever's on Comedy Central.

Nate finishes his sandwich, apparently oblivious to the internal war Brad's
waging. He slumps back into the couch cushions, and then sideways into
Brad's shoulder.

Brad swallows. "Tired, sir?"

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Nate?" He moves again,
impatiently, like he can't get comfortable.

"Just lie down, if you want to," Brad says.

Nate does, kicking his feet up over the arm of the couch, opposite of the way
Brad expects him to go. "Sometimes I still wonder how I got here," he
murmurs, as his head lands on Brad's thigh.

"I didn't think laying down on a couch required quite so much thought, sir."
Brad stays upright, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. One of them
wants to drift to Nate's short hair, but Brad's going to keep himself in check
here. Prior inappropriate touching of the VP under stressful circumstances
might have gone without comment, but he doesn't think he can get away
with stroking Nate's hair.

Nate drops his hand to smack Brad's leg, something Brad's sure he
deserves. "My political career has been both the envy and the satisfaction of
so many people here - they think I didn't pay my dues, but once I'm done
here, I'm done. Vice presidents run for president, or they retire. I'm barely
even forty."

"Fuck 'em," Brad replies. "And wait, don't you want to run for president?"

"I honestly don't know. I thought I did."

Nate's staring up at the ceiling. Brad looks down and catches his gaze.
"Really?"

"I'm no Ferrando. I've learned that much."

Now doesn't seem a good time for a response that's snappy, or witty, so
instead Brad says, "You know, tomorrow's Saturday. Do you golf?"

"What politician doesn't?"

Brad wiggles his leg a little, on purpose. "Let me rephrase: do you enjoy
golfing?"

"Yes. And I enjoy it more when I'm not being wooed by lobbyists." Nate grins
up at him. "Thankfully, that problem has faded away. It's been replaced by
the problem of having an entire Secret Service team trail me all over the
course. Even at the extremely exclusive country club in Maryland where I am
a member."

"It might be your last chance to go before the weather completely turns. I'm
sure they can find a tee time for the Vice President tomorrow morning,"
Brad says. "Although there is the small problem of how I don't have clubs
here."

"Oh, you're golfing too?" Nate asks, his face perfectly blank. "I thought you
were just going to walk with me, maybe say a few choice words about my
backswing."

Oh, it's on. Trust Nate to try and turn the tables on him like that, when it
had been Brad's idea. "Not only am I golfing, Nate, but I am beating your ass
by at least five strokes."

Nate yawns in reply.

"I am very tempted to shove you off this couch right now," Brad says, putting
one hand on Nate's shoulder and the other on his ribcage, as if he's
preparing to do just that.

"Now who's cranky?" There's a definite smirk pulling at Nate's mouth. Then
he sits up, only to slump back against Brad's side. He waves a hand at the
television. "What the fuck is this?"

"I - am not entirely sure," Brad says slowly, tilting his head at the screen. It's
some screwball animated thing and they seem to have missed the
beginning. "It sure as fuck isn't South Park."

Nate laughs, the sound and movement vibrating into Brad. Nine at night on
a Friday, and he's watching television with the VP and making plans to go
golfing. He hasn't golfed in more than a year; he'd much rather surf, but he's
not going to try that in the Potomac.

The remote is pulled from his hand. Nate settles against him a little more
and finds the History Channel. With a sigh, Brad abandons his resolve to not
move, and leans against Nate.

It feels really fucking domestic. It also feels really fucking foreign, after
years of avoiding these sorts of situations. He should definitely not get used
to it. "Nate?" he ventures, finally.

Nate yawns again. "Shut up and watch the documentary, Colbert."

Brad does.

On Monday, Brad returns from an afternoon briefing with Wynn about Chile
(weeks have passed and no one has claimed responsibility for the shooting)
to find the EEOB in full panic mode. He can see across the room that Nate's
office door is shut. That's immediate cause for concern; Nate's door is never

shut. Brad catches one of the aides with a hand on her elbow, since Ray is
too far away and he needs to know right now. "What's going on?"

She's younger than they are, in her late twenties, and her blouse under his
fingertips feels expensive. She looks at him with wide eyes that are
brimming with tears, but her breath barely wavers as she says, "It's Senator
Welsh, he had a heart attack just a few hours ago."

Brad's met Welsh, and knows he's been a friend and mentor to Nate since
his Senate days. He's been to the residence, and he and Nate will often sit in
the study late into the night, discussing whatever the current crises are.

"And?" Brad urges the aide.

"He's passed away." She glances at Nate's closed door. "Sgt. Colbert, I've
never seen the Vice President so upset."

"Thank you, Gia." Brad's already walking away as he says it. He has no doubt
that Nate is taking this hard. He knocks gently on the door with one hand,
his other pressed with a flat palm to the wood. "Sir? May I come in?"

The door opens a few inches. He slips inside, closing it quietly behind him.
Nate is sinking down onto the small loveseat along the back wall, where
Brad is assuming he's already spent quite some time. He sits down next to
Nate and places a light hand on his knee, but doesn't say anything. The
shades are drawn, and in the dim light, he can see the clenched fist that
Nate is pressing hard against his mouth. Brad looks down at his own feet,
listens to Nate breathe, and waits.

After ten minutes, Nate drops his hand on top of Brad's, and Brad turns it
over, winding their fingers together, and squeezes. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't... let's not talk." Nate's voice sounds raw and Brad sees him swallow.

He nods, squeezing Nate's hand again. Nate's fingers tighten on his in
return, and for another fifteen minutes, they stay like that. Then Nate's grip
loosens and he slowly draws his hand away, reaching up to straighten his tie
before getting to his feet. Brad wants to pull him down again, wrap his arms
around Nate, but instead, he stands up as well.

"I should make a few phone calls," Nate says.

"Want me to leave?"

"No, stay."

Nate sits down behind the desk and starts making calls. Brad takes out his
phone and checks his email. There's nothing much, a few messages from the
guys in his platoon, filling him in on what he's missing. Then he pulls up the
New York Times and skims the headlines. There's an article on Welsh's
passing - brief details about his death and a summary of his time in politics.
Mr. Welsh was also a respected mentor to many new Senate arrivals, including
current Vice President Nathaniel Fick. Mr. Fick said of him in a 2008 interview,
"Harry was the best thing that could have happened to this junior Senator from
Maryland. He's never one to shy away from sharing both his knowlege and his

opinion of how things work here in our great nation's capitol, and his friendship
has been invaluable to me."

Brad glances up at Nate, who is gripping the handset with white-knuckled
fingers and murmuring condolences, most likely to Welsh's wife. Then he
sends a text to Nate's cell - going back to res. will have food&drink. you will
eat. no q's. - and waits for him to pick it up off the desk and read the
message. He watches Nate's mouth twist, and then Nate nods.

He leaves the office, gives Ray a heads-up, and drives himself back to the
residence. His phone beeps with an incoming text on the way. It's from Nate.
be there in a couple hours. thanks for looking out for me.

Brad wants to reply that he's just doing his job, but he's starting to realize
that this - whatever it is, whatever it will be - is much more complicated than
that. And rather than say something he shouldn't, he doesn't say anything
at all.

The funeral is planned for the following Tuesday, three days before
Christmas. Tricia flies in from Virginia for the service and Brad spends an
agonizing afternoon watching her try to comfort a closed-off Nate who,
despite the news cameras, stares straight ahead and barely responds to her
touch.

It's not until he's gone back to his empty hotel room that Brad realizes he's
been clenching his hands into fists the entire day, and there are little red
half-moons pressed into his palms. He takes the hottest shower he can
stand, then lies naked and cooling on the bed. He's waiting for his phone to
ring, waiting for an epiphany. Waiting for something, anything, but there's
nothing.

It's late January when the letter with a more serious, pinpointed threat
arrives. Brad has been Nate's shadow for nearly six months now, and this is
the harshest one yet. Wynn's team opens all of Nate's mail, and Brad is
escorting Nate to Senator Lewis's office when Wynn appears, trailed by two
younger agents, and motions for Brad to come close.

Brad sees Nate into the office, then heads towards Wynn. "What is it,
Gunny?"

"Sniper threat."

"Shit." The Senate is in session this week; it's no secret where Nate will be.
Brad fucking hates snipers. "This fucker ever say why he's got it in for the
VP?"

"You know some people don't care much for competent politicians," Wynn
replies with a flicker of a grin, and Brad knows it's the best answer he's
going to get until he can read the threat himself. "When he's done here, get
him into the car, and bring him to the White House. Godfather will be
waiting."

Fuck. Brad knows where this is going. Nate isn't going to want additional

security; the President is going to insist upon it, give some moto speech
about why Nate should accept yet more guys watching his ass. Something in
Brad bristles at that idea. He wonders if the President knows of Wynn's
theory that some of the information is coming from inside, then shrugs it off.
The President has to know.

Two hours later, Nate emerges from the office, and Brad runs him out to the
car. "White House, Christopher," he tells the Corporal, then turns his
attention to Nate. "Sniper threat, sir."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Nate groans, sinking down in the seat.

"The President has requested you join him."

Nate puts his hands over his face. Brad blinks at him in what he thinks feels
like despair. He's not sure, he's never experienced despair before now, but
he's really fucking worried about what he'll see in Nate's face when he drops
his hands.

But Nate's expression is perfectly composed. "I guess I'm not doing my job if
there isn't someone out there who wants to kill me," he says.

"Excuse my presumption, sir, but that sounds more like something the
President should be saying," Brad replies, and regrets it the moment he
sees Nate's wince.

"Chess tonight, Sgt. Colbert."

That's more familiar ground. "You bet, sir."

Inside the White House, Brad moves to stand outside the Oval Office, but
Wynn waves him inside. "Come on, Colbert, you should be in here too," Brad
hears the President say.

"Yes, sir." He slips inside and closes the door.

Nate is seated on one of the couches, his back ramrod straight. Brad can't
see his face. The President is leaning against his desk, an unlit cigar in his
mouth, looking unhappy. "All right, Mike, let's have it."

"This guy is serious, Mr. President. He provided a complete rundown of the
Vice President's day, for several days in a row."

"Any idiot with a pair of fucking binoculars could do that," Ferrando replies.

"He also stated that when the shot comes, he'll be gone before we can tell
where it came from. I quote, 'your Marine guards won't even know'. He
knows the Vice President is surrounded by people who know their shit, sir,
and he thinks he's better than us."

Ferrando frowns around the cigar. "Step it up."

"Colonel, I don't want that," Nate says.

"Nate-"

"No. If this guy is as good as he wants us to think he is, more protection isn't
going to help and I'm fucked anyway. And if he's not as good as he thinks he
is, it's only going to result in more people getting hurt. I won't have him take
down a half-dozen agents trying to get to me. I'm not giving in to some
fucking nutcase."

Brad really doesn't like the fact that he can't see Nate's face. The set of his
shoulders is so stiff it looks painful, and his voice is clipped. It's past ten,
and Brad knows Nate has been up since three-thirty, reading policy opinions
regarding the environmental controls bill that's being written. And this is
Washington, where there are beds and restaurants and other civilized
comforts, not a goddamned war zone.

"No more," Nate tells the President. Brad thinks he'd rather have a war zone
than this.

Ferrando looks at Nate for a long moment, then glances up at Brad. "All
right. For now. Dismissed. Except for you, Mike."

"One second, sir. Brad?" Brad meets Wynn's gaze. "Hundred percent."

Like Brad hasn't been doing that for weeks. "Aye-aye, Gunny."

Even though they're in a gated area, Brad stays close to Nate on the way
out. In the car, he watches the shadows underneath Nate's eyes, watches
the clench of his fists against his thighs, watches him fight not to give in to
his temper and the rage creeping up towards the surface. Brad doesn't say
anything, just waits.

It's a testament to how out of sorts Nate is that he doesn't argue when Brad
nearly shoves him through the front door, saying, "No chess tonight. Change
your clothes, sir, and meet me in the gym. You've got two minutes."

Ninety seconds later, he's pointing Nate towards the treadmill. "Run it out."

