So, without further ado:
Chuck AU, in which Walt is the Intersect, Ray has excellent taste, Nate is zen, and Brad hates his job and life
Walt Hasser looks like a boy next door, who you'd proudly introduce to your grandmother. He looks like he's been brought up on corn and sprinkles in Wet Dream, Kansas.
He certainly doesn't look like someone whose brain is playing host to the combined resources of the NSA and the CIA.
"What the fuck were you thinking, Person?" Brad asks. Nate glances up reproachfully but holds back a comment about the inside voice.
"I don't know, homes, I thought you were dead. And you told me not to trust anyone in the agency!"
"You could have sent the files to Nate."
"You told me not to trust anyone in the agency," Ray repeats. "How was I supposed to know it excludes Nate? You should be more specific in the directions you dispense while faking your own death. For all I knew, Nate could have been the evil mastermind behind it all. No offence."
"None taken," Nate shrugs. He looks mildly amused by the whole thing, the fucker. "In fact, I am quite flattered by the mastermind comment."
"You're welcome, homes," Ray nods magnanimously.
"For fuck's sake," Brad shakes his head, giving up on Ray. He should have done that a long time ago. Instead, he turns to glare at Nate. "Why aren't you pissed off?"
"Because I actually checked Hasser's file." The Like you should have is unspoken, gentle but pointed. "He's an ex-Marine, getting his degree now, and doesn't have as much as an unpaid parking ticket. Could be worse."
"Yeah, homes, I could have sent the files to an evil mastermind bent on using the Intersect to destroy mankind and shit."
Brad really hates his life.
"Let's just deal with the situation as it is and not concentrate on what we can't change, shall we?" Nate says in his bright voice of a kindergarten teacher he usually employs when Person is being difficult. Or, fine, when Brad is sulking, except Brad doesn't sulk. "Brad, you're going to take over as Hasser's handler, with Person and Trombley on your team."
Correction. Now Brad really hates his life.
the vampire AU sequel
The first rule of the Vampire Club is, of course, that you don't talk about the Vampire Club.
"That's not really true, Brad," Nate tells him, smiling with mild exasperation, as he does.
As far as Brad has gathered, it's more like guidelines, not rules, really. There's some fancy stuff about bloodlines and about keeping to the sidelines of society, but this is probably because vampires are snobby fucks who don't like the society all that much.
It suits Brad, to be honest. Most of the time.
"There's someone I need to tell," he announces at one point and Nate shakes his head.
"Better cut your losses," he says, and it's not a specific order not to. Brad isn't sure if he could disobey if Nate made it an order. It could be the whole creator slash maker slash whatever the fuck they're calling it, but there's something in him that snaps to attention whenever Nate looks at him, and he needs to supress the urge to roll over and beg sometimes.
"There's someone I need to tell," he repeats stubbornly, his voice flat. Nate sighs at that, the exhale loud and strange. Brad is so unused to hearing Nate breathe at all it sends a shiver down his spine.
"I won't wait with dinner," is all Nate says.
There's an old photograph in Nate's study, black and white faded into yellow, the frame more dusty than all of the others, half-turned towards the wall, facing away from Nate's desk, as if he couldn't look at it and yet didn't have the heart to take it down from the shelf.
It's a family portrait, posed and serious, the woman's hands resting calmly in her lap, the little girl sitting on the floor, her dress pooled around her in a studied manner. The man looks enough like Nate that Brad does a double take the first time 'round.
"Great grandnephew," Nate explains, not even looking up from his book.
Brad has a feeling he left out a few 'greats' in there, but he doesn't ask. Apparently, asking a vampire about his or her age is a great faux pas, because vampires are a bunch of touchy pussies.
There even more touchy about the fucking bloodlines, and it extends to more than just who made whom and shit.
Brad feels like this is important, the way Nate imparts this piece of information, but he's missing parts of the puzzle. It's alright. He has time. More of it than you could possibly imagine, actually.
"Shut the fuck up, get out of town, and then come back with your brain fixed, because it's obvious it got rattled during that motherfucking spill you took from your bike," Ray tells him, five minutes afer Brad comes by, once they're past what Ray considers manly hugs and is really just Ray climbing all over Brad.
Once Brad dropped the vampire bomb.
That invitation thing is bullshit, for those of you keeping score. There's only a slight discomfort as he passes the treshold, a chill running through him.
in which Nate might or might not be an Indiana Jones
Just about the first thing they tell you is that real archeologists are nothing like Indiana fucking Jones. Half of the classroom obligingly groans in mock-disappointment.
In his second years of studies Nate goes on his first dig with the rest of professor Ferrando's hand-picked students. They get shot at by the insurgents. Half of the class changes majors. Four people land in therapy. Nate writes an article about the thousand-years-old dagger and plans his PhD thesis.
It starts like this.
"Hey, boss, you think we could go on a quest to find the motherfucking Excalibur?" Ray asks one day, propped up on Nate's desk. He's wearing the damn fedora again.
