Chapter Text
When Nate Fick had agreed to move in with Brad Colbert one year ago - after a good number of sleepless nights pondering the pros and the cons and changing his mind at least ten times an hour - he had perfectly figured out how their life together was going to be: a large, quiet house in Boston's suburbs, with enough room to avoid each other if they needed to. Nate carrying on with his studies at Harvard, writing articles and a part-time consulting job at CNAS, Brad pursuing his career with the Corps. They'd have time together, just the two of them, to enjoy sex, barbeques, riding Brad's motorcycle, hanging out with friends and having more sex.
Nate could cope with this; an agreement that left them free to follow their own paths and, at the same time, that let Nate adjust to his new life as a civilian and as Brad Colbert's partner.
What Nate, and Brad even less so, wasn't ready to cope with was Brad's ex-wife. She had left him for a musician the day after Brad had shipped out to Iraq, taking their three children with her. Two and a half months ago, she'd been found dead of an overdose, leaving the kids to their father, Brad Colbert.
And now, at three in the morning, Nate is sitting wide-awake in the dark, knees pressed to his chest and hands over his ears. He is trying to block out the screaming and the thumping coming from the room at the end of the corridor – the very room that had been meant to become Nate's office, but never did.
Beside him, Brad sleeps peacefully and when Nate kicks him in the thigh, hard, the only sound that comes from the lump under the quilt is a grunt. Nate has never been a heavy sleeper, not during his time as a Recon Marine, and not now. Brad, on the other hand, can fall dead asleep regardless an AT4 exploding two meters from his head, or the cries of three overexcited children in the near room.
***
The screaming stops the moment Nate opens the door, just like it has the previous three times he's done this.
Ray is nowhere in sight but that doesn't mean he has nothing to do with this. At ten, Ray can easily outsmart Brad and Nate. He's clever, gregarious, petulant, and even if he's the only one who has memories of Brad as his father, he categorically refuses to call him "Dad". For his part, Brad doesn't mind. He doesn't see himself as the fatherly type and when Nate questioned why he had produced spawn, Brad's laconic answer was that the first time he'd been too young. The following two times he'd been too drunk.
Luckily, Brad had been adamant about the fact that they couldn't keep the kids and wanted to give them up for adoption. Nate had felt hugely relieved and they had immediately taken steps, but things were far from easy.
The past two months have been a living hell. Acclimating has been hard on both sides, especially with Ray confronting and questioning everything Brad and Nate say or do. If it wasn't for the discrete but necessary support from their families and the concrete help of Mike Wynn, the Social Worker who was in charge of Brad's kids' case following their mother's death, things would have been fucked up pretty badly.
Nate's only wish is to return to the organized stability of his life as a student, a writer and a consultant. Even re-enlisting in the Corps at the moment seems a better option.
"What's going on in here?" The question is rhetorical; Nate knows nobody is going to answer.
The room is a mess; books, clothes, and toys scattered everywhere. Ray's bed – nothing more than a camp bed since neither Brad or Nate consider this arrangement permanent enough to set up a child's bedroom – has been completely stripped of its sheets and quilt and the mattress is pushed up against the wall.
In the center of the chaos, almost completely hidden under Ray's blanket, Nate finds Walt.
Walt is five; he's a sweet, polite kid who obstinately refuses to speak. It's not that he is dumb, or anything like that. He answers when questioned and makes requests, always politely, when he needs something. He's also perfectly aware and very self-sufficient for a five year old: he feeds himself, dresses himself, and goes to the head alone. He obeys when asked to do something, watches television, and understands whatever he's told. The problem is, he neither participates in conversations nor chatters like kids are supposed to do. He just stays silent and, somehow, disinterested in what's happening around him. So, following Brad's Mom's suggestion, they're taking him to a Child Psychologist with, so far, no results.
Nate kneels on the floor and brings Walt onto his lap; the kid cooperates, as he always does, and lets Nate hold him.
"I know you didn't do this," Nate murmurs. Walt turns his translucent eyes at him and Nate kisses his soft hair.
He is still gathering the strength to stand and clean up the mess when something hard and angular hits him right on the forehead.