Nate doesn't argue with that either, and starts the machine. Brad slips out
of his suit jacket, takes off his vest, undoes his tie, and unbuttons his dress
shirt. He lays all of it over the weight bench. For twenty minutes, he warms
up on the punching bag, keeping one eye on Nate as he jogs, then alternates
between push-ups and crunches for another twenty minutes.

"Brad," Nate begins at one point, but Brad shakes his head.

"Keep going, sir."

Nate huffs and keeps running. Brad goes back to the bag.

After an hour, he sees Nate start to tire. His head droops and sweat drips
off his face, but he keeps going. Brad finishes his set of push-ups, then
stands. "I'm going to slow it so you can cool down," he says, quickly changing
the program on the treadmill, and then tossing Nate a towel to wipe his
face. "Feel better?"

"Feel like I'm going to fall over," Nate says, and Brad can hear the shake in
his breath that he knows Nate is struggling to control. The treadmill's speed
continues to slow until it comes to a complete stop, and Nate steps off the

side, pressing the towel to his face and breathing heavily for a while.

Brad gives the bag a few more lazy punches as Nate turns and opens the
mini-fridge, then catches the bottle of water Nate tosses in his direction.
The crinkling of the plastic bottles as they drink is the only sound for several
minutes, until Brad sets his aside and starts nudging Nate towards the
stairs. "C'mon, sir, you smell."

Nate grins tiredly and sniffs. "You can't talk, Colbert. Besides, there's no one
here to smell me but you."

"My perfume doesn't immediately invoke forty days in the desert with no
facilities," Brad replies. "Is Tricia gone again?"

She'd been here this morning when they'd left, but maybe her bag had been
by the door. He sees Nate roll his eyes and follows him up the stairs to the
second floor of the house. "She went to her parents'," Nate says, finally
answering. "Everything that's happening, all these threats – she's having a
hard time."

Brad makes a mental note to check in with Tricia's agent once he's got Nate
squared away. "Understandable," he says in reply, keeping his voice neutral.
He'd always had a feeling that if the shit really hit the fan, Tricia wouldn't
stick around. She's nice enough, and smart, but Brad knows the kind of
person that stays with someone when their life is being threatened, and
Tricia's not that kind of person.

Once they're upstairs, instead of taking off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts and
getting into the shower like Brad wants him to do, Nate slumps against the
bathroom doorway and closes his eyes.

"Sir?" Brad asks. When there's no reply, he says, softer, "Nate?"

Nate straightens up and pulls his shirt over his head. "I don't think Tricia's
going to come back." He walks into the bathroom and turns on the
showerhead, fiddling with the knobs for a moment. Brad knows he prefers
lukewarm showers after the treadmill. He's not sure when he picked up that
information.

"I'm sorry." He leans against the bedroom wall, not looking as Nate kicks off
his shorts and steps under the spray.

"It is what it is," Nate says over the sound of the water, "and I'd rather she's
away from all of this, anyway. Even if it means we're through. I think I've
changed too much for her to keep up, anyway." There's a pause, then, "You
should wash up, Brad, if you want."

Brad gets a cloth from the linen closet - he knows where every single thing
is in this house; he has to, because something grossly out of place could
mean someone uninvited has been inside, or worse, is still inside - and
washes up briskly in the bathroom sink. He can hear Nate hum for a few
seconds, but aside from that, it's quiet. That's unlike Nate, who totally
doesn't care about bellowing ridiculous Top 40 songs in the morning while
Brad stands outside the bedroom door, waiting to hand him the agenda for
the day.

He's patting his face and arms dry when the shower stops, and he tosses
Nate a towel. "Do you think you can sleep?"

Nate looks at him shrewdly. Brad returns the look, with interest. "If you're a
mess tomorrow, the President is going to hold me personally responsible,"
he adds, his voice serious.

"I'm a fucking mess right now, Brad," Nate sighs, rubbing the towel over his
head. "And it's not your job to fix me."

That is precisely Brad's job. "Sir, do you trust me?"

"What, Sergeant Colbert?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Every second of every day," Nate says quietly. He wraps the towel around
his waist and drops his hands to his sides, and Brad can't help it, he wants
to shove Nate onto a plane and fly them somewhere with crystal-clear
beaches, bottle after bottle of Corona, and sun so warm it melts this
goddamned depressing D.C. winter right out of Nate's bones. Someplace no
murderer can reach him.

But he can't.

"Go lay on the bed and wait for me," he instructs. "I'm going to check in with
Poke and Rudy. I'll be back in five mikes. If you think you don't need
someone to touch you, or if you don't want it to be me, you can lock me out.
But I don't think you should."

He goes downstairs to the kitchen, checking locked windows along the way,
and opens the back door. Rudy is there, a few feet away, in his NVGs.
"Reyes," Brad says, "all good?"

"We're good, my brother. It's quiet. Poke's got the front covered."

"Everything's secure in here. The Vice President's going to sleep."

"Roger that."

Brad shuts the door, locks it, checks it, and checks it again. He retrieves his
clothes from the gym. Then he makes sure the garage and the front doors
are secure, and goes back upstairs. The bedroom door is partially open. He's
not surprised. He'd issued a challenge, and Nate doesn't back away from
challenges. Even ones meant to make him let go.

He nudges the door open enough that he can slip through, then shuts and
locks it. Nate is laying on the bed in a pair of boxers, face-down, and in the
lean lines of his back, Brad reads nothing but stress. "I'm back, sir," he
announces unnecessarily.

"Rudy and Tony okay?"

Trust Nate to ask. "They're fine." Brad sets down his clothes, then walks
over to the bed and stands next to it. "You need to relax enough to sleep,
Nate," he murmurs. "You're going to be a fucking mess tomorrow if you don't

get at least a few hours."

"And what, you're going to read me a bedtime story?"

"Never said that." He straddles Nate, one knee on either side of Nate's hips,
and feels him tense. "You're wound tighter than a goddamned clock. You
know what stress does to a person? It makes them sick, sir. Like how we're
told not to clutch the steering wheel in an accident - tensing up before the
crash just makes you hurt a fuck of a lot worse afterward. You can't afford
it."

"Comforting," Nate mumbles, dry.

"You gotta let go," Brad says, unwinding his plain black tie from around his
fist. He leans forward and gathers Nate's wrists. "Let me do this," he
whispers as Nate tenses again, muscles preparing to buck him off. He needs
to tell Nate what his plan is, and does. "I'm going to bind your hands, and
then I'm going to rub those knots out of your back, okay? Let go, Nate, and
let me do this for you."

He knows it's only a few seconds, but it feels like hours drag by before Nate
sucks in a deep breath and goes somewhat limp underneath him. Brad binds
his wrists together, not so tightly that one good pull won't defeat the knot.
It's not meant to be anything more than a symbolic gesture that Brad is in
control of this, right now. Gently, he turns Nate's head on the pillow so that
he's not smothering himself, and lowers Nate's arms above his head. "Keep
them there," he instructs.

Then he digs his fingers into the hard muscles of Nate's shoulders and hears
Nate groan. "Fine," Nate says, a bit muffled, "you win. Brad Colbert wins
again. Brad: four-fucking-hundred and change, Nate: zero."

"C'mon, sir, you gotta give yourself at least a few points." Brad's proud of his
conversational tone as he works his hands down Nate's back, seeking out all
the knots and rubbing, kneading, and stroking until they disappear. "You
kept up with Godfather good tonight, all that fucking hoo-hah about not
giving in to this madman and not wanting a bigger security force and all that
shit. And it was shit, sir, if I may, a whole load of it."

"If you had your way, my house would be surrounded by armed Marines."

"Bet your ass it would." Brad pushes his thumbs into the small of Nate's
back, on either side of his spine, and a ragged noise escapes Nate's mouth.
Brad tries not to think about how he'd like to hear that noise again, or how
the blood is rushing to his groin. Or how he might be fucking everything up
by doing this. "Bet some of them would volunteer. Personal acquaintances
and all that. Yours and mine."

Nate doesn't answer, just sighs. Brad works his way back up to Nate's neck,
stroking firmly with his fingertips. It's working, but it's not enough. He can
still feel the tension in Nate's thighs underneath his own. Brad wants to see
him so loose he sags into the mattress, unable to move, so relaxed he falls
asleep between one breath and the next.

He makes up his mind.

He leans over, mouth close to Nate's ear. "I'm changing the ROE. I'm going to
touch you, sir. My hand on your cock. That's all. I'm gonna jerk you off, so
that your brain shuts off long enough for you to fall asleep. And then I will
be right here while you sleep. No one is going to get to you while I'm in the
room."

Nate makes a choked noise, but he doesn't move to stop Brad as Brad slides
a hand underneath him, under the waistband of his shorts. "I'm tired of
people wanting to kill me," he whispers, and he sounds so small and
exhausted that all Brad can think to do is move off of him, roll them both
sideways a little, and spoon up as close as possible behind Nate as he licks
his palm, then wraps his hand around Nate's stiffening cock.

Nate's wrists are still tied, but that's good, it means Nate really can't try to
help or to push Brad's hand away. "You're not going to freak out on me, are
you?" Brad whispers in his ear, and Nate's response is to roll his hips,
pushing his cock into Brad's fist. "Good."

He jerks Nate hard and fast, figuring what works for him will also work for
Nate. It's a battle not to lean forward even more and press his face to the
muscled line of Nate's shoulder, the clean smell of soap and something Brad
will always identify as simply Nate waging a war with his senses. But he
refrains. This isn't about him.

Nate makes a low, choked noise as Brad swipes a thumb over the head of his
cock. He brings his mouth to Nate's ear again. "You can be loud, sir; we're
the only people in the house."

He speeds his hand and Nate groans. "When we're in bed together, you call
me by my name," Nate gasps out, "none of this 'sir' bullshit, Brad."

"Yes, Nate." Fingers find the crown of his head and press downward, urging
Brad somewhere, the best Nate can do while bound. "What? Tell me what it
is you want."

Nate shudders and twists in his arms. "Touch - touch my neck."

"You get off on it?" Suddenly, Nate's refusal to let him remove the tie in Chile
makes sense. "Ah, I understand."

He rubs his cheek lightly against the side of Nate's neck, skims his lips over
the pulse there. He wants to open his mouth to the skin and suck, but that's
too risky. Nate's whole body goes rigid as he comes, colliding forcefully with
Brad's even as Brad keeps stroking him through it. Then he wipes his hand
on Nate's shorts and undoes the tie, rubs Nate's shoulders as he brings his
arms down. "You okay?" he asks, squeezing Nate's bicep.

Nate yawns; Brad feels vindicated. It's the answer he was aiming for. "What
about you?" Nate asks.

"I'm good." He knows what Nate's asking. "Nothing I can't take care of later.
You should sleep, all right? If you fall asleep right now, you can get six whole
hours before it's time to start all over again."

Nate nods, already tugging at the blankets and settling the pillow

underneath his head. Brad slides out of the bed, trying not to wince at his
aching erection. Nate catches his wrist. "Brad."

"Nate?"

"I want you to jack yourself with the same hand you just used on me. Go do it
now. Then come back here and get into bed. You need a couple hours of
sleep, too."

Brad swallows, palming himself through his slacks. "Yes, sir."

He does just that. It takes him only a few strokes, the scent of Nate still on
his skin, and he lets himself moan out loud as he comes so that Nate can
hear it. Then he washes up, hangs his pants on the back of the bathroom
door, and goes back into the bedroom. For a moment he hesitates, but Nate
must know it, because he mumbles, "Get in the goddamned bed," and so
Brad does.

He wakes up first the next morning, while it's still dark and silent. He starts
to slide out from between the sheets, but Nate's hand shoots out and grabs
his wrist. Hard. "Yes?" Brad asks.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Somewhere where I won't get caught in bed with the Vice President."

"The door's locked."

"So?"

Nate groans. "You sleep on the motherfucking floor all the time. Come here."
He pulls, and Brad lets himself be pulled. He ends up facing the middle of
the bed. It's a strange feeling, to know that he's looking at Nate, but not
being able to see him for the darkness. "You can't change the ROE and not
expect consequences," Nate says, his words muddled by a yawn. "We're not
in a war zone."

