Deployment has left me all this time. Here is that actual fic to go with the rodeo Balcifer porn I posted ages ago.
If there was one thing Balthazar hated before anything else, it was the desert. It was hot, it was dusty, and there were a terrifyingly high number of ways to die very quickly out there. There also tended to be few large cities, and the ones that existed were far apart. He was a quintessential city boy who loved the beat of urban life. And sure, Los Angeles was hot and close to the desert, but at least he wasn't surrounded by cacti and cattle every hour of every day. So it naturally followed that he hated essentially everything to do with the desert, including cowboys, every state from North Dakota to Texas, and rodeos. Especially rodeos.
"Roché, I'm going to need you in Tulsa for awhile," Fergus Crowley said calmly, practically smugly, from behind his heavy oak desk. Balthazar stood in front of him with a dumbfounded look on his face.
The look hadn't been there a few seconds before. He was completely used to getting called into Crowley's office for assignments, after all. But his editor knew his distaste for the desert, and Tulsa was right in the middle of it. "For what?" Balthazar demanded.
"There's this family, the Cohens. Rodeo family—"
"Bloody hell, Crowley, no bloody rodeos!"
"What?" Crowley asked innocently. "You're a sports writer. The board wants to see a series on this sport and this family."
"A bloody series?" Balthazar asked, his voice raising an octave. As if writing one article wasn't bad enough—multiple articles required a certain amount of cohesion and far more effort than he wanted to expend, especially on this particular project.
"I expect three articles from you. Collins is going with you to photograph. You leave this afternoon, so pack up. I'll email you your flight information in an hour. Any questions?"
"Yeah—why me?" Balthazar snapped. "You know I hate rodeos! I bloody loathe the desert!"
Crowley smirked. "You're the best sports writer I have. Besides, Zachariah Fuller requested you by name for this project. It's only a good thing—he's saying you have the potential to take on greater responsibility. Based on how well you do, he might even promote you."
Balthazar's jaw clenched. He'd been trying to get promoted for awhile, and to have the prospect of writing three articles about something he absolutely hated with a possible promotion as leverage was infuriating. What was even worse was that he'd do it, too. He really wanted that promotion.
At least he'd worked with Collins before. That was one aspect of this whole situation that wasn't completely shitty. He wasn't a half-bad guy—sensible, logical, controlled, talented, and so utterly hot that it was a wonder he didn't realize it. "Does Cas already know about this?"
"Told him about an hour ago. He took the morning to pack—as should you. Expect to be there for three months, at least. You'll be following the Cohens to a few competitions, going to Dallas with them, things like that. And I hear the desert is hot." Crowley aimed a meaningful glance at Balthazar's favored black velvet jacket. "I'd rethink the heavy wear if I were you."
"Fine," he spat. He turned and stormed out of the office as Crowley called after him with the cryptic, "Just the twins!" Whatever that meant.
He hoped the Cohens were obnoxious, because he already hated them, too.
Bela was still asleep when he got back home to his tiny but well-furnished apartment. She was sprawled out on the middle of the California king, tangled in the sheets, as he threw open the bedroom door, but her eyes fluttered open at the bang.
"Taz?" she murmured, sitting up. "Isn't it a touch early for you to be home?"
"Yes, and you can thank my bloody editor for that. I'm being sent on assignment," he practically growled as he located a suitcase and began throwing clothes into it haphazardly.
"Sounds dreadfully exciting." She flopped back on the sheets and closed her eyes.
"To bloody Oklahoma," Balthazar added. He lobbed a pair of socks into the suitcase.
"What is an Oklahoma?" Bela asked with a laugh. "I'm familiar with the musical, but I'm afraid I haven't the faintest what it is."
"It's a state. South of Kansas, north of Texas—"
"Texas? Oh, bloody hell. Whatever for?" Now her voice held the appropriate note of sympathy and indignation.
"Zachariah Fuller requested a certain senior sports writer to cover a rodeo family. He wants three articles about them, and I'll be gone for three months, at least."
"Excruciating." She heaved a dramatic sigh. "Don't forget to bring condoms with you—I don't want you coming home with some disease."
"Trust me, the only illness I'll be in danger of contracting is mad bloody cow disease."
Bela laughed again, but made no further response. She flung her arm over her eyes and let him bustle around the room, gathering up a pair of jeans here, a shirt there.
