Fandom: Generation Kill
Summary: Vampires AU.
Disclaimer: based on fictionalised characters as portrayed on a tv show.
A/N: Written for hc_bingo, prompt: vampires: fresh bite / first transformation
"Drink," says the voice in the darkness.
It's kind and steady, but brooking no arguments. Brad obeys instinctively, before he can even think about it, before he can even start to wonder who the fuck it is, and where they fuck they are, and of course, what the fuck happened to his bike.
Something's pressing against his lips and he obediently laps at the liquid filling his mouth. It's lukewarm and sweet and strange, but at the same time it's familiar and hot against his tongue, burning his throat like a shot of good booze does, warming him up from the inside.
"Yes, that's good," someone says, a hand moving to cradle the back of Brad's head, hold him steady as he drinks. It's comforting, even though it shouldn't be, in the near total darkness, with someone who could just as well be a total stranger.
Brad doesn't care, not now. It feels too good.
The warmth spreads out through his body, pleasant and buzzing, but then heating up until it's too hot, until it's molten lava in his veins, too much. "Don't," he tries to say, but the pressing against his lips doesn't go away.
The hand on the back of his head is holding him firmly, stronger than it has any right to be, whoever it is is cradling Brad close now as he's trashing on the ground. His fingers dig into the dirt as he tries to scramble away, get away from this, from everything. He can hear distant voices he wasn't aware of before, sounds of night animals miles away, everything around him overloading his senses.
"It's okay," the voice says, tinged with wry humour, as if acknowledging his own lie. "It's alright."
It's darkness after this, and it tastes like a blessing.
Brad wakes up in a bed this time, a really fucking big one, the sheets pooled around his waist. They look like silk, but can't be, too scratchy and uncomfortable against his skin. Everything feels scratchy and uncomfortable on his skin, including the air.
The blinds are closed shut, the lights are off, but Brad can see everything, clear as day. It's fucking strange. He wonders if maybe he shared some weird shit joint with Ray yesterday, and if maybe they could use this shit on their next mission; much better than the NVGs.
Whatever it is, it doesn't quite explain where he is, and why. He moves to investigate, but standing up requires more effort than it should, as if his bones had been melted down, his whole body liquid and unhelpful. Numb, as if his limbs has fallen asleep, but he feels that in his stomach, too, and in his chest and his skull. Every step is hard work, but he gets to the window and reaches for the piece of string hanging on the side.
"Don't," someone says behind him and Brad starts. He prides himself on a better situational awareness, no one should be able to get that close without him noticing. Fucking Person and his whiskey tango weed.
But when he turns to look, the man is twelve feet away, in the doorway. He wasn't speaking loudly, it shouldn't have been so clear in Brad's ears.
"I wouldn't," the man says, gesturing at the blinds. "The sun's high up, I'd hate if you wasted all my efforts."
He looks eerily familiar, like someone Brad had seen once. Or a hundred different times, but never up close, always from the corner of his eye, on the perifery. "What the fuck?" he asks, because he feels both tired and as if he could run for miles, the excess energy coiled up somewhere deep inside, under the numbness.
The guy nods approvingly. "Right to the point. Most people go with the classic 'where am I', I'm glad to see some variety."
"Most people? What the fuck is this, Kidnappers'R'Us?"
The corner of the guy's mouth twitches, and he lets out a breath, and Brad freezes, because one, he heard that, the slow exhale, and two, this is the first sound like that he heard, more of a sigh than an actual breath, because apart from this, the stranger (relative stranger, fine) is not breathing at all.
Neither is Brad.
His legs almost give up from under him and he sways, hand on the wall to steady himself. The guy is by his side in a fraction of a second, Brad almost doesn't see him move.
Fucking hell. He really hopes this is because of some really good drugs, because otherwise, he's fucked.
Except he didn't take any, last night. He remembers it now, the night out with the guys in McRory's, then the drive home. The truck swerving suddenly, the screech of the tires and then darkness, and the pain in his side spreading throughout his body, the pounding in his skull, and then silence.
"I'm really not doing this right," the guy says quietly, more to himself than to Brad. Brad almost wants to laugh, but the panic still has him by the throat. He'd hyperventilate, if he was still fucking breathing.
"Doing what exactly?" he asks, voice hoarse, and the guy looks up at him, his eyes worried and green to the point of ridiculousness. Nothing is that green.
"Let's try again. I'm Nate," he says and Brad nods silently and waits. "And you are Brad Colbert. And you died yesterday."
He had a feeling it was going to be something like that.
There's no sign of any injury anywhere on his body. He checked thoroughly, with the help of a mirror (the reflection thing is bullshit, apparently). There's still some blood and dirt caked on the side of his head, his boxers are blackened on the side where the blood seeped through his pants.
Nate has apparently cleaned most of it out while Brad was... well, not sleeping, really. (Dead to the world? You could as well bring all the lame jokes now.) Nate seems vaguely apologetic about that, about cleaning the blood away with a moist towel.
"Don't sweat it. You already killed me, I don't think we can get more intimate than that."
Nate shakes his head. "You were already dead."
Brad believes him. The local news channel reports on the accident, the pile-up on the highway, reporting seven dead, one body still missing. He barely recognises his bike, a pile of scrap metal on the side of the road.
He fucking loved that bike.
"I know it's a lot to take in..." Nate says.
"I fucking loved that bike," Brad tells him mournfully.
Nate blinks at him. Brad feels a surge of satisfaction at that, at the flicker of surprise on Nate's face, disbelief instead of concern.
The buzzing in his head gets louder.