"Shit!"
"Shit!" James' voice is all giggles and squeaks and he claps his hands and repeats again "Shit! Shitty shit!" Then he grabs a Lego piece and, this time, aims for Walt. Nate's faster and the red brick hits his hand instead of Walt's eye.
"Harold James Colbert! You little-" but Nate knows cursing isn't going to help, especially with a three year old. He calls on his Recon Marine training and, in the matter of a few seconds, efficiently lays Walt on his bed, removes another piece of Lego from James's hand then grabs him by his pajamas, lifting him over his head.
"James, you have to stop throwing things at people, you could seriously hurt somebody." James stares at him, defiantly, and then grins in a way that Nate finds disquieting in a child.
"You're wasting your time, man. Can't you see he's a retard? They both are."
Ray stands in the doorway, hair rumpled and his mouth is a cherry mess of horrible pink, sticky milk shake. He is intentionally provoking him; Nate knows this, so he just lets it go.
"Why did you do this?" Nate asks, gesturing around the room.
"Hey? How's it always Ray's fault when Ray ain't even around? I was in the kitchen, making a cherry frosty milk shake. Do you know how long it takes to make a cherry frosty milk shake right? Ten minutes to make it, forty minutes for it to get the right kind of icy and five minutes to drink it. See? I drank it all."
"This I can see." Nate tries not to laugh at Ray's messy face.
"Besides, I'm too old to act like this. You know what? You're too soft with these brats. Too soft. I'm telling you, they're fooling you with their baby-faces and shit. You gotta be careful, man, or they'll turn into gangsta punks when they grow up. This is gonna to cost you a fortune in bail and lawyers."
"What's the problem here, Gents?"
The silence that suddenly envelops the room is almost palpable. Brad's a dark silhouette in the doorway; his eyes are blood-shot and Nate is stupidly happy about this because it means he's not the only one suffering from sleep deprivation.
"It seems we had a Shamal in here," Nate informs him.
"A Shamal?"
"Yes."
"Or it might've been ninja turtles," Ray offers.
Brad raises and eyebrow. "Indeed?"
"Yep, green-assed, sword-waving ninja turtles that think this room is too small for two snotty kids and a young man in puberty who needs his privacy."
Brad stares at his son and then looks over at Nate. "Does this seem surreal to you, too?"
"I don't know Brad," Nate says, "but you'd better unfuck this now because if I don't catch few hours of sleep tonight I might go on a murder spree. And you know I'm fucking serious right now."
Luckily, James is nodding off so Nate puts him in bed and helps Walt into his.
"Ray." A glance from Nate, and Brad kneels in front of his son. Rule number five of Mike Wynn's "How to deal with complicated and petulant kids": if you want something from them, treat them as an equal. Brad thinks this is all bullshit but Nate trusts Mike and thinks it's worth a try, so Brad's willing to give it a shot.
"Ray," Brad starts again, looking his son right in the eye. "You know we can't turn the entire house into a kindergarten just because you think you're too grown-up and too smart to share your room with your brothers. From what I've been told, you three lived packed-up in a trailer with your mother and two stray dogs. This room is like a five-star Hilton compared to that. Besides, we need you to keep an eye on your younger brothers while Nate and I-"
"Get some?"
"Ray!"
"Ahhh, c'mon! Don't try this whiskey tango moto crap on me, Brad. You know it's not gonna work. I told him the mess wasn't my fault. You don't believe me? Fine, I'll live with it. How copy, man?"
Nate and Brad exchange a look and then stare at Ray.
"May I ask where you learned that kind of vocabulary?" Nate asks.
Ray shrugs. "Black Hawk Down?"
"I doubt it," Nate looks sideways at Brad who, as usual, is wearing a mask of impenetrability.
"I'm going back to bed now," Nate informs "and I want this mess cleaned up before tomorrow morning."
"Hey! Who's helping me with the mattress?" Ray squeaks.
"Ask the ninja turtles."
***
In the morning, James is running a fever so Nate offers to take Walt to the weekly meeting with the psychologist and leaves Brad to deal with the pediatrician. Luckily, Brad agrees and Nate is grateful he has a chance to leave the house for a few hours.