This territory is unfamiliar. Brad goes for the simplest statement. "I needed
you to be able to sleep."

"So you thought a handjob would be the best way to accomplish that. And
don't tell me you were just making do. That was no combat jack."

Fuck. It's honesty or nothing.

"Brad," Nate prompts, his voice low and dangerous, expecting an answer.

"I wanted to touch you."

The hand around his wrist lets go. "You can."

"Excuse me?"

"But only when we're alone."

Like that's not obvious. But Brad's mind is still stuck on Nate suddenly
saying yes. "So if I did this..." He slides a hand along Nate's ribcage.

"I'm giving you permission," Nate breathes, and Brad can feel his chest rise
and fall beneath his palm.

The alarm goes off then. Brad rolls away from Nate and out of the bed.
"Coffee and toast?"

Instead of bickering about it, or calling Brad a babysitter yet again, Nate just
says, "If you don't mind."

Brad gets his pants from the bathroom and goes to start the coffee. As he
measures out grounds, his cell phone starts to ring. "Colbert."

"Brad, it's Mike Wynn. Could you make it down to the office today, as soon as
possible?"

He thinks about Nate upstairs, possibly still naked. "Of course."

"There's something I need to show you. Catch a ride in with Reyes and
Espera when the boys show up, they're leaving here now. I'm sending
Person, Hasser and Graves today, so at least our numbers will be the same
while you're in briefing."

Brad acknowledges this, then hangs up. He looks at the coffee machine for a
moment, then decides not to wait for it, and uses the barely-touched
automatic espresso machine while waiting for the toast.

"You making me a cappuchino like a girl, Colbert?" Nate asks, pushing
through the swinging doors. He's dressed, except for the untied tie hanging
around his neck. Green today, matching his eyes. Brad knows better now
than to offer to do it up for him. Or rather, he knows now is not the time to
offer.

"Yes, with a heart hand-drawn in the foam," Brad says dryly, and points to
the distinctly un-girly espresso he'd just poured. "There's yours. And the
toast isn't done, but I just got off the phone with Wynn and your ride should
be here shortly, so I should hurry the fuck up and get dressed."

Nate takes a sip of his coffee, raising an eyebrow in Brad's direction. "My
ride?"

"I'm going back with Rudy; Wynn wants me at the office for something." Brad
blows across the dark surface of his cup several times, then drinks the
whole thing down. He sets the cup in the sink. "I'll be back before you know
it, sir," he says, squeezing Nate's shoulder on his way out of the room.

"You better be," Nate calls after him. Brad grins all the way upstairs. He's
showered and dressed in five minutes flat, despite using Nate's shower - it
smells like Nate, and it takes a conscious effort not to wrap a hand around
his cock and jerk off. He'll wait.

By the time he's back downstairs, the car has arrived for Nate. Brad gets
into the parked Ford with Espera, Rudy sliding in behind the wheel, and
they drive to the building on Murray. "Do you know what's going on?" Brad

asks, remembering to clip his ID onto his suit jacket as they walk into the
building.

Rudy swipes his ID over the sensor. "Unknown, my man. Maybe something to
do with the threat we got yesterday. This guy's fucking crazy."

"You're telling me."

Brad is shown in to Wynn's office, where a rifle case is laying open on the
desk. "It came in the mail," Wynn says, shaking his head.

"Wait, what? The rifle - in the mail?"

"From our guy."

Brad feels his jaw drop. It's a Century Arms C15A1, with a Sig Sauer Mini-
Red Dot sight. "The hell kind of assassin can afford to send a rifle as a
taunt?" he asks.

"A crazy rich kind," Wynn replies. "Or maybe the kind who doesn't pay their
taxes and doesn't buy anything but necessities, saving up so that they can
afford a stunt like this. There was a note, too."

He hands Brad a plastic bag, inside of which is a piece of paper. I will kill him
with one like this. Brad finds he's reluctant to touch it, even enclosed. "How
do you know it's the same guy?"

"Handwriting matches the past threats."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brad mutters. A head shot from this sort of rifle
would be a kill shot, and a messy one at that. He feels nauseous at the
thought of this guy's scope dialing in on Nate. Anger spikes through him
and he throws the letter down onto the desk. "Fuck!"

"It's fucked up," Wynn agrees.

"Does he ever say why?" Brad asks, looking directly at Wynn, who shakes his
head.

"You're thinking like these folks are rational human beings, with reasons for
their actions, however incorrect their reasons may be. There's no
justification here. To a guy like this, it's all war. And he's decided Fick is his
enemy."

No rules. Brad wants to find this asshole and put a bullet through his brain.
Or several. But he can't, because the guy's in the wind. He's not planning on
showing his face, not if a gun like this is his plan. "Am I supposed to feel
helpless?" he asks Wynn.

"That's how he wants us to feel. But I have an entire team tracing this gun,
right now. This is his fuck-up, Brad."

"Unless he's going to make his move in the next few days, before you can
finish the damned trace."

"It's possible," Wynn admits, "but you know we can't tell for certain what his

plans are from a few notes and a rifle."

"Anything could happen," Brad sighs. He rubs a hand over his head.

Wynn closes the rifle case carefully, then sits down behind the desk,
frowning. "If I had to guess, I'd say he enjoys the ulcer he's giving me. Enjoys
making us paranoid every minute of every day."

"Enjoys making Nate constantly fear for his life."

Wynn nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that for sure."

There is silence for a moment; Brad more focused on the cold anger in his
belly than continuing the conversation. Then Wynn picks up his phone. "You
should get back to Fick. I'll have someone drive you to the EEOB."

He doesn't know when the engagement officially dissolves, but all of Tricia's
things disappear from the residence. She returns the diamond via courier.
Brad knows because he signs for it one night while Nate is in the shower.
He's unsure about whether or not to bring it up to Nate, and so leaves it on
the foyer table. Then he goes outside to walk the grounds with Reyes. It's
bitter February cold. Brad pulls his coat tight around himself and they don't
speak.

Nate is in a towel, still damp, packing a suitcase for Iowa when Brad knocks
on the open door. "You think I need more than one sweater?"

"Des Moines is generally below zero this month."

"More than one, then."

"You're coming back tomorrow night."

In response, Nate folds two dark sweaters into his suitcase and closes it.

"Got your speech?" Brad asks.

"All set." It's a fundraiser for one of the Democratic senators, someone that
Brad knows Nate to be on comfortable terms with. Nate tends to stay away
from speaking engagements while the Senate is in session, and he has to be
back in the office on Monday.

"I'm gonna go check in with Rudy before we turn in, then."

Nate tugs on the towel draped around his neck. "Brad."

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing?"

They haven't addressed the conversation from the other morning, when
Nate gave him permission to touch. Brad looks at him, naked except for the
towel, all damp, flushed skin and an expression that seems hesitant. He

wants to touch, and badly. "Whatever you want to do," he replies, pausing in
the doorway, "I mean it, Nate."

He keys up the radio as he goes down the stairs. "Rudy, I'm coming out."

"Copy that."

Rudy's on the porch with a thermos of something that could be coffee, but
could also be some other organic concoction of his invention. Brad shuts the
door quickly, not wanting any of the warmth to escape. "You want to come in
and unfreeze for a few?"

"No, man, I'm all good right now. I got this new hat and gloves. Best
purchase I've made all year." Rudy continues on about the fibers in the hat
for a moment, then gives him a wide grin over the lip of the thermos. "VP
beating you at the chessboard still?"

"I'll have you know I've improved my game considerably since he kicked my
ass that first time."

Rudy just shakes his head. "That don't mean you're winning, brother. Iowa
tomorrow?"

"Iowa tomorrow. I'm going to get some sleep, so I'll be unplugged from the
matrix for a few hours."

Rudy lifts his thermos in salute. Brad goes back inside, but stops a few steps
in. Nate's standing in the foyer with the ring box in one hand. "Nate?"

"I feel bad," Nate murmurs.

"Why?"

"I'd say she didn't ask for all this, but she knew from the beginning what I
wanted her for. It just proved to be too much." His eyes snap to Brad's for a
second, then his head drops and he sighs. "Shit."

Brad steps in, takes the box from Nate's hand, puts it back on the table.
"Come on," he says quietly, grasping Nate's arm and pulling him up the
stairs towards the guest bedroom that Brad's been sleeping in.

Nate comes to a dead stop on the mid-level landing. "I'm going to tell
Stephen to find another candidate for the election," he says, his voice firm.

Brad stills. "You're what?" He can't even comprehend that.

"I don't want to run again."

"Why the fuck not?"

Nate continues up the stairs. Brad's still got a grip on his arm, and so he's
pulled along for a few steps before he lets go. "If there's one thing I've
learned in the last three years, it's that I don't want to be President," Nate
says. He sounds tired. "I don't even want to be Vice President anymore."

Brad reaches for him again, gently tugging Nate close by a handful of his

worn USMC t-shirt, bracing a hand on the wall above his shoulder. "And do
what instead?"

"Georgetown would very much like me to lecture there." Nate holds his gaze.
"Or I could go somewhere else."

"Somewhere else, hmm?"

"Yes."

He wants to ask more about Nate's decision, his curiosity warring with the
arousal starting to hum through his body. "How about for now, we continue
upstairs? Because there's a window right there, sir, and I don't plan on
stripping you where someone could see."

Nate tugs him out of the way of the window, then arches up and kisses him,
his mouth hot and perfect. Brad indulges for a brief moment, then urges
Nate up the stairs. He steers them towards the guest room, curling his
fingers in the waistband of Nate's pajamas bottoms as he walks Nate
backwards down the hall.

"You're letting me participate this time, right?" Nate asks when they get to
the door, and he reaches behind his back to turn the knob.

Brad pushes it open over Nate's shoulder. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" This is accompanied by a single lifted brow, so Brad leans forward
to press a half-dozen kisses all over Nate's face.

"Really, you want out of Washington?" he whispers.

Nate's tone is dry. "The cherry blossoms have gotten old." Then he spins
them around, shoving Brad into the room. "Can I tie you up this time?"

"Anything you want." He drags Nate closer and dips his head, opening his
mouth against Nate's neck, feeling the contrast between stubble and
smooth skin. Nate smells like soap, tastes like it too, and Brad drags his
tongue over Nate's racing pulse.

Nate says his name, and his hands rise between them to free the buttons of
Brad's shirt. He pushes it off Brad's shoulders and down his arms, where it
gets caught at his wrists. Nate grins.

"Oh," Brad says, stupidly.

Nate walks them backwards, until Brad's legs thump against the edge of the
mattress. Nate pushes on his shoulder and he sits down. Warmth pools in
the pit of his stomach. Nate's gaze finds his. "Tell me right now about your
previous experiences with other men."

"Mutual masturbation, but that's old news. Handjobs - received, not given,
and less than I can count on one hand, absolutely no pun intended. Very
sloppy, very drunken makeout session with a very, very pretty Australian
boy in the back hallway of a bar that I wouldn't remember the name of even
if you told it to me."

He feels Nate's hand curl around the back of his neck. "How pretty?"

"Your mouth is far superior."

Nate gives him a slow grin, unintentionally backing up Brad's statement.
"You always say just what I want to hear."

"Simply stating the truth, sir."

"And state it simply you do." Nate drops to his knees and Brad, not
expecting it, sucks in a sharp breath. "What about blowjobs?"

"Only my ex. Well, and whores."

"The whores were all women?"

Brad nods. Nate makes quick work of the fastenings on Brad's slacks,
freeing his cock with warm fingers, and another wild spike of arousal
courses through him at Nate's firm touch. He can feel his control slipping
and curses under his breath, struggling to maintain his calm.

"Brad," Nate says sharply. Then, "Don't," like he knows what Brad is
thinking.

Brad exhales in response.

"Let me," Nate whispers. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, then he opens
his mouth and exhales right over the head, warm and damp.

Brad can't stop his shiver. "Nate," he breathes, "Nate, come on."

