Chapter Three

"Fuck!"

Reid spins and shoots, wildly, but he's not that focused on actually hitting the prick shooting at them. He only cares about covering Nate, so his shots pierce the drywall a foot away from the shooter's head.

But they kick up a cloud of dust and sound that provides a tiny distraction, one that buys Reid just enough time to press his free hand flat to Nate's chest and shove him back. Reid slides behind the bedroom door with him and throws the lock a fraction of a second before the handle shakes, their attacker trying to force his way in.

It won't hold forever, but they can take a small moment to breathe. The first thing Ben does when they set up a witness in a new location is make one of the rooms a "safe" room, a habit that Reid has never been more grateful for. Because it means that the bedroom door has been replaced with a stronger exterior one made of solid wood, complete with deadbolts and a chain.

Reid's left hand is still resting on Nate's chest, his thumb sliding across his collarbone unconsciously as he leaves it there longer than he really should. Nate's heart thuds strong and steady under his palm, and Reid lets the solid warmth reassure him enough that he can regain some focus. He takes a deep breath and swallows, hard, before finally sliding back to look Nate over, checking for blood or bullet holes.

But Nate looks the same as he did when Reid left him fifteen minutes ago- messy hair and those stupid holey jeans, fraying at the hem where they drag across the floor, and that blue shirt, wrinkled now, that makes Nate's eyes so striking that it's like looking at a goddamn Disney prince.

Reid's heart starts racing again, this time for an entirely different reason.

And then there's more gunfire from the hallway, splintering the wood around the lock, and he remembers that he's got a job to do.

Dammit.

He grabs Nate by the back of the neck and drags him to the far side of the room so he can shove him down to take cover behind the bed. Reid crouches beside him, hissing in his ear.

"How many times have I told you that you can't just open the goddamn door like that, Nate?"

His answering signs are jerky and sharp. "You'd be in pieces by now if I hadn't."

"Bullshit. I totally could've taken that guy."

"Then why didn't you?"

Shots ring out again, this time blasting holes in the bedroom door large enough for Reid to see through. The air is filling with gunsmoke and dust and debris, but there's just enough moonlight to fumble his way to the head of the bed. He gropes along the back of the headboard for a moment before his fingers find the extra gun he'd duct-taped there for just this kind of emergency. He rips it free, balls up the duct tape, and shoves the slightly-sticky grip into Nate's unwilling hands. "Take this,"  he says, trying to avoid Nate's eyes.

And, true to form, Nate's glaring, the gun waving around crazily as he signs. "Damn it, I told you I didn't want any guns around here. I'm not shooting anyone, ever again, even if they're trying to shoot me." He somehow manages to look both furious and heartbroken at the same time, his mouth firm, his eyes haunted. "I'm done with killing, Reid."

Reid gets it, Nate's reasons for this whole Gandhi-esque non-violence thing - sort of, anyway - but right now he mostly just wants to strangle him. Because he's sure, having grown up an Angelev, that Nate has had a gun in his hand from the time he could walk. He's probably a better shot than Reid, and definitely better able to anticipate how his family will come after him, but he's so damn passive about it that Reid has lain awake on more than one night, staring at the ceiling and worrying that this is all just some elaborate suicide scheme on Nate's part.

Reid doesn't say any of it though, at least not at that moment, because the shots have finally succeeded in ripping out the locks and the chain is straining to hold the door mostly closed. One meaty arm snakes through the small space between the door's edge and the frame, gun in hand and firing blindly into the room.

Reid turns to rip up the dust-caked blinds and shoves at the window frame. "Fine, Nate, whatever. Just carry it for me, okay?"

Nathaniel's still pissy about it, but he pops the clip to check if the gun is loaded, then slams the magazine back in and flips the safety with the skillful muscle memory of a professional killer. And even knowing the things that Nate has done with those hands in the past doesn't negate how hot Reid finds that. He rolls his eyes at himself, subtly adjusting his fly.

I'm caught in a shoot-out with my life and entire career on the line, and I've got to deal with a raging boner for the doomed and possibly psychotic guy I'm protecting. Jesus take the motherfucking wheel.

Reid groans and turns his focus to the damn window, the jamb painted over and unopened for years. It's a struggle, but he finally forces it open just as the man in the hall begins to throw himself against the door. The wood splinters and groans, and Reid doesn't stick around long enough to see if it's going to hold. He just shoves Nate over the windowsill and onto the rickety fire escape, scrabbling down the rusting ladder after him. Their shoes clang against the metal steps, the sound bouncing off the building and across the mostly-empty parking lot.