"You know what?" Nate asks Walt while helping him into his jacket. "If we finish early, I'll take you to see the ducks and we'll eat sandwiches while we watch them. What do you think?"
Walt simply nods; but Nate likes to think he's happy about this.
"C'mon Ray, I don't want you to be late for school." Nate says, but Ray's already on the door.
"I'm going with Gabe's Mom."
"And who is-" Nate's about to ask but Brad nods at him so, apparently, he knows who Gabe's Mom is.
Gabe's Mom makes her appearance in an old SUV at that very moment and Ray runs out, slamming the door in Nate's face.
"He says he doesn't want you or me to take him to school anymore," Brad says blankly, trying to hold a struggling James still. "He says he's trying to 'socialize' and doesn't want his queer Dad and his boyfriend to fuck this up."
Right. Nate has no time at the moment to deal with this, so he adds this piece of information to the list of "things we need to sort out sooner or later," grabs Walt's hand and leaves without another word.
***
In Nate's opinion, the meetings with the psychologist are just a waste of time. Nate doesn't need a fucking doctor to tell him that Walt's obstinate silence is a reaction to trauma. He already knows this. Walt's mother overdosed and died in front of him, puking and shitting herself and shaking like a fucking electrocuted frog; a display that, luckily, both James and Ray had been spared of since Ray was hanging out with his pals and James was with Sheila's neighbor. After that they'd been dropped at the home of these two really tall strangers, one of which, Walt had been informed, was his father. How the fuck should a five-year-old kid react to something like that?
What Nate wants desperately to know is if there is any chance for Walt to recover somehow. But the answer is always the same: we don't know; we need to work with him, we need time.
And time is a luxury he and Brad, can't afford right now. Not with damn Schwetje, Teaching Assistant in Professor Ferrando's Leadership and Organizational Behavior course at Harvard and complete asshole, harassing him about his research. Not with the new project for CNAS he so badly wants to be assigned to. Not with Brad coming and going from Camp Pendleton and not with the adoption procedures they need to start as soon as possible.
After another useless hour spent with the psychologist, they go to the park and when Nate thinks Walt shows interest in the ducks, he buys duck food from the automatic dispensers placed around the pond.
The morning mist has lifted and the day has turned beautiful and sunny. September in Boston can be very pleasant, with the trees starting to change colors and the days still warm.
Walt sits beside Nate on the bench and he seems to enjoy scattering the food for the ducks, his cheeks are pleasantly flushed and he moves his eyes back and forth from the ducks in the pond, to the wooden swans decorating the ornate boat and the to other kids screaming and laughing at the edge of the pond.
"Are you having fun, little man?" Nate asks, ruffling Walt's hair. Walt nods. He watches the trees and the wonderful colors of their falling leaves.
"You know, your Dad and I once served together in the Iraqi desert. As Recon Marines. The trees are different there, very different. The weather is very different too; it's very hot during the day and awfully cold at night. They have palms there, you know? Big palms like the ones where monkeys eat coconuts. But I've never seen monkeys in Iraq. I suspect they all ran away after the war began."
Nate's not even sure what he's talking about but somehow, he thinks that just talking is very important: Walt is staring at him, actually listening to him; his eyes are wide and totally focused. Nate keeps on talking about Iraq, Arabian camels, elephants, goats and tanks, his heart beating a little faster than usual.
They eat ham and cheese sandwiches on the bench facing the pond. Nate talks about ducks and swans and other species he barely knows. Walt eats and doesn't miss a bit of what Nate is saying.
An old lady with an ugly fat dog stops by and pats Walt's head. "What a good Daddy you are," she says addressing Nate "and what a lovely kid." Nate tightens his lips in an embarrassed smile, but when the lady is far enough away, Nate makes a funny face at her and Walt giggles.
Before they leave, Nate throws a few bits of his sandwich to the ducks. Walt does the same and then looks at Nate.
"I want to see elephants," he says,
Nate smiles his first very genuine smile in a long time. "Do you? Well then, we'll really have to visit the Franklin zoo one of these weekends."
Fuck doctors, he thinks.