"Patience." With the word is another rush of warm breath and Brad bites at
his bottom lip. His whores had never teased, not like this, not with
something that feels like hesitancy. Maybe he only thinks he should do this, a
voice echoes in his head.

"You don't have to," he forces himself to say.

"I want to," Nate says, and drags his tongue up the side of Brad's cock. Then
he weights an arm over Brad's hips and takes him in. It's wet and messy and
minus the precision that Brad would have expected from Nate. A hand
wraps around the base, slick with spit, and squeezes hard. But Brad's mind
is still on fuck, Nate's mouth is on my cock and he's not thinking about extras,
so he can't stop his hips from trying to fly upward.

But Nate's holding him down with more force than he'd realized, and the
sudden denial of his momentum means Brad slumps back onto the mattress
with a groan. Nate hums in response, then lifts his head. "Sorry," he says
roughly.

"What the fuck for?" Brad hisses. He yanks his hands free of the offending
shirt and it rips but he doesn't care. He runs his fingers over Nate's scalp,
down the side of his face. "You weren't fucking that up in any way, for sure."

A smile curves Nate's mouth. "When was the last time you had sex and didn't
pay for it?" he asks, dropping his head to press kisses along the ridge of

Brad's hipbone.

Brad flashes briefly to a girl he'd picked up in a bar - cotton summertime
dress, hands that smelled like lime and mouth that tasted like tequila. "Six
months, give or take."

Nate nuzzles against his cock. "Was it just the means to an end?"

"Yeah," he breathes, and Nate takes him in again, further this time, ceasing
to be hesitant. Like a switch had been flipped inside of him. He sucks hard,
rubbing his tongue along the crown, and Brad had thought all the blood in
his body had already gone to his dick, but apparently he was wrong.

He wants to come down Nate's throat so bad that it's suddenly all he wants,
his pulse up to running speed even though he's barely moved. Nate
squeezes his balls, presses a knuckle behind them, then another knuckle,
and then Brad feels the third nudge his asshole.

He pushes Nate back, sucking in a huge lungful of air. "Stop or I'll come."

"That's a problem?"

"Get the fuck up here," he growls. Nate climbs on top of him without
argument, and the thin, sensitive skin of his cock rubs against the rubs
against the rougher skin of Nate's thigh.

"Was I doing that wrong?" Nate asks, half smirking and half serious, and
Brad groans.

"That was great." The words are slightly distorted by the press of his mouth
against Nate's jaw, tasting the skin there, salt and something artificial,
bitter and chemical like aftershave lotion.

He gets a hand under Nate's knee where it's planted into the bed and tries
to flip them, but Nate resists and they just end up sort of sideways. Brad
blinks at him, feeling more than a little punch-drunk, possibly underwater,
like he's not breathing actual air.

It's not the cool control he's used to.

"Nate, what," he manages.

Nate bites at the curve of his neck, and not lightly. Then he reaches back, off
the bed, and Brad watches the muscles in his chest as he gropes for
something. He comes back with a silk tie of Brad's that is exact green of his
eyes, and a wicked look on his face. "You'll let me do this." It's not exactly a
question.

Brad nods, and Nate ties one of his hands to the post of the bed.

"I should do to you what you did to me," Nate says, grinning. "Jerk you off
and not let you touch, or reciprocate, or even fucking move."

Something in the way he says it makes Brad's vision white out for a second.
He exhales loudly. Oh.

"Yeah, I should," Nate repeats. Brad growls and grabs his wrist, but Nate
doesn't acquiesce; he pushes his body against Brad's and they stay locked
like that for a long minute, neither wanting to give in.

Then Brad relents.

He lies back on the bed, closes his eyes and lets Nate move over him. The
heat that flares in his belly is sudden, and as intense as an oil fire. He can
feel Nate's cock drag over the inside of his thigh, then against his own. Nate
rubs against him, slowly, fingertips digging into Brad's hips. Friction, but
not enough, and he rolls his hips, trying to arch up. But Nate's heavy and
Brad's pinned. "Come on, Nate," he gasps, opening his eyes to see the curve
of Nate's ear, the line of his jaw and neck, the angle of his shoulder.

"Let me," Nate breathes in his ear. "Close your eyes again."

He does. Nate slides against him, then Brad feels Nate's hand wrapping
around both their dicks. He jerks them fast and hard, and Brad groans.
"This isn't combat," he grinds out, as Nate pauses to rub his thumb over the
head of Brad's cock, teasing at the slit. "Jesus, Nate."

"Shut up." He feels Nate's teeth on his shoulder, not hard enough to break
skin, but still sharp, and then Nate's hand starts moving again.

Brad spreads his legs wider, letting Nate drop down in between. He skims
his palm down Nate's side, squeezes his ass. Nate says something
incomprehensible against his neck, mouth moving against his skin, then,
"Brad, fuck."

"Don't you dare come yet," Brad gasps.

Nate laughs and speeds his hand. Brad slaps his ass. "Kinky," Nate
whispers. He's warm and damp with sweat, and Brad can feel where Nate's
horseshoe necklace is dragging back and forth against his chest.

Nate's whole body jerks as he comes and Brad catches his mouth,
swallowing his moans and kissing him through it, even as his own body is
screaming for release, barreling towards the edge. It's been a long time
since he cared about an orgasm besides his own, but he wants Nate to feel
good, wants him to feel surrounded and held and taken and another half-
dozen things that Brad can't quite name.

He can feel Nate's breath shaky against his face as Nate pulls back just a
little, stripping Brad's cock, faster again, until his orgasm hits like a round
to the chest, knocking him back as the room spins.

Then things right themselves once more and he opens his eyes. Nate
reaches up and frees his wrist, dropping the tie back on the floor. "All
right?" he asks.

"Yeah. There's some tissues in the nightstand drawer, I think."

Nate moves off of him, sticky skin sliding uncomfortably. He wipes off his
own fingers and Brad's stomach, and Brad watches his hands move. Nate
seems unsure what to do with the tissues when he's done, and finally just

leaves them on the nightstand and lays back down, close.

"What are we doing?" he asks, his breath hot against Brad's shoulder. His
fingers tangle in the chain of Brad's tags.

I don't know. Because he doesn't. It's stupid and it's risky and fuck, when
they catch the guy who wants to kill Nate, Brad will be going back to
California. Even if they never catch the guy, he can't stay here forever. This
is not what he'd expected to find coming here; hell, it's not even something
he expected to find with anyone ever again.

"I'm just your ghost, Nate," he says finally. "That's all."

Nate squeezes Brad's knee where their legs are tangled together. "You feel
pretty fucking solid to me."

"That's the problem," Brad sighs.

Nate doesn't reply, just pulls the sheet up over them. Brad traces his
fingertips over Nate's collarbone, then turns his head and looks out the
clear inch of window that the blinds aren't covering, watches the snow fall
for a while. Tries to convince himself that he should unwind himself from
Nate's warm body and find someplace else to sleep. But it feels too good,
and Brad is tired of denying himself this particular pleasure, tired of
channeling all his energy in other directions just to avoid the eventual hurt.

He feels like he's simply run out of road. And here, at the end of it, is Nate,
who is jabbing him in the arm without any force and mumbling something
about how Brad's not sleeping and he'd like to get at least an hour before
getting up again, thanks.

"Sleep," Brad scoffs. "You've lost your killer edge." It comes out mostly a
mumble, mangled by a yawn. They're both getting soft. He angles himself
towards Nate a few degrees more, drags Nate's arm up over his waist, and
falls asleep in seconds.

"Crazy, isn't it?" Nate asks from behind him, as Brad watches the line of
people start to stream into the auditorium from the second-floor window.

"I didn't think there were this many people even living in Des Moines," he
replies, glancing over his shoulder at Nate. "I guess you're popular."

"It's only my boyish good looks they've come to see."

Nate is wearing a well-fitted pair of black slacks and a forest-green sweater
over a shirt a few shades lighter. It's as casual as Brad has ever seen him at
a public event, dark and undeniably sexy, and he grins in response. "I won't
argue with that."

Through the window, against the purpling sky, he can make out the snipers
on various rooftops. An advance team has been here for three days,
sweeping the building, vetting the staff, planning the motorcade route.
Every corner they had passed was blocked off by a squad car. Wynn was
taking absolutely no chances. The building had been declared clear three

times already today, Brad knows.

He can almost feel the energy vibrating off Nate as the VP leans closer,
looking down at the dwindling line of people, all of whom have registered
and paid for the privilege of being here. Brad allows him a moment, then
slides himself between Nate and the window. "Probably not the best idea,
sir," he murmurs.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that." Nate steps away, lifting a hand
towards his collar, but then he stops. "Strangely enough, I'm not used to not
wearing a tie."

Brad would smirk at him, but there are other people in the room. "You look
fine, and this isn't going to be on television, anyway."

"It's not? I would have sworn I saw cameras." Nate flashes a grin, sitting
down on the provided sofa and crossing his legs, ankle over knee. His shoes
are black and shiny.

"Local news at best."

"Your opinion of my popularity is obviously in decline."

"In complete free-fall, Mr. Vice President," Brad agrees. He crosses to the
door as Wright sits down next to Nate, pages of the speech and a pen in
hand.

Outside in the hall, he can more readily hear the low murmur of the crowd.
He spies Walt, wielding a hand-held metal detector, coming towards him. "So
far so good?" Brad asks hopefully.

"So far. Looks like we'll be starting on time," Walt says, just as their radios
crackle and Ray's voice barks, "Code three! Code three!"

Brad nearly takes the door off its hinges, Walt and Rudy on his heels, and
Nate stares at them with wide eyes for a split-second before police sirens
start to wail. Brad's not sure if Nate jumps up himself or if they just grab him
from the couch and move, it happens so fast. Out, out, need to get out.
There's a swell of noise from the auditorium below as the room erupts into
chaos. Brad narrows his focus to nothing more than the feel of Nate's
sweater underneath his palm and escape.

Ray is yelling something about a bomb threat being called in the Des Moines
police as Brad pushes open the emergency fire exit with his shoulder, his
other arm still reaching back to hold on to Nate. In a tight cluster, they run
down the metal steps of the fire escape, feet clanging on each one. They
swept this building three times today, he thinks, there's no way anyone could
have gotten an explosive inside.

The limo shrieks to a halt a few yards away, Ray running up from the other
direction and climbing into the passenger seat as Brad physically presses
Nate into the back, leaving Walt and Rudy to jump into the next car that's
coming up behind, and the swirl of police lights around their heads
disappears into the dim interior of the limo.

Brad pulls the door shut behind them, sealing them inside the bulletproof
car.

"Fuck," Nate gasps, still looking terrified yet laughing at the same time.
"That was fucked."

"There's no goddamned bomb," Brad says, rolling his eyes even though his
heart is still beating wildly in his chest. "Just some jerkoff who thought it
would be funny to cause a panic."

"I think they succeeded." Nate turns in the seat, up on his knees and looking
out the rear window. There are so many bright headlights and flashing red-
and-blues surrounding the building that it could almost pass for daytime.
Brad can still see his profile, and in all the light, Nate looks like he's just a
kid.

I am inexplicably fond of him, Brad thinks. He reaches out and wraps a hand
around Nate's shin.

Nate looks over his shoulder. "What?" he asks, grinning.

"Your adrenaline high will inevitably cease," Brad replies, and Nate turns
back around, scowling as if Brad has just ruined his fun.

But before Brad can give in to impulse and kiss the look off his face, Nate
says, "You know, we drove through Iraq in tin-plated Humvees with hardly
any cover at all, and now I ride around in bulletproof cars with no less than
two bodyguards at any time."

"And yet there's bombs here, too. Or the threat of them." There's a knock on
the privacy divider. He slides it open. "Yes, Ray?"

"Mr. Vice President, Air Force Two is ready should you want to head back to
D.C. tonight. Otherwise, we could secure the hotel." Brad can tell from the
look on Ray's face that he's not keen on staying in hostile territory any
longer than necessary.

"We can go home, Ray, thanks," Nate says. "You can sleep in your own bed
tonight."

"Roger that, sir."