They reach the ground just as someone climbs out of the window above them. It's so dark tonight; a blessing and a curse since Reid can't see well enough to try to shoot from here...which should mean that the other guy can't see them either.

Reid keeps himself between the shooter and Nate as they run close to the side of the building. If they can get to the far corner they should be able to find Ben and the car-

Chunks of cement block blast out of the wall inches above their heads, pieces of it raining down onto their faces as gunfire echoes across the expanse of the parking lot.

So much for him not being able to see us.

Reid stops, pushes Nate flat against the side of the apartment building and pins him behind his back, positioning his own body as a shield. And then he shoots back, having nothing to aim at beyond the muzzle flash of gunfire above him and his own vague sense of their current position in relation to the window of the until-five-minutes-ago-safe house. It's good enough; bullets spark against the metal railing of the fire escape and shatter the glass of the window behind their assailant, close enough to force him to retreat back inside.

For the moment, anyway.

Nate's hand is at Reid's waist, long fingers absently digging into his side as Nate stares up into the darkness. He hasn't gotten a decent look at their shooter yet, but there's something about him, something nagging at the back of Nate's mind...

But he doesn't say anything because Reid is all business, checking their surroundings, coming up with another plan. He jerks his chin toward a hulking shape in the distance, something sitting at the far corner of the building.

"Alright, we're moving behind that dumpster in 3, 2, 1, go."

They scramble across the blacktop in the apartment's back parking lot, Reid's gun and gaze not wavering from the window until they're safely hidden from view by a huge dumpster that smells like it hasn't been emptied since the mid-1980s.

They crouch close together, Reid instinctively keeping Nate pulled behind him. But he doesn't realize that he's pressed so close against Nate until he feels the warm, hard press of his chest against his back, the small brush of his exhale over the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck.

Reid shivers and bites at his bottom lip, trying not to dwell on why it feels as good as it does.

You like that he's breathing on you because it means he's alive. We're out of there, and we're alive.

Now keep it that way.

Reid shakes his head and clears his throat, hoping it will also clear the hormonal teenager that his brain has apparently reverted into.

It sort of works.

He shifts away, feels the night air rush in to cool the space between them.

"So while we have a moment, let me explain something to you about tha tphone call, Nate. You can't just say shit like 'I'm beginning to seriously doubt your ability to do your job properly' and then tack on a 'no offense.' That doesn't make it okay. It's still offensive as hell."

Reid pops the clip out of his gun, checks how many rounds he has left, then swaps it for the fully-loaded one tucked into Nate's waistband. He definitely does not notice the way his smooth skin feels against his calloused fingertips or the glimpse he gets of Nate's gray boxer-briefs.

"Not to mention," he continues, proud that his voice still sounds completely normal, "It's totally fucking untrue. I'm awesome at my job. You're still alive, aren't you?"

Reid doesn't wait for an answer, flipping off the safety and aiming back at the still suspiciously silent fire escape.

Nothing happens.

So he finally glances back at Nate, this time just to determine how well he's holding up, because it occurs to him that he hasn't said anything since Reid handed him the gun.

Nate looks fine, though; his eyes are watering a bit from the oppressive smell of rotting garbage, but he seems otherwise unaffected by all the destruction and violence.

Years of exposure, Reid supposes. This is probably just an average Tuesday for him.

And for a second his heart breaks, thinking of how Nate was practically nursed on blood and gunpowder, and how fucked up it must have left him.

But then Nate's hands finally form words and blow Reid's moment of compassion all to hell.

"I don't know how untrue it is. This is the third time I've had to be rescued by you in six weeks. That would suggest a certain lack of professional competence." Nate pauses for a moment, raises an eyebrow at a small shape that arcs through the dark toward them and lands with a thump into the open top of the dumpster. "Also, you have the filthiest mouth of anyone I've ever known. And I was raised by the mob."

Reid opens his mouth but doesn't get a chance to reply, his retort turning into a scream when the dumpster explodes. The metal sides bow outward as flaming garbage shoots fifty feet into the air before splattering down all around them.

They stumble back, landing on their asses as the light and sound overwhelm their senses; all they can see is the ghost image of the fire flash against their retinas, their ears filled with the ringing of a thousand church bells.