Once he was finally packed, he settled on the edge of the bed and stared at his suitcase. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. It wasn't fair—he didn't want to leave his home and Bela for an assignment he had no passion for. Why couldn't it have been baseball in New York, or American football in New England or something? He would have even taken basketball in Florida. But no, he was stuck doing rodeo in Oklahoma.
"I know this isn't your idea of a great assignment, but it's only for a few months," Bela murmured. He felt the bed shifting behind him, and a moment later, she was pressed up against his back, wrapping her arms around his stomach. She kissed a spot just to the left of his Atlas vertebra and added, "Besides, it was Fuller who asked for you, right?"
"Right," he said. He slid his hands up her arms and sighed softly. He wouldn't admit it out loud—mostly because she would laugh at him if he did—but he would miss her a lot while he was gone. Their relationship was simple and uncomplicated. They were close friends who lived together and frequently had mind-blowing sex. Neither of them had any interest in the other in a romantic capacity, but their sexual chemistry was undeniable. It was a rare relationship that worked remarkably well.
"So that probably means you'll be considered for some sort of promotion, right?"
"Right." She'd worked at his magazine but quit a few months ago after receiving a better offer, so she knew about the politics of journalism.
"So what you do is..." She kissed the back of his neck, running her fingers through his blond curls. "...work terribly hard on this project..." She kissed higher up, at the back of his head. "...bitch and moan to Crowley whenever possible..." She kissed his ear and leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. "...and when you come back, you'll have a nice fat pay bump to look forward to."
Balthazar scoffed. "Let's hope it's that easy."
"Just breathe, okay?" Chuck coached, one hand on Michael's shoulder and the other on Lucifer's. "You're tense—you both are. An' that's understandable," he added, looking from one of his sons to the other. "You haven't done this before. Not like this, anyway." He gave both their shoulders a reassuring squeeze before dropping his hands and stepping back, and Michael and Lucifer exchanged glances.
Michael's lips quirked up in a smile. "Ready, little brother?"
Lucifer flashed a returning smirk. "More ready than you, big brother."
"Wanna bet?"
"Ten bucks says I make it an' you don't."
"Oh, you're on!" Michael laughed, grabbing his brother's hand and shaking it.
Chuck just smiled and shook his head as his sons hopped over the fence into the enclosure. They were good boys, his sons. They fought just like any siblings, but never for very long—they were twins, and they'd been together for their entire lives. There was hardly anything they hadn't done together from the very beginning, and their rodeo careers were no exception. It ran in the family, starting with Chuck.
He'd started young, at fourteen, and he'd started winning competitions soon after. When he was twenty-three, he'd gotten married, and two years later, his sons were born. Even then, it wasn't until he was twenty-seven and his wife Hester died that he gave up the rodeo life to properly raise his children, but by then, both of the twins had started riding horses in an effort to be "like Daddy." So, seeing potential in both of them (even at two and a half years old, they had amazing coordination), he began training them to follow in his footsteps to rodeo immortality.
Twenty-six years later, they were well on their way to achieving it. Despite the various setbacks that dogged both of his sons, they'd managed to claim prizes in several rodeo events. But their favorite, and the one they were most well-known for, was bull-riding. They rode simultaneously whenever possible, or one right after the other when it wasn't. Michael usually rode first, although sometimes Lucifer (who registered under the name Nick, since he didn't think "Lucifer" would go over too well with the overwhelmingly conservative crowds) would volunteer to go first if Michael had a bad feeling about the ride. His bad feelings were typically well-founded, and it was only through sheer luck that Lucifer was able to hang on as well as he did.
Right now, though, they were practicing a coordinated barrel-racing routine. It was more complicated than any one they'd attempted, and it was more for showmanship than to win any events, a freestyle routine. It also involved them switching horses halfway through, an extremely dangerous stunt, which was why they were practicing with their horses at a light trot to begin with.
The horses—Michael on Seraph and Lucifer on Steel—set off at practically a meander, which was a bit slow for either of their tastes. But they weren't stupid—this was dangerous, and they had to be careful. An extra layer of sawdust had been spread in the pen to act as a cushion in case one of them fell, but both of them had survived more dangerous falls from more dangerous horses and bulls before. Neither of them were incredibly worried about serious injury. The worst either one of them had ever sustained was three cracked ribs.