Brad slides the partition closed again.

"And you can sleep in my bed," Nate murmurs, sliding his feet between
Brad's.

Maybe it's not so inexplicable after all.

In the air, he settles down in a seat next to Ray as Nate goes into the
stateroom. "So," Ray says cheerfully, typing away on his phone.

"Yes, Ray?"

"At least you didn't have to disarm that one."

Brad wishes futilely for a toothbrush and shrugs.

"Sergeant Colbert, can I pick your brain for a few minutes?" Nate calls.

"Yes, sir." He unfolds himself from the seat and goes through the door. The
desk lamp is on, and Nate's tapping a pen on a sheet of paper. "Nate?" Brad
says, softer.

"The sooner I write this and deliver it to Godfather, the better, both for him
and for me."

Brad can see now that the paper is Nate's official stationary. He sits down
on the edge of the bed that takes up most of the space. "Are you sure you
want to do this?"

"I'm sure." Nate's voice is firm. "I'm only not so clear on how to begin."

"Dear Mr. President..."

"Yeah, you're such a comedian, Colbert."

"Come here," Brad murmurs, sliding a foot out and hooking it around Nate's
ankle, tugging at him. Nate swivels up out of the chair, putting one hand on
either side of Brad's hips, leaning over him. Brad cups his jaw and kisses
him firmly. "Are you really so unhappy here?" he asks against Nate's skin.

Nate makes a frustrated noise. "It's like a sobka pit. A goddamned black
hole. It's no wonder nothing gets done." His fingers flex on the bed. "I don't
remember what it's like not to be in politics. Is it so bad that I want to get
away from it for a while?"

"Nate. I doubt you've run from anything in your life."

"I can't effect the change I want, even if I stay another term. Four years,
eight years..." He shakes his head. "It's never enough time and I'm tired. I'm
tired. And I shouldn't be. I need a change."

Brad kisses him again, then grabs his hips and pushes him back into the
chair. "Write your letter. Tell Ferrando what you just told me."

When they land two hours later, the letter is sealed in an envelope, waiting.
Brad threads his fingers through Nate's and walks him upstairs to the
bedroom, then slowly strips the clothes from his body and guides him down
onto the bed.

Nate takes the letter with him the following day, to his weekly strategy
meeting with the President. Brad can't hear any of their conversation,
sitting outside the room reading the Post and occasionally responding to
Ray's tirade about some conservative Congresswoman and her fight against
first-person shooter video games. If not for the knot in his stomach, it would
feel like any other relaxed Sunday.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Brad glances up from the hockey scores. "It's not my fault that your balls
never dropped, thus your pimple-covered, pasty, pre-teen ass is going to get
carded buying GTA Nine."

"Seven," Ray grumbles, glaring. Brad offers him Arts & Living and Ray offers
him the finger.

Brad grins. "Buck up, little camper, and I'll be sure to tell the Easter Bunny
that Ray-Ray would like the latest Disney Princess release in his basket."

"Fuck you, Easter is like, months away."

Brad allows his grin to widen. Ray scowls. "You'll miss me when I'm gone,"
Brad admonishes.

"The hell I will."

The door opens with a soft click and Nate slips out. Brad is sort of relieved
to see the resolute expression on his face. "Let's go," he says.

Ray is driving, so it's just them in the back of the car. Brad curls his hand
around Nate's elbow and doesn't say anything, waiting for him to speak first.
They're almost to the residence when Nate says, "He didn't put up much of a
fight."

Brad had read the letter; he knows the things that Nate had written. "Were
you expecting one?"

"Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting."

He doesn't say anything more until they're inside, and then he turns to Brad.
"I'm going on the treadmill. Don't stop me for anything less than a national
emergency."

"Roger that."

Brad retrieves his laptop from the guest room and sits at Nate's desk in the
study. He checks his email, the weather, and browses computer hardware
on Amazon for a while, thinking idly about buying a faster processor. He
stops looking when he realizes he's not sure where to have one shipped.
Care of the Naval Observatory? Care of the Secret Service? It can wait. He
powers down the computer and closes it.

The study smells faintly of Nate's cologne. Brad wonders if the leather chair
he's sitting in belongs to Nate, or if it came with the house. Maybe Nate will
steal it.

He's poured himself a drink - they still haven't finished off the hidden bottle
of scotch - and has settled back with an Eisenhower biography when Nate
comes in, damp from a shower and in an incongruous combination of navy
slacks and a Dartmouth t-shirt.

"Better?" Brad asks.

"Somewhat." Nate stops in front of a picture hanging on the wall, looking at
it like he'd forgotten it was even there. From a few feet away, Brad can see

that it's Nate and his ex-fiancee with the President of South Africa. Nate
reaches and takes it from the nail, his mouth turned into something close to
a frown, a little wistful. "I was awful to Trish," he says.

Brad protests, "You weren't," because it's all he can think to say.

"No, I was terrible. I didn't ever love her," Nate says quietly. "I would have
married her because it was in my best goddamn interest to play straight and
pretend I like pussy best of all. Have a few kids, maybe. I could deal with the
kids, I sort of want kids. That wouldn't have been a problem. But it would
still have been a huge fucking lie. She deserved better than me."

Brad doesn't want to say that maybe it was for the best that Tricia had
backed out of the engagement. He spins his glass on the desk. "It's a shitty
thing when you realize your life isn't what you want."

"But it was." Nate sets the picture face-down on the arm of the sofa and
scrubs his hands over his face. "Fuck. I had a plan. A goddamned path. Led
right to the Oval fucking Office, and I was sticking to it, moving through the
ranks like I thought I should."

"Doing what you think you should is in no way the same as doing what you
want," Brad replies, meeting Nate's gaze. "You're one of the smartest people
I have ever met. I have every confidence in your ability to lead. I would have
followed you into battle in a heartbeat. But you're not ruthless, Nate."

Nate's exhale is shaky. "Yeah."

Brad just looks at him.

Nate shrugs. He picks up Brad's glass and takes a sip. "Godfather's going to
be making the announcement tonight," he says. His voice sounds hollow. He
turns from the bookshelf as Brad stands up. "The sooner, the better is what
he said. I thought he'd wait a day at least, but." He shrugs again. "What are
they going to write about me in the history books?"

"That you were one fearless, smart son of a bitch, sir, who survived people
shooting at him, a motherfucking bomb scare and, harshest of all, politics in
Washington."

Nate lets out a choked laugh and waves a hand. "Be honest with me."

"All right." He pauses for a moment, thinking, before he says, "If I'm being
honest, then, well, I'm not used to caring quite so much whether one single
person lives or dies. I find myself incredibly emotionally invested in your
well-being. It is rapidly approaching an unacceptable level, Nate, and I will
be immeasurably relieved when you're no longer likely to get shot at every
few months."

It's the best he can do, the closest he can come to actually saying what it is
he's starting to believe he needs from Nate.

The look that slips over Nate's face is not one that Brad can easily decipher,
and Nate steps towards him. "I did lock the door, right?"

"Did you?"

Nate presses him up against the wall, and Brad goes willingly. Nate's hands
lock around his wrists. "An unacceptable level of emotional investment?"
Nate asks, his gaze dark.

"Yes."

"I don't like the sound of that."

Brad leans his head back, baring his throat in reply, waiting to see what
Nate will say next.

"I would much rather you take ownership of this," Nate murmurs.
"Responsibility is important."

"You don't want me to take ownership of what we're doing. Because I think
I'd end up kidnapping you back to California with me and locking you up in
my apartment so no one but me can ever touch you again." That is so much
closer to the way Nate makes him feel.

Nate blinks at him. "Fuck, Brad, don't fucking say things like that if you're
not going to do them."

Brad spins them around so Nate is the one with his back to the wall and
kisses him hungrily. Nate allows him to, but not for long, and then he's
pushing Brad away. "No time. I don't want to start what we can't finish right
now. I have to go be on camera in an hour."

Brad swallows and steps back.

"When this is over, I'll let you do anything you want to me," Nate promises.
He stands up straight again, all business. "Right now, I need to change my
shirt."

Brad moves out of his way. He straps on his Kevlar again, goes to wait by the
front door, and when Nate comes back down in a crisp new shirt and gray
tie, he walks him down to the waiting car with Ray behind the wheel. They
don't speak on the drive. Nate stares straight ahead, his eyes on nothing,
and Brad shifts his gaze from window to window until they stop.

The camera flashes are blinding as he follows Nate from the vehicle. Nate
doesn't pause to speak to the reporters, just waves and continues into the
White House. Kocher is waiting for them. "Mr. Vice President," he says to
Nate.

Nate asks how the evening is going and Kocher lifts an eyebrow.
"Interesting, to say the least, sir."

The President is outside the press room with his own press secretary. Brad
can hear the low murmurs of the corps inside, no doubt wondering why
they've been summoned. "Are you sure you won't reconsider, Nate?"
Ferrando asks, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's not too late."

"It is," Nate replies. "I've made my decision."

Ferrando nods. "Understood. John?"

Brad moves back against the wall, out of the way. He meets Nate's gaze for a
second as he hears Sixta announce the President, and then Nate is following
Ferrando into the press room.

Ray slides over. "What's going on?"

"The President is announcing that he'll be finding a new running mate for
the next election," Brad murmurs. He doesn't miss the horrified expression
that flashes across Ray's face.

There's an explosion of noise from inside, dozens of reporters no doubt all
shouting for attention. "I don't like not being in there," Ray says.

"Me neither." Something inside of Brad starts to itch for Nate, and he slaps
it down. This is not the time. This is not the place. Another hour, two at the
most, and he can have Nate tied to the bed and forgetting all about
Washington. He's very glad the bed has posts and that he has more than
one tie.

"You ever watch that I Love the 80s show?" Ray asks after a few minutes
have passed. "They got it rerunning on VH1 sometimes. It's the most awful
shit you can imagine."

"Ray, you grew up in the eighties," Brad replies. He can't believe VH1 is still
on the air, and says as much.

"Fuck yeah," Ray replies. "They show more music videos than MTV, dude."

Brad rolls his eyes. "Why are you watching TV for music videos when the
internet exists? Hell, I bet even your cheap-ass phone can stream YouTube."

There's another loud clamor from inside and then the door opens.
Ferrando's security detail exits first, then the President, then Nate. Brad
and Ray fall into step behind him.

They go home. Home. Brad's not entirely sure when he started thinking of it
as such, instead of as the place where he's bunking until the end of this
mission. But he's gotten used to sleeping in Nate's bed, used to sleeping
with Nate next to him. He's gotten used to the scent of Nate's skin after a
long day, and now he knows the way Nate smells after sex.

In no way is he ready for this to come to an end.

He stands in the bedroom, remote in hand, watching the local news on
Nate's television. There's some footage of the venue evacuation in Iowa, a
crowd of people shoving out the doors. "They're trying to pinpoint the 911
call," he says to Nate.

Nate laughs. "How much do you want to bet that it was some stupid
teenager, and now they're gonna be in a fuckload of trouble?"

"I'm sure."

Nate sits down on the bed, pulling his sweater up and off. On screen, the
breaking news banner starts to scroll.

"Turn it off," Nate says.

Brad does, setting the remote on the dresser. "Are you okay?" he asks
quietly.

"As okay as I can be, I guess."

"Do you know who the President is going to tap for your slot?"

"I told him he should look at Bryan Patterson," Nate replies. Brad knows that
Patterson, the current Secretary of State, has been with Ferrando since he
was SecDef. "I think he's probably the best pick."

Brad nods, unbuckling his belt. "You think he'll take your advice?"

"I do." Nate looks up from his shirt buttons. "Why are you all the way over
there?"

Brad grins, stepping out of his slacks, and then tossing them over the
corner chair. He walks towards Nate, who parts his knees so Brad can stand
between them.

"Christ, you're a giant," Nate murmurs, sliding warm hands up Brad's thighs
to cup his crotch.

"Shut up and play with my balls some more," Brad orders, and Nate laughs,
pressing with his fingertips. He leans forward, rubbing his face against
Brad's stomach, and Brad drops his hands to Nate's head with a sigh,
tracing the contours of bone with his fingertips.

