Drabble prompt: on a job, caught in the rain
Pairing: Mr. Wrench/Mr. Numbers
Rating: T? idk how to do this shit lol it's got a lot of swearing
Notes: Thank you for sending me this!!! I've got two prompts and I'm working on the other as well. This ended up longer than I intended but hopefully it's still alright.
'This one's about a guy who wants his girl back, but she's so far away and he's already done so much wrong. He says 'stifling the sadness, I gotta get away, can't even remember how many hours in a day'... fucking sad right?'
Not really. But Wrench admired his partner's weird sensitivity towards music, and his love of corny shit. The card was something he would give him on their one year anniversary- as a partnership. Wrench hadn't been counting how long they'd been fucking, but he knew that March 6th was the day he'd gotten the text from Fargo to head out and meet his new partner in a dingy diner out in the middle of nowhere. Who knew when he'd have the time to shop for a card? A hitman's life is busy.
On March 6th, the sky was mustard and sickly purple and a mess of clouds, and the giant field of dead grass was unnerving. At least if it had been tall, it would've been more difficult to see the dead body that Wrench was dragging along. But Numbers was adamant that the ditch around here was deserted. No one around for miles, and it seemed like he was right.
Wrench had the beat of one of Numbers' slow jams stuck in his head as he heaved the body along, and felt a vibration of something in his boots. Numbers had twitched and was clearly agitated as he started motioning to the sky. 'It's thunder. Fuck this.'
Wrench felt the rain like a sheet- it just came like that, angry and plastering his hair to his head so suddenly, his coat soaking through. Numbers was fuming but Wrench could barely see him, and kept dragging the body because they had to get this job done. Toss him in the ditch and go. And that was what he did, quicker than ever.
Turning back, all he could see was rain, gray, and Numbers wet as hell, soaked through, red nose and shivering. Wrench couldn't help laughing loud and hearty and Numbers gave him the middle finger, motioning across the field, too eager to get back. He started walking, fast, almost at a slow trot, and Wrench had to hurry to keep up. He reached and grabbed him by his wrist, a big grin on his face.
Maybe Numbers had forgot what March 6th was. Or maybe he was just too angry with this turn of events, because he looked about ready to explode, and ignored Wrench's hand as he led him like some puppy back to the car.
They were fucking soaked. Wrench got into the car and looked down at his jacket with a frown, trying to check the damage, while Numbers was already throwing off his wet overcoat and starting to unbutton his shirt, a spare in the back suitcase.
Painstakingly, Wrench drew out the folded up card from his wet jacket, frowning as he pressed the creases out. It was all soggy and limp in his hands. He glanced at Numbers tiredly. The man in question was pressing an old towel into his beard and hair. He eyed the paper and reached over to look at what the hell Wrench was holding.
"Shit." Numbers laughed, because it was the corniest looking thing in the world, with these ugly flowers and a now smudged ink inscription in Wrench's chicken-scratch that read:
'You're a fucker but you're my fucker. 1 year since the diner in Fucksville Nowhere.'
Numbers' expression sobered up and he looked at Wrench, who watched him curiously. They both grinned when Numbers leaned over and pressed a kiss to his partner's lips.
'I'm your fucker? You should write greeting cards. Let's get back to the hotel and you can be my fucker.'
Wrench snorted at him and ruffled his wet hair, which caused his partner to shake it out angrily like a dog, getting them both even more wet. Numbers set the card on the dashboard and turned on the radio, and he pulled the car out of the dirt, back to the main road.
