(no subject)
Title: Trying to Beat the Rain
Rating: R for language
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairings/Characters: Brad/Nate pre-slash, Ray/Walt pre-slash if you squint, mentions of Patterson, Sixta
Word Count: 930
White. White everywhere. White on the side of the road. White in the ditches. White in the turn row. White clinging to Brad's jeans. White sprinkled on the windshield of his truck. White on his boots. White in the air. White covering the whole damn world.
It's Indian summer, again, and cotton fibers and humidity make Brad feel like he's suffocating. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat, sticking to his back. The metal of his truck is almost scalding where he leans against it. Brad hates picking season almost as much as he hates planting season. At least it's better than razing corn. He spends most of his time fixing farm equipment anyway. God forbid they have a piece of machinery that fucking works.
He takes a moment to run his fingers through his hair, picking out bits of white. He looks up to see Nate walking down the steps of Patterson's office, watching Brad knock the fibers to the ground. Of course Nate took fifteen minutes longer than Brad to get his paycheck. Patterson's secretary fucking loves Nate; she loves Brad too and all, but she's his third cousin, so seeing him isn't exactly a big deal.
Brad sprawls back against the truck door and sends Nate a look that says "fuck this shit." Nate's look says "damn straight, but we're making money." It could be worse, Brad figures. They could be on a fucking chicken farm somewhere. At least cotton doesn't fucking squawk at you.
Nate wipes his brow with the back of his hand and raises his eyebrow at Brad. He's telling Brad to move his ass. They've got to clear the back forty before the dew sets, or Sixta, the farm manager, will have their asses, or worse, their paychecks. Brad nods his head at Nate. "Let's go," he says. Brad opens his door, pauses, pulls a Lee High cap out of his back pocket, and climbs into the truck. Nate slides into the other side of the truck and puts his feet up on Brad's dashboard. Brad swats him with the hat before pulling it down over his ears. He turns the key and waits for the old engine to rumble to life. Nate's half hanging out the window, singing "Song of the South" at the top of his lungs just to piss Brad off. Yes, Brad is aware that there is cotton on the roadside, and cotton in the ditch, and they all picked cotton but they never got rich. Thank you, Nathaniel. Lovely song choice.
Rolling his eyes, Brad puts the truck in gear and drives off toward the barn, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. They're late, and Ray and Walt are waiting on them. They need to beat this rain, or the dew, whichever comes first. At least it won't be so fucking hot once the sun goes down. Brad looks across the cab at Nate, who happens to be drumming his fingers against the outside of the door, just because he can. "You ready for the history test tomorrow?" Nate says casually, like he hasn't been stressing for days, like his AP scores aren't the most important thing in the world to him. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth. Brad inhales sharply. He wishes Nate wouldn't do that. "If I'm not ready for this joke of test put together by the whiskey-tango daughter of a second-rate sharecropper's degenerate prodigal son, please just shoot me in the face." Nate laughs, deep and rich, and Brad leans back into his seat.
Right now, he doesn't worry about his college applications, or if his academic scholarship will come through, or if, failing that, the baseball scouts notice him, or what the recruiter said about his ASVAB scores, or how pissed Sixta's going to be that they're late. Right now, he's just sitting in his truck with Nate, rolling down Patterson's dirt road, hoping the rain holds off until quitting time. Brad stretches his arm back along the seat, steering with one hand. The look Nate shoots him says that subtlety isn't his strong suit, but Nate leans back into his arm just the same.
They pull up in front of the barn, where Ray's pacing and Walt's sitting on the tailgate of his truck, watching Ray run around like an angry, yappy little mutt. Ray sees them coming. "Hurry up, motherfuckers! Storm's coming!" Walt shakes his head, gazing at Ray in a way that's almost fond, wryly amused at all of them. Brad puts the truck in park and looks at Nate one last time. Nate's chewing at his lip again. Putting his hand on Nate's shoulder, Brad says, "Hey, don't." Licking the torn skin, Nate nods. He puts his hand over Brad's, lets his thumb skim over Brad's knuckles, quickly, making sure no one sees. "Come on, Colbert. We've got work to do."
With that, he gets out of the truck, slamming the door behind him, and neatly side-steps the tornado of energy that is Ray Person trying to simultaneously hump Walt's head and pull him out of the bed of his truck. Brad opens the truck door, grabs the tin of Skoal out of the cup holder, and unfolds his long frame. He stretches, closes the door, and doesn't bother to lock it. He kicks at the dirt as he heads over to where Nate's leaning his hip against Walt's truck. The sky's already starting to darken with the promise of rain, so they'll have to work fast. It's going to be a long fucking day.