"There's no actual proof that the Excalibur even existed, Ray," Nate says patiently. "In fact, I'm pretty sure it's completely mythical, based on..."
"All I mean is, it would be fucking awesome to get that. I mean, I always found the stone shit suspect, and really, it takes bigger balls to actually stick the fucking thing into the rock in the first place, but this is some epic shit, we'd be the envy of all the other tomb raiding teams."
Nate sighs. "The Excalibur wasn't the Sword in the Stone, Ray. It's a common misconception," he says absently, checking his mail. It's neatly sorted, which means Walt has been in the office this morning already.
Nate knows how he acquired Walt. He gave an ad in the university paper, looking for an assistant who didn't mind strange hours and weird people hanging out in Nate's office. It wasn't quite phrased like that, but there you were.
He's still not sure how he acquired Ray. One day Ray just happened to appear by their side, running from vaguely the same direction, and yelling at Brad to move the fuck faster, because those arrows weren't fucking kidding.
Apparently, these things happen.
"All I'm saying is, this is some mythic piece of a sword," Ray says.
Nate thinks he can tell where this is going. "Is this entire discussion an intro to a 'that's what she said' joke?" he asks suspiciously.
Ray shrugs. "Maybe," he admits.
in which Brad pisses off a witch, and they might or not be in the Supernatural universe
Nate likes to think that not many things could surprise him now. Not since his run-in with that poltergeist six years ago, and the subsequent madness his life spiralled into.
There was that vampire coven in Utah, that was surprising. But not many things since then.
So when Brad opens the door, looking remarkably like a woman and yet still like Brad, Nate doesn't even blink. His mouth might twitch a little, but that's all.
Brad is still fucking tall, a good inch on Nate. Same eyes, same mouth. Longer hair, but not by much. Although this might be a recent change, because they are unevenly chopped off, as if someone took the scissors to them while angry, drunk, or both.
"If I wanted someone to ogle me, sir, I would have called Person," Brad mutters.
"Sorry," Nate nods. "So, what's new?" he asks.
"And if I wanted unnecessary sarcasm, I would have called Poke," Brad moves to the side, letting Nate in wordlessly. Nate steps over the treshold, and even though it's not yet dark enough to be suspicious, Brad's stance relaxes.
They have learned that one the hard way in the fucking Utah.
"Let me guess," Nate drops his bag to the floor and turns to look at Brad. "You pissed off a witch."
"She took objection to my foul language."
"I thought we agreed we don't piss off witches anymore after that unfortunate business with Trombley?"
"I didn't even know she was a witch," Brad says, and his voice rises higher than usual. He doesn't look happy with that. "She looked like your usual run-of-the-mill hippie liberal Ivy League sorority chick. Your type, really," he adds after a moment of consideration. Nate shakes his head.
"You know where to find her?" he asks, because it's easier to jump right into it as if it was another case, and not dwell on the fact that Brad's jeans, a bit ill-fitting now, hang low on his hips and that he seems to be free-balling it. In a manner of speaking.
Or the fact that, while the sights are nice now, Nate wants his Brad back.
"Yes, of course. That's exactly why I'm still, doing fuck-all and stocking up on tampax. I've always appreciated how astute you are, sir."
Nate calls Jo; he figures that by the last count she owes him a favor. He barely manages to give her the description Brad offered before Jo's laughing hard, choking on her words, chortling when she tries to speak.
"Jo, what the hell?"
"Who is it? No, don't tell me," she sounds likes she's crying from laughter now. "How does Colbert look with tits? You should take pictures. I'll pay you good cash."
Brad is looking at him suspiciously from the couch. His legs are propped up on the coffee table, long and barefoot, his jeans rolled up to his ankles. 'What the fuck's her deal?' he mouths at Nate, who shrugs and rolls his eyes for a good measure.
"Did you become psychic when we weren't looking?" he asks pleasantly, not bothering to deny her conclusions. She is, after all, right on the money.
"Please. Your witch sounds like Rita, and she's kind of a one trick pony when it comes to idiots who piss her off. And there aren't many people you'd cash in that favor I really don't owe you because it was all your fault to begin with. I had that poltergeist right where I wanted it."
"Yeah. In your house," Nate nods. It's an old argument.
Brad purses his lips, shifts impatiently. He's usually perfectly able to remain still for hours on end, but Nate supposes wearing a new body could itch in some uncomfortable places.
And that's not a helpful thought to have.
Brad catches Nate's gaze and rolls his eyes pointedly, waving his hand for Nate to hurry the fuck up.
"Anyway," Jo says, and she's probably shrugging. "Since you sound like your usual self, and that's your self with a dick, it's one of your little friends. Although, if I'm mistaken and it's not Colbert... please tell me it's Person. I'd kill to get my hands on Person with a pussy."
"I really did not want to hear that," he mutters. "Jo."
"Fine. I'll text you her address, she should be in her place in Nevada, or get there soon enough. Just, you know. Don't piss her off. But if you do, I have a few dresses you can borrow. You'd look great in my green halter neck, it would really bring out your eyes."
"I'll keep that in mind," he says dryly.