Nate tugs his briefs down. "Brad," he says. His breath tickles.

Brad's already so hard it aches, just from Nate's light touch. Nate doesn't
say anything else. Brad rubs his ear and asks, "What?"

Nate shakes his head, stubble rubbing along Brad's skin. "I don't know what
I was going to say."

Brad doubts that, but he's not going to push. "You're wearing too many
clothes," is what he tells Nate instead. "C'mon. Get naked so I can touch you
for real."

Nate scrambles back on the bed and takes off the rest of his clothes. Brad
watches him strip, sure that his gaze is greedy and possessive. Of all the
people in the world to want, he tells himself, you sure chose a high-value target.

A target that's staring up at him with an unreadable expression and
repeating his name with force. "Brad. Brad."

Brad climbs on top of him, mouthing at the spot where Nate's neck meets his
shoulder, tasting the salt on his skin. He stays up on his knees and elbows,
keeping Nate trapped beneath him. Not that Nate couldn't free himself if he
wanted to. Brad nips at his collarbone.

"It's like you were having some sort of epiphany there, what was it?" Nate
pushes, hands skimming down Brad's back, fingertips following the lines of

his tattoo.

Brad lifts his head. "That it's crazy how much I want you."

Nate's face registers satisfaction, Brad notes, as well as pleasure. "Me, too,"
he says, and arches up for a kiss that Brad returns with interest, sucking on
Nate's lower lip until Nate growls and pushes him back.

"I want to tie you up," Brad says, at the same time that Nate says, "I want to
fuck you."

Brad coughs and stares down at him, feeling completely caught off-guard.
He hasn't even thought about that, about Nate maybe wanting that. And he's
not sure why he hasn't thought about letting Nate fuck him. It's not like what
you're doing isn't already straight-up, for-real, actual-definition gay, the little
voice reminds him. He sucked your cock, that's pretty goddamned homosexual.

Nate's staring back at him, rubbing his heel over Brad's calf. "Well," he says
finally, "I guess those two things are sort of - diametrically opposed?"

"Sorry, I was having a five-second sexuality crisis."

Nate raises a brow. "And?"

Brad grins down at him. "And I've come to the conclusion that I'm totally gay
for you, sir."

"Because your hard-on wasn't already proof of that," Nate replies, rolling his
eyes.

Brad grinds against him in revenge, watching the way Nate's face goes slack
with pleasure and enjoying the expression on him. "I don't think our desires
are all that opposite, Nate," he murmurs against Nate's jaw, in between
kisses.

"Oh?"

"I would just have to be on top." He presents the option like it's the most
logical thing in the world, and Nate groans loudly, bucking up against him.
"You like that idea?"

"Do I like the idea of you fucking yourself on my cock? Jesus fucking Christ,
Brad, I could come just thinking about it."

"I am gratified to know that you anticipate my ass to be so amazing that you
could come just imagining it," Brad manages to get out; admittedly he has to
breathe heavily in between words, since Nate seems to have given up on
control and is rutting up against him, everything slick with precome and
sweat.

"You - you said anticipate, does that mean you'll-" Nate doesn't finish his
question because he's groaning and coming, hot and wet over Brad's
stomach and groin and thighs.

"Fuck, that's hot," Brad gasps out against Nate's neck and lets go of his own
control, letting his whole body crash down on top of Nate's in a rush of

friction as he comes.

When he can breathe again and before he loses his nerve, he says, "Yes, you
can fuck me, if you think we can possibly get to the fucking instead of
coming all over each other like teenagers."

Nate's answering chuckle is raspy and low. "No lie, I like it when you come all
over me." Then he pushes at Brad's shoulders. "But now you should get off
me before we fall asleep all gross like this."

Brad rolls to the side and blinks up at the ceiling, not moving until a wet
washcloth smacks him in the chest. He swipes it over himself, shivering at
the sensation of air against newly damp skin, then flings it back at Nate with
a sigh.

Footsteps, then the light clicks off. The bed dips when Nate lands beside
him again, now wearing a pair of boxers. Brad thumbs the waistband. "You
want I should find some- "

"No, you're good." Nate slings a warm leg over his, heel pressing into Brad's
calf. "Night."

Brad turns his head in the dark and presses a tired kiss to Nate's willing
mouth. "Night," he says. He's asleep in seconds.

In the morning he wakes up alone in the bed, but it's still warm where Nate
had been, so Brad knows he couldn't have been alone too long. And as if on
cue, Nate appears in the bathroom doorway, shorts low on his hips and
towel in hand. "Sorry I woke you up," he says, "but I had to piss."

"Come back to bed," Brad says without thinking. He stretches out an arm in
Nate's direction.

"I'd love to, but the alarm's about to go off."

Brad turns and squints at the clock. Nate's right. That's disappointing. He
hauls himself out of the warm blankets and turns off the alarm before it can
start to beep. "You want the treadmill first, or should I?"

"You go ahead. I'm gonna skip the run today." Nate yawns hugely, not even
trying to cover it.

Brad feels a surge of affection and leans in as he passes, catching Nate's
mouth with his own. This is who we've become, he thinks, people who kiss
good morning. He feels Nate's hand firm on the back of his neck. Yeah,
leaving is gonna hurt like hell.

It's almost a normal Monday, aside from the blaring headline on the Post,
and the fact that every person Nate passes on his way from meeting to
meeting wants to stop and discuss his decision. Brad regards all of them
sharply, even the Senators and aides that he's come to be friendly with.

He even whirls on Ray, when Ray digs a pointy elbow into his side. "Whoa,
down boy," Ray hisses. "What's your problem today?" He follows Brad's gaze.

"You and Bravo have a lover's quarrel or something?"

There's no way he could know, Brad tells himself sternly. "Shut up, Person,
before I decide I want to feed you to the First Lady's pomeranian."

Ray affects a wounded look, slapping a hand over his heart. "You wouldn't
let Pickles eat me."

"Don't think I won't," he says, keeping it menacing. "One bite at a time."

"Disgusting. Why you gotta go all Silence of the Lambs on me, Brad?"

Brad shrugs, watching as people sign in and out of the building, passing
through the arches of the metal detectors. "Has there been any more
contact with the sniper?"

Ray shakes his head. "Nothing since he mailed that fucking rifle. That was
fucked, man."

"That's too soft a word for it," Brad opines, glancing down the hallway
towards the room that Nate is holed up in with yet another committee. His
stomach rumbles. He looks at the square face of his watch. "Time."

"Copy that."

It's another seven minutes before the door opens and Nate emerges.
"Gents," he says crisply. He looks a little worn around the edges.

Brad meets his gaze briefly. "Sir."

"I'd like to walk." Nate buttons up his coat. It's a longer black wool pea coat,
heavy and silk-lined, and it looks so sharp on him that Brad mostly wants to
crowd him up against the nearest wall and divest him of it. Inappropriate for
Senators' offices, Brad.

Nate is oblivious to Brad's thoughts as he continues, "I'm hoping it will wake
me up some." He tugs his scarf up a little, trying to get it closer to his ears.

"I bought one of those French press coffee things the other day," Brad
replies, buttoning his own coat. Ray glances at him, one eyebrow raised, but
Brad ignores him.

Nate's grin is a quick flash. "Coffee's at home, but cold air is right outside
the door."

"Point," Brad allows. He slips the small optics from his pocket. "Be right
back."

As the cold air whips across his face, Brad feels a vague longing for hot
southern California and the smooth ocean. He doesn't like the Atlantic
nearly as much. Lifting the binoculars to his face, he scans first the
buildings on the opposite side of the street. Glossy office windows, with
people-shapes inside. No one is standing and watching. He looks down the
roadway. There's a woman signaling for a cab, a couple entering the
coffeeshop on the corner, and a man holding hands with two small children,
who are tugging him impatiently down the sidewalk.

Walt jogs past him, going to check the three-block route. Brad feels the
irrational urge to vet every person in the coffeeshop, but knows it would be
impossible. He scans up his side of the street. It's the same as the other. He
keeps checking, though, lingering on various people one by one, until Walt
returns. "No obstacles," he reports.

Brad thumbs his radio. "All clear."

Nate and Ray come out, discussing the football post-season, and Brad drops
into place.

They make it two blocks before the first shot misses, sending up a puff of
dust as it hits brick.

The second bullet zips the very edge of Nate's shoulder, spinning him
halfway around. Brad lunges, arms out, getting between Nate and the gun,
and the third slams into his chest. He looks down. It feels like slow-motion.
The slug is embedded in his bulletproof vest. There are drops of Nate's
blood on the pavement, maybe. He thinks people are screaming, and then
things speed up again as he hears the pops from Ray's 9mm. Walt is shoving
both him and Nate backwards into a sheltered doorway.

On the sidewalk, the shooter crumples, and Brad watches Ray and Walt both
stalk forward and stand over him, guns aimed. "Brad," Nate says from where
he's pressed between Brad and the wall, his voice catching, "Brad, there's
blood on you."

Brad doesn't think the guy is getting up again. "It's yours," he gasps,
hurrying through the buttons on Nate's coat – ruined – and pushing it off his
shoulder. He presses his palm to the shallow wound, which is slowly seeping
blood. But it's not gushing, not pumping out of his body in time with his
heart. There's no bullet actually embedded in Nate's flesh, and for that, Brad
is grateful. "Does it hurt?"

Nate's eyes are wide. "No."

The sound of sirens rises through the air. Ray is shouting, "Where the fuck
did he even come from?", but Brad is focused only on Nate. For the first time
in his life, the smell of blood and cordite is making him nauseous.

"You're not breathing very deeply," Nate observes.

"What? Oh. It hurts. Like I got fucking punched."

Nate reaches out, and Brad can see that his fingers are shaking as he pries
the bullet from the vest. Brad wants to cover Nate's hand with his own,
wants to kiss him and taste that he's still alive, but the sirens are too close.
"Fuck, Brad."

"I know," Brad whispers, and then the police and the EMTs and a dozen
more Secret Service agents are upon them, and it's the last he sees of Nate.
Tires squeal as an ambulance rockets him away, flanked by squad cars.

"Sir, are you injured?" one of the EMTs asks, hovering at Brad's side.

"I'll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, but no," Brad replies, elbowing past the
guy, and walking towards the shooter. Ray is lifting a tattered wallet from
an inside pocket on the man's coat. There's a bullet hole in it. Half his face is
gone, and he is completely, obviously dead.

"Schwetje," Ray reads. "Sound fucking familiar at all?"

"Our guy never signed his goddamned name."

"You okay, Brad?"

"The best that I can be right now," Brad replies. He knows he sounds tired.

Ray rises from his crouch, squeezes Brad's arm so hard it hurts, and leaves
him be.

He's not sure what ends up being done with Schwetje's body after he stares
at it, bloody and cooling on the sidewalk, long enough to burn the image into
his brain forever. He gives a statement to the police, two separate Secret
Service agents, a JAG lawyer, someone from White House counsel, Wynn, and
finally the President himself. It's after midnight as they stand just outside
the east door of the Oval Office, looking out at the snow-covered Rose
Garden. Ferrando puffs in a cigar and listens to Brad's account of what
happened.

"You did your job, Sergeant," he says when Brad finishes.

Brad looks out at the winter landscape, not really seeing anything. "It
doesn't feel done, sir."

"It will, son. It will. You can go back to your old life." He pauses. "I'm going to
see about getting you a medal."

Brad scratches his ear through his cap and thinks about what he's going to
say next. If anyone deserves the truth, it's the President. Then he says it.
"Sir, I didn't do it for God and country, or because I was ordered to do so. I
stepped in front of that bullet because I didn't want to see Nate die on a
motherfucking sidewalk."

Ferrando glances at him, but there's no surprise in his expression. The tip of
the cigar glows for a brief moment. "Fick is one of the most exceptional men
I've ever known. I suppose I should tell him that one of these days, before I
lose him to teaching and writing and all the other things he's going to go be
exceptional at outside of Washington. You could certainly do worse than to
have Nate in your life, Sgt. Colbert, but I doubt you could do better."

