missingthekeep | [for Brad]

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[for Brad]

It's been a long night. Unwilling to leave Meredith's side but unable to block out the sounds of her forced breathing, the thoughts of the pain she's in, and the knowledge that it could have been so, so much worse, he earns himself maybe a few minutes of restless sleep for every hour he spends sitting up in the clinic and fretting. By the time morning rolls around, he's tense and wired, doubly so for all his attempts to hide it from the people around him. Things will be better later on, he tells himself, once he and Meredith are back home, sleeping off the stress of his life slowly collapsing around him in their proper bed. Until then, there's just nothing to be done about it.

Well, maybe. He's pacing about the Compound, having figured it best to give Meredith a bit of space while she gets ready to leave, her other acquaintances being better suited to helping her out in any real capacity than he is, when he spots a certain someone and instantly comes up with a few decent ideas about actions that are overdue to be taken.

"Brad, jus' the fella I been lookin' ta see."

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A large part of being a Recon Marine is developing a second sense for when shit is about to roll down hill. Brad hears Sean's tone of voice and he tenses, just a little, through the shoulders, but his expression is perfectly still and bland when he finally turns his head.

"Hey, Sean," he says, quietly, closing his book, keeping his place with his thumb. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, come now, ye're smarter'n that, lad," Sean says, the tension of the night, of the week catching up to him all in a rush and putting him in a downright odd mood. "I mean, it's no secret ye're nae me favourite person 'round these parts lately. I figger we could use a... clearin' o' the air, don't ye?"

So to speak.

"A clearing of the air?" Brad straightens up in his seat amd sets the book down on the table before he estands, turning to look at Sean, both eyebrows raised, his posture carefully open.

"I assume you're talking about Terry."

"Well I'm certainly nae talkin' t'ye fer me health, boyo," Sean says, mouth drawing up into a sneer for a brief moment. "An' we jus' don't have that much else in common."

For Terry's sake, Brad isn't about to get riled up here, so he takes a deep breath and he stays calm. He objects to being called 'boyo' by anybody who isn't the girl who's wearing his ring, but he can let that slide, too. He's been called worse.

"Does Terry have a problem I don't know about?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure ye know 'bout it," Sean says, curbing his impulse to laugh at that. "Pretty sure ye are it, in point o' fact."

"I love Terry," says Brad, mildly. "I love her completely and I mean that ring that she's wearing on her finger."

He shifts his weight slightly.

"And that is all you need to be worried about here, Sean."

Until now, Sean's been perfectly content to keep things civil (or at least he can pretend as much), but then Brad goes and mentions that damn ring and some frayed, worn-out part of his psyche snaps, all that anger that had been reduced to a dull roar in the back of his head suddenly flaring up again something fierce. It's as instantaneous as flicking a switch, and then Sean's doing something that he's pretty sure he should have done a while ago.

"Bull," he spits, his voice louder than he intends it to be as he hauls back and snaps forward with a fist aimed squarely at the bastard's jaw, throwing his weight behind it. This isn't some arsehole pissing him off in a bar and he isn't playing around.

Brad sees the blow coming a split second before it lands and some alltruistic part of him, some part of him that knows he doesn't want this fight right here means that he takes it instead of blocking it. It's a good solid blow, a hard blow, hard enough to knock him back a step, but Brad's whole career has been spent sparring with men bigger than Sean Cassidy, and Poke's never pulled his punches either.

Brad shakes his head as though to clear it and, when he speaks, his voice is low and level and clear.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Are you?" Sean retorts, incredulous and a little wild, shaking his fist out but not backing down any, only their location keeping him from making this into something bigger. "That's nae love. An' if ye truly think it is, ye're even more of a freak than I figgered."

Edited 2010-09-14 10:58 (UTC)

"I am not talking about this here," says Brad, tone utterly flat. "Now, if you think that you need this explaining to you, we're going to step outside." He raises one hand, rubbing the tender spot on his jaw. "Sir."

To his credit, Sean's thoughts actually do flash elsewhere before he goes about committing himself to doing something colossally stupid, to Meredith, still injured and hurting in the clinic, but it's a momentary distraction. It's not as if he can back down, after all.

"I hear it's a beautiful day out." After that hurricane, it would be a shame to waste it.

Suddenly, the moto bullshit makes Brad weary, but he takes care not to show it on his face. He never had any time for it in the Corps and he definitely doesn't have any time for it now.

What he does do is walk past Sean and keep walking until he pushes open the door and feels the breeze outside the compound against his face.

"I don't suppose any of this is based on how Terry actually feels?" he asks, like it's the most reasonable question in the world.

Macho bullshit has long been one of the things Sean does best when life gets rough, the main problem with that being that there are so few ways to do anything constructive with it on the island.

"If there were anythin' remotely sane 'bout the way Terry claims t'feel, there wouldnae be a problem in the first place, now would there?" he asks plainly, steeling himself as he heads outside.

"As far as me and Terry are concerned, there isn't," says Brad, standing his ground, arms crossed across his chest. "You don't think I entered into any part of this without consulting Terry first, do you? She means the world to me."

"Oh, don't feed me that garbage!" Sean damn near shouts, getting right up in Brad's face. "Ye think that makes it any less sickening? More bafflin', aye, sure, but ye're livin' in one truly fucked up world if ye believe this is how ta behave when ye care 'bout a person in the slightest. You couldn't care less 'bout Theresa."

Even with Sean right in his face, Brad doesn't flinch. He's been yelled at like that since he was boot-fuck brand-new. One eyebrow twitches. HIs arms stay folded.

