Call this OOC or call it ridiculous dedication to your job, I'll take it regardless
The hay.
At first it had started with the hay.
Steve grunted in frustration, as he hauled the wheelbarrow of anything-but-the-hay out of the newly cleaned stall, pitying the person who'd be in charge to dry-clean his dress pants and shirt.
As he drove it down the narrow aisle and emptied it in the wooden bin full of fly-laden goodness, he threw an angry glare over at Mike, who'd sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs by the small farm house next to the barn, sharing a pitcher of sweet tea with Marietti.
The absurdity of this situation had started with an innocent request that he, as a young and strong man, help their latest person of interest move some hay bales from one end of the barn to the other. The task seemed easy enough, and he knew it would show goodwill in a case where they needed it more than ever.
As soon as he was done with that, enjoying a pat on the back from his partner, Marietti had asked if he could take some of the hay out to the critters while he and Mike would talk about Sullenger.
Sure, Steve thought, he'd sacrifice a lot to close that case. So, along with a wooden cart, he made the trip to several paddocks in the half mile perimeter to feed cows, ponies and llamas alike, woefully aware of the toll it would take on his treasured cowboy boots.
Then came the cleaning of "just the two stalls", followed by the request to dump the manure in the appropriate bin.
By the time he finally made it back, Mike was still having an engaged discussion with Marietti, words like island hoppers and Charley and troops filling the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the farm. Hoping to be done with the chore duties he was never made out to excel at anyways, Steve had slowly approached the house, hoping to quietly sit down on the concrete slab by the front porch, keeping to himself until the two military veterans were done hashing out the past. But then he saw Al's eyes focus on him again, his mouth opening to request yet another favor from the "young man who was a lot stronger than he looked like initially".
"Say Son, could you do me one more favor and gather the eggs? They ought to be done laying by now. They're in that coop over there on the far side."
With his expensive suit smelling of animal excrements, rogue pieces of hay having made it past his half open dress shirt and causing every square inch of his chest to itch relentlessly, the sweat making his clothes stick to his skin, Steve glared at Mike, lips pursed to a thin line, the graveness of the situation conveyed without the shadow of a doubt.
And yet, the Lieutenant only gave him a faint smile, then nudged toward Marietti, an unspoken plea to yield the latest request for SFPD's sake, or whichever grander entity could somehow justify what undue torture was happening here.
Grunting again, he clenched his jaws, his mind taking him far away to some bathtub full of bubbles, hot water and pleasant smells, a closet full of freshly cleaned and pressed shirts, and the simplicity of getting his shoes shined for a couple dimes down on Bryant and 3rd.
"Basket's inside the coop door.", came Marietti's helpful advice as he turned on his heels to march toward the shack made from scrap wood located near the driveway, a seemingly attractive gathering place for many of the chickens, as well as a couple of roosters who eyed him skeptically.
Reserving the last of his scorn for the day for Mike and the predicament he'd put him in, Steve forced a smile, as if his charm could somehow assuage the threatened poultry, and approached the building. High-pitched squawking could be heard, the suspicious fowl watching him like overprotective gang members about to start a war after one of their own got arrested.
As he intentionally dulled his senses, a coping mechanism of deep psychological trauma, desperately hoping it would help him ignore the overbearing smell, along with the manure-laden ground and moist texture the soles of his expensive boots made contact with on the arduous travel toward the chicken coop, Steve swallowed the gag reflex, as his city-boy upbringing reared its ugly face.
Taking in one last shallow breath, he cursed Mike once again and reached for the rusty handle.
The small dutch door creaked, as he turned the brass knob, making him feel as though he was about to enter uncharted territory no human had never visited before, quite possibly the gates of hell itself.
Unfortunately for Steve, the daylight coming in through the partially ajar door caused several dozen of the chickens roosting inside to flutter back out of the coop in a wild frenzy, heading directly for his position.