"Thank you, Mr. President." Brad feels oddly like he's just asked for Nate's
hand, or something equally as stupid and romantic. Christ, he's getting
mushier with age. This has to stop, especially since he's leaving.

Fuck, but it hurts to think about.

"We'll get you back to California as soon as you're ready," Ferrando says. He
stubs out his cigar. Brad knows he's being dismissed, snapping to attention

and saluting, but the President simply holds out a hand for Brad to shake.
"Thank you, Brad. You've served your country with distinction and I won't
soon forget it."

"Thank you, sir."

Ferrando strides into his office, trailed by his agents and passing Wynn, who
is walking towards Brad.

"Gunny," Brad greets him. "Haven't I already seen you once today?"

"That was in an official capacity," Mike says, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Come on, I'll drive you to the residence."

Brad feels suddenly exhausted, in a way he hasn't felt in years. It's like even
his bones are tired, protesting every step towards the car. His chest hurts
where the bullet had hit and a headache is starting to throb in this temples.
"I'm starting to think I'm too fucking old for all of this, Mike," he says quietly.
"Maybe it really is time to retire, carve out some sort of civilian life for
myself."

Mike ignores this. "Come on," he repeats, knocking his arm into Brad's and
nudging him towards the passenger door. "I'm being told that the Vice
President is waiting up for you."

"Is he all right?" he asks now.

"Ten minutes, you can see for yourself."

Brad watches the lights of Washington flicker by as Wynn speeds down
Massachusetts Avenue. "I assume I'm going back to Pendleton now that
Schwetje's dead," he says finally.

"I think we can keep you here a few more days. There's going to be a press
conference tomorrow."

"Are you putting me on camera?"

"Not unless you want to be."

Brad shakes his head. "I don't."

"That's what I thought. But your name is still going to be released, and I am
honestly sorry about that." Mike guides the car left and slows at the gate.
He shows his badge to the naval guard. "You did save the VP's life, Brad.
That's a big deal whether you want the attention or not," he says as they
pull up in front of the residence.

"Make sure that Ray and Walt get their due," Brad insists, unbuckling and
opening the door. "They're heroes, too. You coming in?"

"No. I'll see you tomorrow. And I won't send the car until at least ten, unless
the President insists."

Brad waves and shuts the door, then looks at the house. Lights are shining
through nearly every window. There are two agents he doesn't know

standing on the sidewalk, and Rudy is near the front door. "I'm glad you're
alive, brother," he says with a smile as Brad approaches, and pulls him into a
hug.

Brad returns the hug, smacking Rudy on the back. "Thanks, man."

"Now maybe he'll go to sleep." Rudy jerks his thumb at the house.

"We can hope." Brad opens the door and goes inside. He sets his hat and
gloves on the foyer table, and turns off the lamp that's burning. Nate doesn't
immediately appear, so he switches off several more lamps as he moves
through the house, aiming for the study. But Nate's not there either. Brad
turns off the light and closes the door.

He sees the door to the basement is open and the stairs are lit, so he goes
down. "Nate?"

"Yeah, I'm down here."

Nate is sitting at the square table in the kitchen, a place Brad is fairly
certain he's never spent more than five minutes the entire time he's lived
there. There's a mug in front of him, a bottle of brandy beside it, and a plate
with what looks like some sort of stir-fry. He doesn't appear to be actually
eating. "I didn't even know we had all those vegetables," he says as Brad
approaches.

Brad turns a chair around and straddles it. "That's because I took over the
grocery ordering from your secretary, who apparently spent three years
ordering you nothing but apples, Wheaties and whole-grain bread." He picks
up Nate's fork and spears a piece of broccoli. Whatever Nate had done to it,
it's a little salty, but still crisp-tender. "Not bad. What are you drinking?"

"Decaf," Nate groans, pushing it towards him. Brad tries it. It's heavy on
brandy and sugar.

He takes another sip before announcing, "Wynn says he won't send a car for
us before ten tomorrow."

"That's nice of him." Nate takes his coffee back, adding more liquor. "I sort of
want to get drunk out of my fucking mind," he mutters. "Just – forget
everything. And before you launch into some lecture, I turned down the
prescription painkillers."

"You'd be better off just getting some sleep," Brad says quietly.

Nate gets up, taking the stir-fry with him, and scrapes what's left into the
garbage. Then he sets the plate in the sink but doesn't turn back around.
Brad sees him grip the edge of the countertop so hard that his knuckles
turn white and his shoulders rise from the strain. He gets up from the chair
and approaches Nate, first laying a hand gently on his back so he knows
Brad's there, then sliding his arms around Nate's waist. "Hey."

Nate shudders and his head drops forward. Brad presses a kiss to the back
of his neck, then a kiss to the bandage on his shoulder. "I don't-" Nate starts.
He stops briefly, then continues. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel

about all of this. I should be angry, right? Schwetje tried to kill me. He
fucking shot you trying to get to me!"

"I had armor," Brad reminds him gently, molding his body to Nate's. "You
didn't."

"I just feel numb," Nate whispers. "And part of me – you're going to think I've
lost my fucking mind, Brad, when I say this – part of me is mad that the
motherfucker is dead, because it means you're leaving."

Brad drops a kiss underneath his ear. "Me too." What else can do he do but
admit he feels the same way?

Nate turns in his arms. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes and his
mouth is a hard, bitter line. Brad reaches up, tries to smooth it with his
thumb. That earns him an upward turn of one corner, and then Nate is
pressing his face into Brad's neck. "Take me to bed," he says. "Please."

Half of Brad wants to just push him down onto the tiled floor, and the other
half wants to pick Nate up in his arms and carry him to the nearest bed. But
both of them are sore, so the floor is out of the question, and he's not sure
he could carry Nate up two flights of stairs right now. Especially not in front
of anyone that might be in the house.

"You go first, to be safe," he whispers in Nate's ear. "I'll pick up a little down
here, then come up."

"Okay." Nate kisses him hotly and goes. Brad watches him walk to the stairs,
because he can't not.

He has a few swallows of the brandy straight from the bottle, in between
rinsing Nate's mug and picking up a chunk of carrot that must have flown off
the counter when Nate was chopping. With his damned cas-evac shoulder,
too. Jesus, Nate.

Then he goes upstairs. Nate is naked except for the bright white bandage,
kneeling on the bed, slowly stroking his cock. Brad leans against the wall
and watches, taking his time in loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Waiting isn't going to gain us more time," Nate says. "You should get the
fuck over here."

Brad yanks off his tie and stalks over to the bed. Nate grabs his wrist and
pulls him down, hard, and then Nate's straddling him, lowering his head.

Teeth scrape over his collarbone and Brad hisses. "Yes, that. More of that.
Put your mark all over me." So that tomorrow when I leave, I carry you with
me. The bruise on his chest won't be enough.

Nate's fingers dig hard into his hips, hard enough that there will probably
be fingerprint-shaped smudges tomorrow. "How did this happen that you
ended up mine?" he breathes in Brad's ear, and flicks Brad's earlobe with
his tongue.

"Somebody wanted to kill you, sir, that's how." Brad arches up against him,
rubbing his cock shamelessly against Nate's thigh.

"Oh, that," Nate groans, settling his full weight down onto Brad and sliding
his hands up to wrap around Brad's wrists. "How bad do you hurt?"

"It's tolerable. How's the shoulder?"

"I fell off my bike once as a kid, that hurt more."

"You only fell off once?" He flexes his fingers against Nate's grip and grins.

Nate's grin is sharp and promising. "I'm a quick study."

Standing barefoot in the guest room, Brad looks down at his service uniform
where he's laid it out on the bed. His suits have been zipped into their travel
bag, and the rest of his things are packed and waiting by the door so that
they're ready when the time comes. He'd made himself get up and do it last
night after Nate had fallen asleep, moving soundlessly through the house
and retrieving his items from all the places they'd ended up over the last six
months.

Six months. Brad can't remember the last time he'd spent six months in a
place with a decent bed, easy access to good food, anything he could have
needed close at hand. Time to go back to making do, time to sweat off
twenty pounds in Venezuela and then freeze his balls off in Alaska. Time to
burn the fat from his soul once again.

The thought makes him feel hollow inside. He pulls on the uniform and
ignores the bitter taste in his mouth. Focus, Colbert.

"I think this is the first time I've seen you in uniform," Nate says from behind
him, and Brad turns, hands busy with his dress shirt. Nate is leaning against
the doorframe, arms crossed over his pale, moss-colored button-down.

"Are we trying to match today or was that unintentional?" Brad's quick with
the tie, and after all these years, his fingers can find the exact spot for the
clip without him needing to look.

Nate's smile is bittersweet. "Completely unintentional, I assure you." He
takes in Brad's uniform jacket, heavy with badges and ribbons. "I'm
surprised you don't fall over in that."

"I've been a lot of places, done a lot of things," Brad replies. Without
meaning to, he touches the shiny-new Vice Presidential Service Badge. Nate
sees it, and his smile turns mischievous. "I didn't mean it like that," Brad
laughs. He picks up his garrison cap.

"It's a singular claim." Nate unfolds himself and steps closer, his hands
rising, but then he stops. Brad lifts an eyebrow at him. "I don't want to mess
you up," Nate says.

Too late. "We should go."

Nate nods but doesn't move. "When I was a kid, the thing I was most afraid
of was the water," he says quietly, "and when I was at BRC, the last school I

wanted was advanced water survival. And my commanding officer saw that
in me, somehow, and assigned me to it. The first day in the pool at Las
Pulgas, when I was holding on to this fucking fifty-pound barbell and
sinking, part of me was convinced that I was going to drown and that I'd
never see anyone I knew or loved ever again. That I was going to die without
being able to tell my parents or my sisters one more time that I loved them.
It's a thought I didn't waste a second on in Iraq, but for a minute in that pool,
it was all I could comprehend."

He lifts a hand and touches his shoulder, where Brad knows the bandage is.
Winter sunlight through the window plays across his face, highlighting
curves and angles, banishing the darkness under his eyes for brief,
flickering moments. He's staring at Brad with a hungry, almost startled
gaze, as if he's coming to some conclusion that he truly hadn't expected.

Brad knows that look. He'd seen it on himself in the mirror. "Don't, Nate," he
murmurs. "I know."

Nate nods again. His throat works as he swallows.

"We should go," Brad repeats.

"Yeah." Nate turns and walks out of the room. Brad picks up his overcoat
and follows.

Once they're at the White House, Nate is shown into the Oval Office. Kocher
comes up next to Brad. "The press conference is going to start in about
fifteen minutes. If you'd like to be in the room, I'd go now."

Brad thanks him and walks quickly to the press room. It's already packed
with reporters and cameramen, and he slides in along the back wall. News
of the assassination attempt had hit the media almost immediately after it
had happened, but this is the official response. In front of him, two CNN
lackeys are speculating on who will be taking Nate's slot on the ballot.

Silence reigns once Sixta enters. He's trained them well, Brad thinks,
suppressing a chuckle. Sixta wastes no time, giving the President's
introduction in his distinctive bark. Ferrando walks to the podium, Nate
behind and to his right.

"Brad," Wynn says in his ear, and Brad starts. He turns his head. Wynn is
frowning. "I just got off the phone with your company commander. There's a
flight out of Dulles in an hour, he wants you on it."

Fuck. Brad stares straight ahead again, over the President's shoulder to
Nate behind him. The lights are too bright, he knows that Nate can't see him
here in the back of the room. "Roger that."

The President begins to speak, and Wynn leans in closer. "There's a car
outside for you. Your bags are in it. And the Vice President wanted me to
tell you that he left something in the outside pocket of one of them."

"Thanks, Mike." He shakes Wynn's hand.

"Take care of yourself."

Brad doesn't let himself look until the plane has taken off. It's only a small
slip of paper, and in block letters, Nate has written NO GOODBYES.

He leans his forehead against the tiny, cool airplane window and closes his
eyes.