The blood thing almost makes him retch. It would have, if he had anything in his stomach at all. He remembers drinking it last night, straight from Nate's vein. It's much more vivid now, like a technicolor movie playing under his eyelids.
Warm and sticky and red, glistening in the darkness.
He feels hungry despite himself.
"Shouldn't I be feeding from an unwilling victim, or whatever the fuck?"
Nate shrugs and hands him the mug. It's warm to the touch, heated up in the fucking microwave. "If you like. I've always thought it was too much fuss," he says, prissy and dry.
"You're such a piece of shit," Brad mutters. He thinks he actually fucking likes Nate. It's not the 'gave me eternal life' bullshit, because he's still a bit bitter about that one, he never asked for it and would have to think long and hard to decide if he wants it now. But once you get past this, and past the part where he still knows fuck about Nate's real motives... there's something easy about him, something that calls to Brad.
Maybe it is the 'gave me eternal life' thing, who the fuck knows? Brad had seen a couple of vamp flicks, and while they had some retarded ideas, maybe some intel was solid, maybe there was some sort of an unholy bond or whatever.
He drinks the whole mug in one go. He's prepared for it to taste vile, but instead, it slides down his throat like warm honey. "Not bad," he mutters.
He has excellent timing, because the shivers kick in right after that.
Nate holds him down, fingers around Brad's wrists, and he's pretty sure there will be bruises. Would be bruises, if he wasn't a fucking vampire now.
It feels a bit like being burned from the inside, and it feels a lot like just being burned.
"Let's get back to the part where you let me die," Brad mutters, his eyes still closed. He's in a boneless heap on the kitchen floor, and Nate's kneeling beside him, fingers absently running through Brad's hair, soothing and instinctive. He doesn't seem to realise he's doing it, but Brad doesn't point that out. It doesn't feel half bad.
"It's just the first few times. Your body's transforming," he says, the slight hesitance in his voice making Brad look up, raise his eyebrow in a question. Nate's mouth tightens and he shrugs with one shoulder. "Some say it's your soul burning out piece by piece."
"Vampires are melodramatic assholes," Brad decides.
"How old are you?" he asks Nate between the waves of nausea that isn't really nausea, when they're back in the bedroom and Brad's sprawled on the bed, his skin flushed and sick just like during the worst heatwaves, the air stiff and hot and uncomfortable.
Nate twists his head, exposing the line of his throat, his collarbone peeking from his shirt. It looks inviting, Brad thinks idly. He's never been interested in collarbones before, but here you fucking are.
"Does it matter?" Nate asks. It feels like a genuine question, not a line. Brad would have fucking kicked his ass if it was a line. He had seen a movie trailer once, the whole 'how long have you been seventeen' shit. There's only so much bullshit he can take.
He nods pleasantly. "Older than you look, I suppose. Shouldn't be too difficult."
Nate's look is exasperated and fond and again, so familiar Brad can taste it. He wonders, how long has Nate really been there, on the sidelines of Brad's life. Was this always where Brad would end up, and why.
He doesn't ask.
Instead, he reaches out, fingertips dragging down Nate's throat. There's no pulse, he notices idly. He knew it intellectually, expected it, but the confirmation is chilling.
Nate's completely still, watching him, waiting, only mild curiosity showing in his expression, but there's tension in his whole body, barely contained. Brad leans over, lips brushing across Nate's. Nate doesn't move a muscle, his eyes still wide open when Brad moves back.
"Don't," he says, just a slight shake of his head and Brad narrows his eyes.
He's not wrong about this, Nate wants him, wants this. The need fills him up, spills over, and Brad thinks he could lick it off Nate's skin and taste it.
"Isn't this how it works?" he asks, his voice a little strained, and he's not sure if it's anger or a reflecting need. "Isn't this why you fucking turned me?" he continues, quiet, the sting he aimed for absent from his tone.
He doesn't think he's wrong about this. He doesn't know how the fuck it works, but he's half hard at the thought of Nate fucking kissing him back, maybe biting his lip, so apparently the collective vampire literature got this one right. Especially the kinky chicks with a penchant for blood play. Who fucking knew?
"You were dying," Nate says, and it might sound like an answer but it sure as fuck isn't one.
The buzzing comes back with vengeance. Brad is fucking sick and tired of this. It's buzzing until he drinks and then shivers wrecking through his body, and it's like one fucking hangover from hell and even drinking more and more doesn't help.
Nate holds him close throughout the worst, his body pressed close against Brad's, and it helps a little but not enough, but then it clears out after a while, the buzzing fading to just a mild annoyance and the shivers disappearing.
"That means I'm completely soul-free now?" Brad asks and cherishes the flicker of displeasure on Nate's face. "This the part when I become your vampire bride?" he adds, just because he wants to twist that knife further.
Nate just shakes his head. He looks tired, weary. His skin is almost translucent and his eyes are more gray than green now.
The fight leaves Brad, just like this. He blames the rollercoaster of emotions on the fact that he fucking died yesterday and went through a weird reverse-withdrawal today, and there's the vampire part, and maybe the suddenly more gay than usual part. He's the least freaked out about the last one. Perspective, a wonderful thing.
"Did you have any blood today?" Brad asks sternly, and Nate blinks at him, incredulous, and then laughs, his head ducking low.
Brad feels something unclench in his gut and thinks that this is what he's been trying for, provoking Nate into some kind of reaction. But while the surprise was gratifying and the displeasure tasted good, this, the smile, the low huff of a laugh, this is what Brad's been waiting for.
He might be fucked in more complicated ways than the whole vampire thing.