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They’ve been on the road for a good 80 miles, strips of barren, boring pasture flashing past the car windows in a blur of monotony that’s slowly fading into the pitch-black infinity of a Midwestern night. Numbers could feel his eyelids drooping. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the urge to sleep. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
To his right, Wrench was giving him a look. It’s one of those scrutinizing, all-consuming looks that made Numbers want to bark out something nasty. He glanced at Wrench, mouthed what with an obvious and exaggerated twist of his mouth. Too often, when he’s bored like this, Numbers would become confrontational. Sometimes Wrench indulged him, but tonight, he did not take the bait.
Pull over, Wrench signed, before you crash the car.
Numbers bristled like a cat. Fuck you.
You’re too tired for that.
Numbers flushed an angry red. Fine, goddammit, I’ll pull over.
They took the next exit. It was a narrow road, lightless save for the headlights of their car. On either side there was an endless expanse of grass, flat and still as the midnight sea. Numbers parked the car, leaving the lights on to glow out a faint path in the black night. He gave Wrench an annoyed look, and the big idiot had the audacity to actually smirk at him.
Before Numbers could think up something suitably rude to sign in his general direction, Wrench opened the door and stepped out into the warm summer air. Without hesitation Numbers followed, the instinct to stick together burrowed deep and unmovable in his subconscious.
Wrench waded out into the grass; it grew unchecked, reaching high enough to brush the knees of Numbers’ pants. Numbers was never a nature kid when he was little; he grew up in the city, scraping his knees on hot concrete, the hum of cars and AC units the closest thing to birdsong in the recesses of his childhood memories. He was never comfortable in nature, then or now. He skittered through the grass in his expensive black clothes and felt absurdly out of place.
Wrench did not seem to share his partner’s discomfort. He fit in the landscape comfortably, like a boulder with an unreasonably tasseled jacket. Sometimes Numbers envied him.
He’s hot on Wrench’s heels, and when Wrench stopped abruptly, Numbers slammed into the back of him. He pushed Wrench on the shoulders with a rough hand, trying to get the man’s attention.
What the hell are you doing? he signed when Wrench finally turned. From the glow of the headlights Numbers could see Wrench roll his eyes and gesture with hands—cupped hands, Numbers noticed, as though he was holding something.
What did you find?
In answer, Wrench opened his hands, and from their center a small glowing insect rose like a star. It fluttered out of Wrench’s grasp and stuttered into the inky sky. Wrench tilted his head back, watching its progress, a small smile on his face. Numbers watched Wrench, a warm glow budding in the pit of his stomach.
F-I-R-E-F-L-Y? Numbers spelled out.
Wrench nodded, and showed him the sign for it. Numbers mimicked his hands, and Wrench grinned at him.
How did you catch it?
It’s easy.
It wasn’t easy, not for Numbers. He stumbled around in the grass like an idiot, cursing as the bugs fluttered through his fingers like wisps of smoke. Wrench laughed at him. Numbers pulled an annoyed face, grumbling. I’m not cut out for this shit, he signed, I’d rather watch you.
Something flickered in Wrench’s face, and suddenly Numbers found that his partner had sidled up in front of him, giving him one of those weird, searching looks. And then Wrench leaned down, pressing his lips very lightly against Numbers’ mouth. Numbers shivered in the warm summer night; he could feel the tips of his ears go red. There was a look of legitimate fondness in Wrench’s eyes that made Numbers’ squirm, and he glanced down with an irritated huff. Aren’t you a fucking romantic, he signs, never sure how to react when presented with genuine affection.
You know you love it.
Stop gloating.
You blush like a girl.
“Fuck you,” Numbers snarled. Wrench swooped down and kissed him again. Numbers could feel the rumble of a laugh in the back of his throat. A large hand snaked up, threading through the thick, dark hair of his head. It was a sappy and romantic gesture, and it made Numbers’ toes curl. Goddammit, he was such a fucking girl.
They broke for air, mouths flushed red. Numbers’ could feel his hair askew with the preternatural ability of someone who devoted hours to its perfection. This is great and everything, but we really do have to hit the road, Numbers signed. Fargo’s waiting on us.
Wrench swallowed, nodding. Numbers smoothed his hair down as they walked back to the car, fireflies flickering around them as they trod through the grass. Back in the car, Numbers glanced over at his partner, smiling at him with an awkward twist of his lips. Thank you, by the way. I needed that.
You work too hard.
One of us has to.
You have a firefly trapped in your hair.
“Fuck,” Numbers muttered. Wrench leaned over and retrieved the bug with deft fingers, freeing it from the thick nest of hair. He released it, and Numbers watched it flicker away, its small light reflected in the black of Wrench’s eyes. A strange, sacrosanct sort of feeling filled him, like Numbers was part of some bizarre ceremony, pledging something bigger than himself to an archaic woodland god, a pact consisting of himself and his peculiar partner. It left him feeling odd and heavy, and he was grateful when the feeling passed.
They drove off together, the buzz of fireflies in their ears.