Brad goes back to California, back to his stale apartment in Oceanside, back
to Pendleton. He does training exercises in Hawaii, in Guam, in the middle of
the Pacific fucking Ocean. He lives in a rubber boat with three other guys for
a week off the coast of New Zealand. He surfs when he can, takes his bike
up and down the coast on weekends.

He finds himself watching more news than he has in years, the TV constantly
on either CNN or C-SPAN, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nate and hating the
way he feels like he's been punched every time he sees the man.

Mike Wynn calls, twice. The first is to ask if he's settling back into being a
Recon Marine again. "Like breathing," Brad had told him. The second is to
tell him that no further threats had been received that could be attributed
to anyone even associated with Schwetje, calming fears of there having been
a leak in the Secret Service.

"The things in his notes - frankly, after his twenty years of being a Beltway
insider, I'm not surprised he knew them," Mike had said.

Schwetje had left behind a wife and child. Brad felt bad for them, in an
abstract sort of way. No person deserved to lose another like that. The
investigation had determined that he'd gone off medications that no one had
even known he was on, not even his wife, and he'd simply lost control and
become fixated on Nate.

In the aftermath of the attempt, Patterson had offered to step down and let
Nate claim the VP slot once again, but Nate had declined. This Brad read in
an email from Wright, which had arrived in his inbox late one night when
he'd been unable to sleep. Thought you might like to know, the subject line
had read.

Nate had given a speech while Brad was out in the rubber boat, but he'd
invested in - and modified - a DVR for a reason, and it was there waiting for
him when he got back. Nate was doing a few campaign stops,
wholeheartedly endorsing the new VP candidate. Brad had read online that
there was an unofficial, mock slogan making the rounds: If you liked Fick,
you'll love Patterson.

It makes him laugh, and it makes him hurt, because he misses Nate so much
that he has to shut it away and refuse to think about it, because it's like an
entire part of himself is missing.

On screen, Nate takes the stage in a charcoal gray suit and a tie that Brad
recognizes instantly; Nate's a thief. He's hard before he even thinks about it,
his body remembering what they'd done, remembering Nate's bare skin
almost before he can pull the image up in his mind. He palms his cock
through his shorts, squeezing as Nate begins to talk.

He misses most of what Nate says, his eyes fixated on Nate's mouth, and
following Nate's hands as they move in elegant, yet strong gestures. He can
watch it again later for the words; right now the need to indulge in this
memory is too strong to resist. He jams his hand down his shorts like it's
combat, not the privacy of his own apartment, and it takes no more than a
few tight strokes before he's coming, arching hard up off the sofa and
wishing that when he opens his eyes again, Nate will be there.

"Fuck," he breathes out, panting. But there's still no one there to hear it.

Later, Ray calls. "How is he?" Brad asks.

"Something is missing, man," Ray says. There's semi-audible chatter in the
background. "He won't really talk to me, though. You were the only one he'd
ever really talk to about stuff. But we'll be out of Washington soon enough, I
guess."

"Where to?" He squashes the voice inside him clamoring here, California,
come out here.

"He hasn't said, you know? So I don't have a fucking clue."

Brad is hopeful, then, just a little.

There's a voicemail when he gets home from a run, the weekend before the
election. (He's already voted, absentee.) "Hey, I'm sorry I missed you. I just
wanted to hear your voice again," Nate says, and all Brad's nerve endings
throb in relief. "Ray's probably told you I'm a fucking mess, but I'm not free
of this yet. You don't have to wait for me, Brad, but..." There's a pause. "I'm
still in love with you."

He listens to the message once more, then gets the open bottle of tequila
from the kitchen counter. He sinks down onto the couch but doesn't move to
drink, not for a while. Then he gets so smashed that he throws up in the
morning before he goes to work.

Ferrando and Patterson win the election by a narrow margin, as Brad
boards a ship that will not return to California for six weeks.

Brad's just hung up his jump-rope when the doorbell rings. He'd only gotten
back the day before, and he's not expecting anyone, but there have been a
few reporters who have found out where he lives, and some of them aren't
adverse to showing up at his door and trying to ask questions. "Who is it?"
he calls.

"It's me," comes Nate's voice.

Brad wrenches the door open, not ashamed in the slightest of how quickly
he does it. "Nate. What are you doing here?"

Nate grins at him, broad and sunny. Christ, his mouth. "Remember how you
were going to kidnap me to California and lock me in your apartment so that
no one else could touch me ever again? Well, you let down your end of the

fucking bargain there, Colbert, so I had to take matters into my own hands
and kidnap myself to California."

He steps inside, prying the door from Brad's suddenly numb hand and
shutting it.

"Where's your protection detail?" Brad makes himself ask, stepping back to
look out the window, keeping a couple meters between himself and Nate,
just in case the Secret Service suddenly barges in.

"I fired all of them. Except Ray. He refused to be fired. So he's parked out on
the street in that black Lincoln."

Brad sees it. He'll have to go harass Person later. Once he's done with Nate.
It might be a while. "And Gunny Wynn let you get away with it?"

"Oh, I told him that I had a private bodyguard waiting for me in California."

Brad resists the terrible pun he wants to make, and the look on Nate's face
tells him that Nate's already thought it. He smiles and shakes his head.

"He seemed to know immediately to whom I was referring," Nate continues.
He steps forward, hooking a finger in the waistband of Brad's sweaty
workout shorts and tugging him close. Brad steps in, feeling the warmth of
Nate's body against his own. He runs the back of his hand down the side of
Nate's neck and feels him swallow.

Nate feels solid and real and here.

"You know I won't always be around, right?" Brad murmurs, already
dreading the first time he'll have to ship out and leave Nate behind. "I'm
sure the Secret Service isn't too keen on how close we are to Mexico."

"I'll up my protection numbers when you're not here. There's a field office in
Santa Ana. Not to mention Riverside and LA."

"That's not quite what I mean." Are you going to stay here when I'm not and
wait for me to come back, are you going to sleep in my bed and cook in my
kitchen when I'm gone - and when I'm not? He rubs his thumb over Nate's
collarbone, dipping beneath the open collar of his button-down. Southern
California is too warm for Nate to keep dressing like this. Brad will have to
introduce him to board shorts and threadbare t-shirts, like a teenager. It's a
pleasing mental image, and one he can quite possibly make real. He strokes
the hollow of Nate's throat.

When he'd lived in the residence, it had felt like the world's most grown-up
game of playing house, and there had always been the knowledge in the
back of his mind that he'd only been allowed in (at least at first) because it
was his job to protect. That domesticity had been born out of necessity and
he'd known that it would come to an end. This, however, if this is what he
thinks – it doesn't ever have to end.

It's been a really fucking long time since Brad wanted that with anyone.
Wanted enough that his teeth ached like he'd chewed too many MRE cocoa
packets. He doesn't know if he should tell Nate that his hands had itched to

touch every single time he'd seen Nate on television since he'd been back
here, his mouth had wanted Nate's mouth every time he'd watched him talk
on camera. That he'd only ever jerked off to the memories of what they'd
done in Washington.

He bumps his fingers against Nate's jaw so that Nate meets his gaze. "Live
with me for real," he says softly. "I know it's crazy, but - stay with me and
sleep in my bed every night, Nate. With me."

Nate leans forward so that their mouths are almost brushing and says
without hesitation, "Yes."

Brad grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him down the hallway to
the bedroom. He aims Nate towards the bed and pushes, and Nate goes
willingly, still completely dressed, sprawling on Brad's rumpled sheets.

Brad climbs on top of him, cradles Nate's head in his hands, and kisses him
the way he's been wanting to for months. Drags his tongue over Nate's lips,
then pushes into his mouth, needing to taste. Nate lets him in, slicks his
tongue over Brad's.

Brad feels frantic, like he can't get close enough. I need you.

"People are going to know," Nate gasps, pulling back from the kiss, nipping
at Brad's bottom lip as he goes.

"Then it's a good thing that you worked so hard to have Don't Ask, Don't Tell
repealed." He tugs Nate's shirt from his waistband and swiftly unbuttons it.

"I meant everyone else."

"I don't care." He skims his palms down Nate's sides to his hips. "Do you?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I did. For fuck's sake, Brad, I'd still be
miserable in D.C. if I hadn't met you, and you know it."

I do know, I swear. "I could always retire," he suggests, only half joking. "You
could be my sugar daddy, Mr. Vice President."

Nate rolls them over so that he's straddling Brad's chest, his knees under
Brad's arms. He pops the button of his fly, then draws down the zipper. Brad
lifts a hand to help, but Nate slaps it away. "Did you miss this?" he asks,
almost breathless, as he frees his cock. His other hand slides around the
back of Brad's head, and Brad lets himself be lifted up, Nate's fingers strong
against the base of his skull.

"Every fucking day," Brad replies, licking his lips just to see the look on
Nate's face, and then he opens his mouth.

"I think I might write a book," Nate says, coming back out of the bathroom
with a washcloth in hand. He tosses it at Brad.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Brad wipes the sweat and come and spit off of his skin, then looks at the
clock on the nightstand. It's not even six. "Will it make mention of the fact
that we just had sex in the middle of the afternoon?" he asks, laughing,
rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"It's the new me." Nate grins as he grabs his boxers from the floor. "Do you
have any food? I couldn't eat on the plane. And don't tell me you'll make me a
fucking sandwich."

"Grilled cheese," Brad deadpans. He rolls to the side of the bed and sits up.
"Should I go tell Ray to find a place to bunk for the night? There's a Quality
Inn that's pretty close."

"Good idea. I think the fact that only a half-dozen people know I'm here
makes this a fairly safe location." Nate leans in for a brief kiss.

"Downright clandestine," Brad agrees. He resists the urge to pull Nate down
on his lap. You, me, Ray. "Who are the other three?"

"Wynn, of course, and Ferrando, and Patterson."

Brad moves clothes aside with his foot until he finds his briefs and t-shirt.
He pulls them on and stands up. "I'll have to buy a house eventually, you
know. It won't look right for a former Vice President to be living in a cheap
fucking apartment."

Nate catches his wrist. "I don't give a damn, Brad."

"I do," Brad says softly, cupping Nate's jaw and kissing the corner of his
mouth. He leaves the I want you to be happy unspoken between them.

Nate keeps looking at him, his expression serious yet soft, the whole time
they're going out into the kitchen and as Brad rummages through the
fridge. "My cheese is really fucking moldy, so we're ordering pizza," Brad
says, bumping the door shut with his hip. He meets Nate's gaze. "What is it?"

"You wouldn't let me say that I loved you, before you left," Nate says, the look
in his eyes pinning Brad in place. "You should have let me. But - I know why
you wouldn't, all right? I know it's been a long fucking time since you let
anybody get this close to you, but I'm not just knocking on your door here,
Brad, I'm storming your goddamned castle and you'll have to kill me to get
rid of me."

Something rocks hard inside of Brad, stunned at the force behind Nate's
declaration. He sucks in a breath, says, "You left me that message once. I
should have called back. Instead, I got really fucking drunk."

Apprehension flickers across Nate's face. "What would you have said?"

"That I'm still in love with you, too."

Nate smiles like he can't help it and Brad smiles back, reaching for him,
dragging his fingers over Nate's skin. Nate steps close, rubs the curve of
Brad's ear between his thumb and forefinger. It makes Brad shiver, and he

catches Nate's mouth, bites gently on his lower lip. "I mean it," he whispers,
as honest as he's ever been. "I love you down to the bone."

They stay like that, neither one of them moving, until Nate's stomach growls
and Brad starts to laugh. Nate punches him hard in the arm. "Shut up.
Didn't you say something about pizza?"

Brad kisses him once more, firm and quick. "You bet, sir."

Nate writes his book. The dedication reads: For B., who saved me.

End Notes

This is my entry for War Big Bang 2010. Thanks to my fab artists,
Cala Jane and Laynie. Their works can be viewed here: http://cala-
jane.livejournal.com/250897.html and here:
http://freetodream5.livejournal.com/242245.html. Thank-you also to
my amazing betas Ruth, Devin and Sam, who all put a lot of time
into this for me.

Please

drop by the archive and comment

to let the author know if you enjoyed their

work!

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