Chapter Text
june 3rd, 2016, 9:08 p.m.
propwash junction, minnesota
Propwash Junction was the sweetest ‘lil daydream in the summer. The little white tents of the local farmer’s market lined the main street every Saturday morning, vendors selling fresh produce, baked goods, handmade jewelry and the like. Chug and Sparky ran the Dusty Crophopper merch stand, as always, and Ripslinger was kind enough to hang out at their booth and model their newest designs, whether it be a t-shirt, jacket that almost had him dying of heatstroke, or most ridiculously, a bright orange propeller hat that sold out in one morning. Ripslinger chalked it up to his devilish handsomeness. Dusty bounced around the market, talking with everyone in town, and would always return with bags full of vegetables neither him or Ripslinger knew how to cook, boxes of cookies, and more trinkets he absolutely did not need. Wildflowers were in full bloom in the park and the fields surrounding the town, and almost every shop or business had window boxes overflowing with them, the bright colors splashing through the streets. There was always country music or the smell of fried food drifting through town thanks to Honker’s. It was the place to be every night, where Ripslinger’s dart throwing abilities slowly improved (kind of) and Dusty made it his life’s mission to learn every line dance known to man. Block parties ended up happening almost every Friday night in the park, thanks to the fact Dusty pretty much was friends with everyone in town, Chug and Sparky’s way with a grill, and Ripslinger’s ability to organize a damn good party. Dottie had gotten a couple local musicians together and they’d play in the gazebo, mostly folk and country, but it started veering into rock n’ roll territory once Sparky found a way to plug in Dottie’s electric guitar. Skipper filmed every performance like a proud grandpa, his thumb only covering the camera sometimes.
Yeah, it was the sweetest ‘lil daydream, until the afternoon thunderstorms started rolling in. The towering clouds gathered in the distance, getting darker and foreboding, until they moved closer, blocking out the bright sunlight. Usually the storm would rage for a few minutes, soaking the town, wind rattling windowpanes, and thunder crashing overhead, and it would move on, just in time for Dusty’s favorite time of day–golden hour. The lingering smell of rain would be thick in the humid air as they headed out for the evening, steam coming off the roads, golden rays reflecting off the puddles in the curbs as the dying sunlight showered the whole town.
Or…there were storms like this one, which raged on for the rest of the night. Ripslinger leaned against the counter, reading recipes on his phone, trying to find something to make with all the leftover produce from last Saturday’s farmer’s market. Something more edible than casserole but less burnable than stir fry, while Dusty sat perched on the window bench, staring out at the fat raindrops beating against the window. The rain came down so hard it was hard to see to the other side of the street, the little trees lining the sidewalk blowing in the strong wind. They’d settled into a domestic routine easily during the offseason since Ripslinger would come to Propwash whenever he had a couple free days, and Dusty’s apartment started to truly feel like home. He loved the feeling. He, however, did not love starving, which it appeared he would be doing as his search for recipes began to look fruitless.
“I was really looking forward to the party in the park tonight,” Dusty said suddenly. Ripslinger didn’t like how sad he sounded.
“There was a party in the park tonight?”
“There was gonna be. Chug’s idea.”
Propwash loved its impromptu parties, that was for sure. If the small town gatherings for a grill-out and whatever entertainment people brought could be counted as a party. Though Ripslinger was still salty about his giant Jenga loss to Sparky.
“I thought that was a Friday thing?”
“You have something against parties on a Sunday?”
“People with jobs probably do,” Ripslinger retorted, before scrolling past a recipe for egg and tomato casserole in disgust. What even was that?
“Says the guy who never dusted a cornfield at 5am on three hours of sleep. We’re a different breed here.”
“I’ll say.”
Dusty turned to look at Ripslinger in mock offense. “Rude. You love us though.”
“Allegedly.”
“Any luck?” Dusty asked as lightning lit up the darkening sky.
“Not unless you can pull a cast iron skillet out of your ass or know how to julienne a zucchini."
“I have an aunt named Julienne?”
Ripslinger shook his head but smiled. “Could she cook us dinner?”
“She lives in Minneapolis. Plus she’d probably hate driving in the rain.”
“Soup is the only thing I can come up with,” Ripslinger sighed, standing up straight. Dusty meandered over to him, quietly hugging him from behind.
“We have tomatoes, zucchini, an ungodly amount of kale, and corn. And maybe rice. That sounds…” Dusty trailed off, his voice muffled by Ripslinger’s hoodie from where he currently had his face shoved in the crook of his neck.
“Disgusting,” Ripslinger finished. “Soup is just sad wet vegetables.”
“Honker’s?” Dusty asked, moving so his chin rested on Ripslinger’s shoulder.
“We’re going to be sad wet vegetables if we walk there in this,” Ripslinger said, and thunder crashed on cue. “Case in point.”
“I’ll call Chug to pick us up in his van. I think him and Sparky were going there anyway.”
Ripslinger liked the idea of burgers for the fifth night in a row over whatever abysmal soup he was about to subject them both to. “When are Chug and Sparky not going to Honker’s? And…you really need a new truck, babe.”
Dusty smiled the cutest little smile at the nickname.
“Ever since you crashed it–”
“At least I didn’t total a Ferrari at 4 a.m. on Rodeo Drive. And I thought we agreed to not talk about the Great Truck Debacle of 2015!”
Ripslinger just laughed and laced up his ridiculously expensive boots that were about to be absolutely desecrated by the torrential downpour.
***********
It turned out about half the town had the same idea, as Honker’s ended up being more crowded than usual for a Sunday night. The four of them grabbed a booth by the window to watch the storm, though they ended up being more engrossed in a rerun of the Piston Cup race in Daytona that happened earlier that day.
“Chug…you know Cal Weathers can’t hear you…right?” Sparky questioned after Chug got way too excited about an overtake at one point in the race.
“He can feel my energy,” Chug replied matter of factly.
“That’s not…”
“I can feel your energy when I race, Chug,” Dusty offered, causing Chug to look over at Sparky triumphantly.
And that was how they spent the rest of the night yelling at a TV over a NASCAR rerun, much to the amusement (or dismay) of everyone else in the bar. At one point Dusty rested his hand on Ripslinger’s leg under the table, and once again Ripslinger felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.