Archive of Our Own

"Oh come on!" Daniel pulls off of the road, smacking the GPS unit, which has just informed him, in an almost sneering tone (well, to his ears, anyway) that he has missed his turn.

"There was no turn!" He looks back. "Did you see a turn?" He turns to Nate, who is sitting quietly in the passenger seat of the car, calmly unfolding a map to show where it seems that they should be.

"I didn't, no, but I wasn't really looking. Here, look at the map." Nate tries to hand the paper over, but Daniel is just too frustrated. He watches as his lover bangs his fists against the steering wheel and looks back in the rearview mirror and then over his shoulder, trying to figure out what he missed.

Daniel bangs his fist again, and gives the GPS another smack for good measure. "This is ridiculous. This stupid bloody machine just takes the mick every time!" He wants to back up, turn around, go back to where this alleged turn was, 100 yards back, the GPS is parroting, as if anyone measures anything by yards any more, and as if there's some way of measuring a yard when you're in a car and the odometer may give you miles or kilometres and tenths thereof, but not yards, not now not ever. His hands are on the wheel and he's about to pull out, but there's an 18 wheeler coming and the blast of wind that comes through the open window as it passes comes with a mouthful of sand and grit and Daniel is sputtering and swearing.

"Bollocks! Bloody hell!" He violently slams the gearshift to "park" and steps from the car, spitting on the ground, coughing, reaching back in to grab his bottle of water from the console and just angry, infuriated, as he rinses his mouth.

Then he looks up, and sees Nate, who has climbed out of the car on his side and is looking at him with loving, concerned eyes. And beyond, an expanse, a glorious expanse, of purple sagebrush. He scrubs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath. Nothing is irretrievably broken. They'll get back to the cabin... eventually.