The shock is enough to throw even battle-hardened Nate for a moment. He's gasping for breath as he reaches out blindly, feeling along the broken pavement until he finds Reid, twisting his fingers into the hem of Reid's t-shirt hard enough to tear it.

Reid's thankful for the contact, though, because he's just realized that the thing that landed in the dumpster was, in fact, a small hand grenade.

Which freaks him right the fuck out. Because it means it's not just a sociopathic bastard that they're up against; it's an armed-to-the-goddamned-teeth sociopathic bastard, which is infinitely worse.

But after a second of near-hyperventilating panic, his vision begins to slowly sharpen and Reid realizes two other important things: the metal of the dumpster actually contained the worst of the blast and they're both still in one piece. So he struggles to his feet and pulls Nate up with him.

Staggering and half-limping, they do their best to use the explosion to their advantage - it moved the dumpster enough that it now provides them cover so that they can weave around the few parked cars and sprint to the edge of the road. There's one of those generic, white commercial vans parked on the street that they crouch beside, their ears still ringing so badly that, for once, Reid's glad they've had to develop their own visual language in order to communicate.

"Seriously, Nate, couldn't you wait to bitch about my language until a time when your family isn't actively trying to kill us?"

Those stupidly blue eyes narrow, the full mouth pulling down at the corners in a disapproving frown.

"See, that's my point. You could have said complain or bemoan or grumble or reproach... there's a whole plethora of words available, but you chose the only one that's profane."

"Yeah, well, here's some more profanity. Blow me, asshole."

"You wish."

You have no idea, Reid thinks, looking away before Nate can read it on his face.

He's saved from further embarrassment by yet more gunfire from the fire escape; the shooter is clearly choosing to maintain his high-ground advantage, but Reid actually finds it reassuring. They're far enough away now that he isn't really that worried about getting hit.

Unless, of course, that guy's got a rifle with some sort of high-powered, long range scope.

Which is apparently the case, because a bullet pierces the side mirror of the van less than an inch beside Reid's head. It explodes in a rain of glass shards, slicing his cheek open as he crouches lower and lets loose a string of expletives that makes him wonder if maybe Nate has a point about his filthy mouth.

He flicks his eyes around the parking lot to look for Ben. But there's no sign of their car and he doesn't hear any engines running. It's only a matter of seconds before the shooter reloads and there's nowhere left to hide.

They're trapped; well and truly fucked.

The road behind them is wide and empty; they'd never make it across. And Reid can't even begin to hope to shoot back since he can't see a goddamned in this inky dark. His heart sinks when he weighs his limited options and discovers that his only real choice is to set himself up as a distraction. It won't even do that much; just buy Nate another few seconds that Reid hopes will be enough for Ben to find him.

It's a suicide plan for Reid, but that's the job.

At least it's for someone who's worth it.

He doesn't take the time to explain it to Nate, doesn't say a goodbye beyond one long, final look.

Reid takes a deep breath and sprints away, waving his arms to make himself as large a target as possible and draw attention away from Nate. He's waiting for the bullet, praying that it will be as quick as possible-

And then a miracle happens.

There's a streetlight beside the building that should illuminate the fire escape, but it's been out all night. Reid assumed some bird had shit on the sensor and left the bulb lit all day until it burnt out, but apparently it was just being a moody bitch.

Because it chooses that moment to finally flicker back to life.

And there, in the orange ring of light it provides, Reid gets his first clear shot at the man trying to kill them. It's still nearly impossible from this angle and distance, but it's the best he's going to get. He dives behind a rusty old sedan, braces his shooting hand and exhales, his whole body going still as stone for a half second as he squeezes the trigger.

From his place behind the van, Nate is watching the shooter, picking facial features out in the dim light. His veins flood with ice and his mouth falls open, reflexively trying to cry out when recognition finally dawns.

But even if he'd still been able to speak, his voice would have been drowned out by the sound of Reid's gun.

And then the body topples, falling from the fire escape in a slow, graceful arc. Reid's shot split open the assassin's neck and they watch the wet shine of blood spurting from it onto the pavement below, making a small pool of shimmering red for him to splash down into.

Reid grins in triumph as a car squeals to a stop between them, Ben screaming out the half-open driver's window for them to get in.

But Nate just stands there, barely breathing, watching the blood pool spread and then - worse - stop.

It wasn't a stranger who came to kill him this time. Not even one of the family's many hired guns.

It was personal. It was family - one of the famous Angelev Seven.

It was his own brother, Devon.