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“How come I never get to sit in the front?” Trombley complains with a huff from the back of the Humvee. Ray cackles, swerving slightly and causing Trombley to be squished against the window. “Hey, no fair!”
“What?” Ray feigns innocence, purposefully avoiding Brad’s glance towards him; he doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking. “There was a pothole!”
“Sure.” Trombley grumbles. Brad laughs then, turning to look at the youngest member of their team. Ray sneaks a side glance his way, only for a second, just to admire the way the early afternoon sun hits his blonde hair and casts a golden halo over his head.
Man, he sounds so gay.
Biting his lip, Ray focuses back on the road.
“Trombley,” Brad starts in that slow drawl of his that has Ray’s toes curling, stomach twisting in knots, “When you’re riding shotgun, you’re not just there for the leg room and the view. You’re first mate on this voyage and you’ve got to act like it. I know, for a fact, that you’d be asleep in five minutes.” Ray snorts, shaking his head at the ridiculous way Brad makes every words sound so damn serious, despite the stupidity of the whole conversation.
He doesn’t tell him that, though. No, instead, Ray points at Brad in agreement, shooting him a smug grin that Brad returns warmly. “Yo, if you call shotgun, on any roadtrip, you also claim that you will not sleep at all, you will DJ for the car, be GPS human and keep the driver company. If you’re not into that, hit the back, homes.”
Brad nods along with each carefully stressed point, hand dropping onto Ray’s shoulder with a subtle squeeze. Ray notices Reporter in the corner of his eye, scribbling down furiously with a not-so-concealed grin. At least they’re amusing someone, he thinks, as Trombley just rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, well, Ray annoys the fuck out of you.” Trombley tells Brad, to which Ray bursts into another fit of laughter. This poor kid knows nothing.
“Ray is an annoying, buck-toothed, pain in my fucking ass, sure.” Brad agrees, earning him a punch to the arm, “I sit here to make sure he doesn’t start singing country songs every two minutes. But, also, because – as much as I loathe to admit it – he’s good company.”
“Aww,” Ray coos, leaning into Brad’s side with a wide grin, “I love you too, big guy.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ray.” Brad grumbles, but the glint of amusement in his eyes says nothing of the sort. Ray will take that.
The Humvee falls into a comfortable silence once again as they continue to their next stop, Ray unable to wipe the smile from his face.
Later that night, Ray stumbles through the dark of the desert until he falls into the hole Brad had dug out for himself. They’re shielded, mostly, by the Humvee. Nobody else is close enough to notice as he slips to the ground next to Brad.
Brad blinks open his eyes, raising a questioning brow at him as he silently shuffles over to give Ray more room. He takes it greedily, sinking into the comforting warmth offered.
“You really meant that stuff from before?” he asks, voice unusually quiet in the night.
Brad breathes out, slow and careful, before speaking, “What stuff?”
Ray avoids looking up into those damn hypnotising baby blues as he says, “About me being good company and shit. I don’t piss you off constantly?”
Brad lets out a mildly exasperated sigh, hand sliding between them until he can take hold of Ray’s, lacing their fingers together and dragging them onto Brad’s chest. “Ray, you annoy me every fucking day.” Ray snorts, but it’s cut short as Brad brings their hands further up and brushes dry lips over Ray’s knuckles. This time, when he speaks, his voice is strangely soft. Fond, even. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”
Ray’s heart stutters in his chest, painful as he swallows away the lump in his throat. “God, you are so fucking gay, homes.”
Brad laughs, sending warm air ghosting over Ray’s hand. “Yeah,” he agrees, and Ray doesn’t need to look up to see the smile on his face. His stupid, beautiful face. “Not as gay as you.”