The first minute and a half of the routine were easy—over a couple of fences, rounding a barrel, Michael's horse swerving right in front of Steel as Lucifer's horse sidestepped to the left. Michael slowed Seraph down—he'd had to pick up a bit of speed to pull ahead—and then they both gingerly slid their feet out of the stirrups, crouching to keep their center of gravity low with their boots right on the saddle seats.
This next part was the tricky, dangerous bit of the routine. Michael and Lucifer glanced at each other to check that the other was ready. Michael gave a quick nod, and wordlessly, they jumped—Michael vaulting to his left and Lucifer to the right.
Chuck saw the heel of Lucifer's boot skid across Seraph's saddle, nearly sending him off-balance and tumbling to the sawdust, but a blink later, his younger son had recovered. As one, Michael and Lucifer slid back into the saddles and kicked their horses' sides to power through the last few seconds of the routine.
Chuck applauded, joined by a few of the ranch hands, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson (the last two of whom had managed to sneak up on him while he was watching his sons). Their performance had drawn a lot of attention.
Laughing, Michael leaped out of the saddle and ran back across the pen, followed a second later by Lucifer.
Looking at them, no one would know they were twins. They looked nothing alike, except for their eyes—they both had bright, vividly blue eyes. Michael had dark hair and broader shoulders, towering over his five-foot-six father at six feet tall himself. When he wasn't smiling, he looked sullen and angry. Lucifer, on the other hand, had strawberry-blond hair, an easy smile, and a slighter frame, although he was an inch taller than his older brother. In fact, aside from their eyes and their height (the latter of which came from their mother), the only thing they physically had in common was that they were both strikingly handsome. They were close enough in size to allow them to share clothes.
Their personalities were surprisingly similar, though. Both of them had a habit of cracking ill-timed jokes and messing with each other (although they were also frequently partners in crime). They listened to the same music and had the same dream of rodeo stardom. They'd both conceived children out of wedlock, although while Michael had ended up marrying his son's mother before Inias was born, Lucifer was better off without his daughter's mother—they hadn't seen Eve Campbell in eight years, and that was just fine with the Cohens.
Michael hopped the fence and swept Rachel into a deep kiss. Lucifer made silent gagging motions behind his brother's back, sending his three-year-old nephew Inias into a fit of giggles. After a minute, Michael tore his attention away from Rachel to see what Inias was laughing about. Lucifer innocently looked up at the sky, but Michael knew his brother had been making fun of him, so he launched himself back over the fence, plowing Lucifer to the ground.
Immediately, they were embroiled in an impromptu wrestling match, kicking up sawdust and dirt in clouds that made Inias sneeze.
Chuck let it go on for a few seconds before kicking at them. "Okay, guys, break it up. The horses are supposed to knock you around—don't wanna do their job for 'em, do you?"
Grinning, his sons disentangled themselves and stood up.
"That's what I thought. Okay, the routine looked pretty good—a little rough, but it was only your first time up. Not too bad. You," he added, looking right at Lucifer, "almost fell."
"Almost. But I didn't," Lucifer said, crossing his arms and looking smug.
"If you had a hat on, it woulda fallen off."
Lucifer shrugged. "It's just a hypothetical hat."
"Aside from that, you're doin' fine. Run through it one more time, an' then we'll break for lunch. Dean's gotta go now, though."
"Oh, are those reporter guys comin' in today? I thought it was tomorrow," Michael said.
"Nah, tonight. We're getting' a big dinner ready for 'em, too."
"You want us to show 'em the routine tonight?" Lucifer asked.
"Nah, it's too early for that. Next week. They'll be here for awhile, so there'll be plenty of time."
His boys headed back across the paddock and led their horses to the starting point. This time, Chuck didn't bother watching. Now, they'd know what to look out for, and Rachel was watching as well. She hadn't grown up in a rodeo family like his sons, but she'd been barrel racing since she was eighteen and she'd picked up a few things over the past four years with them. She also had a rather analytic mind. The routine had been her idea in the first place, although Chuck had worked out the details with her and his sons.
As he walked back up to the house, he heard whooping and hoof beats. Without looking back, he smiled. These California reporters wouldn't know what hit them.