"No," he says, finally. "I couldn't care less what you think about me and Terry. I know that I love her, I know that she's wearing my ring, and I know that she'll be in my bed tonight." His jaw tightens. "What happens between us is none of your business and what happens between me and Nate is less than none of your business and we're done here."

He takes a step back and starts to turn.

"Ye sick son of a whore," Sean mutters, not even thinking as he reaches out to grab Brad by the shoulder and jerk him back to take another swing at him. He's pretty sure that no part of this is ever going to be anything resembling done, but he still can't just walk away from it.

In the back of his mind, Brad had already decided that Sean got one. When he swings again, Brad grabs him by the wrst and blocks it. His other hand makes a fist but he doesn't swing. Out of love for Terry, he's not about to punch her fucking father unless hs absolutely has to.

"How exactly do you think this shit is going to make Terry feel?" he asks, dropping Sean's hand in disgust. "Jesus fucking Christ, I do not have to explain myself to you. There are two people in the world I have to explain myself to, and neither of them give a shit about any of this because it works for us. I love Terry. I also love Nate. As long as that's okay with the four of us? I don't give a flying fuck what anybody else things." His jaw, still aching, tightens. "And if you lay another hand on me, Sean, I am going to put you on your ass until you stop getting up."

That only manages to piss Sean off even more. He can handle getting hit. He can handle getting the shit kicked out of him if it can't be avoided. What he can't abide is being reminded of his own constant guilt. He knows how this is going to make Terry feel, he just doesn't care. It's not as if she gave much thought to the rest of them, or if Brad truly cares about her, after all. It doesn't make him feel any better about it, though. She's made her choice and Sean's already made his. This is all just a formality.

"Somethin' ye should know 'bout me, lad: I don't stop gettin' up," he says, throwing a fist down low toward the other man's stomach. He also doesn't do well with ultimatums.

The blow connects, winds Brad's a little but leaves him standing. He straightens and this time he does turn away because he has well and truly had enough of this bullshit and he would really prefer not to lay a hand on Sean Cassidy right then.

What he would prefer and what he would like to do are two different things.

"Fuck you," he says, quietly because, Jesus, it is hard enough being in love with two people without all this other bullshit.

As Brad turns to go, Sean swears that he feels better about this whole mess than he has all week. That, however, is likely just the emotional exhaustion talking, since his words don't seem to support that conclusion.

"Back atcha," he says, sneering at the retreating figure as he takes a step back. "Get the hell out o' me life, Colbert. An' tell Theresa she can do the same. Ye know, since ye'll be seein' her tonight, an' all."

That's it. That, right there, is enough. Brad has pretty large reserves of patience; dealing with the full weight of the USMC's stupidity alongside Ray Person will give that to a person, but he's had enough now. He rounds on Sean, and in two long strides, he's back right in his face again.

"You can do anything you fucking like to me," he says, voice modulated very low. "But don't you dare fucking threaten Terry."

Sean barely has time to process what it is he's just said before Brad's back for more, and no matter what he might have thought of them with a moment of relection, the knowledge that he's struck a nerve makes them the absolute perfect words now.

"Ye know, I didnae actually hear a threat in there," he says, standing his ground with a nasty, barely concealed smirk, the insult and anger he feels at the implication that he'd ever to such a thing to Terry almost entirely drowned out by the rest of it.

"So telling Terry to get the Hell out of your life wouldn't be a threat?" asks Brad, and the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth is far from pleasant. They never called him Iceman because he didn't feel.

"You don't think Terry has enough mind to throw a ring back in my face is she wasn't happy? You think she'd be wearing it just to spare my feelings?"

He rolls his eyes.

"You are more fucking foolish than you look," he says. "Think what you like of me, but, until Terry says otherwise? I'm with her. And you'll have to live with that."

One hand curls into a fist and then relaxes.

"This is the first time in years and years that I've felt like my heart is in the right place. I am not fucking that up for you or anybody else."

"The right place bein' where, in yer dick?" Sean scoffs with the tiniest shake of his head. "The fact that she hasnae tossed ye out in the cold yet where ye belong is enough t'tell me that whate'er I all thought o' her was wrong from the get-go. I don't know her, an' from what I hear, I don't much want to." Any trace of a smile he's been sporting is gone at that, mostly because he's genuinely afraid that he might mean it.

"It's more of a kindness than a threat, really. Save us all a bit o' grief, mmm?"

That's enough. Brad pushes away from him and turns on his heel, stalking away. He turns back and stares at him for a long moment.

"The only reason my fist isn't in your face is because of Terry," says Brad, shaking his head. "Maybe neither of us fucking deserve her, but at least I fucking love her enough to try."

"Don't," Sean commands, and while he doesn't go after Brad, his voice rises into a yell. "Don't ye dare question my love fer me daughter. Ye're scum an' ye don't know the meanin' o' the damn word!"

It's enough to stop Brad, the tone enough like Terry's when she's pissed that he almost winces, head dropping forward. Suddenly he's so fucking weary.

"I can't prove myself to you, Sean. There's no fucking point in trying. Terry loves me. Terry trusts me. It's enough."

Not for Sean, it isn't, and all of a sudden, he doesn't quite know what to make of that.

"In that case," he says, using up what feels like a Herculean amount of willpower to turn around and head back inside, "jus' give her the message."

"You man up and give it to her yourself," is Brad's parting blow, and he's not proud of it, but he's not being the bearer of news like that. Fuck that. He's not doing dirty work.

He walks away and keeps on walking.

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[for Brad]

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