Work Text:
Fuck. Fuck!
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Brian gripes, pumping the gas pedal a few times before hastily turning the key, muttering small prayers to whatever lord will listen. The attempt at restarting his car yields nothing but a pathetic choked sputter from the engine, dash lights turning on for a second before flickering out for the final time. “God fuckin’ dammit!” Brian’s hands slam against the hard ridge of the steering wheel, fingers tightening around the metal as he cusses to himself.
One hand comes up to rub over his face, stubble scratching against the worn leather of his glove. At least he had time to pull over. Maybe then they’d leave his beat-up piece of shit truck alone. Brian reaches for his phone, the ancient thing in its makeshift tomb of the cup holder. The back of his cell sticks to weeks-old spilt soda at the bottom of it and leaves a gummy residue on his fingers as he flips it open, clicking down to the quick-access contact simply labelled ‘Tim’.
The ringback only sounds a few times before the fast busy tone plays. Brian doesn’t let it get past its sixth buzz before he snaps his phone shut and throws it down onto his thigh, moving to instead cover his mouth, fingers tight with frustration.
Took a wrong turn, no cell reception, broken truck, dirt-poor, what else?
After Brian is done staring holes into his dashboard, he shifts the gear into park with a heavy clunk and snatches the keys out of the ignition. A ways back, Brian remembers seeing a billboard about a restaurant or bar, the name of it hidden beneath torn-down strips and graffiti. He did catch the bright yellow lettering that read ‘2.3 MILES DOWN’, however, and if Brian had to guess, he’d say he’s not even a quarter mile down from it now.
Tugging the mask the rest of the way off of his head, Brian forces it into the already overstuffed glove box before slamming it shut with unnecessary force. The car door is next, rusty hinges squealing as it’s flung open and then promptly kicked shut. Brian doesn’t even bother locking the door and instead shoves his keys into his back pocket.
It’s warm outside, humid with the chill of a passed thunderstorm. It still smelt of fresh rain, the scent carried between the trees with the gentle wind. The sun’s just about to dip below the horizon, sky splattered with pinks and yellows, orange-tinged clouds breaking up the skyline where the towering pines fail to do so.
Brian rasps his knuckles on the truck’s hood as he crosses over to the shoulder of the road. The steel is heated beneath his fingers, warm even through his gloves. Knowing his luck, this would probably be the last time his truck would even run until he and Tim are able to scrounge up the cash for a new whatever’s needed.
At least the walk there wouldn’t be that bad. It’s nice out, and it’s a blessing in disguise to get cardio away from chasing someone through the woods. Brian kicks a rock and watches it skid off to the side, tumbling down into the ditch below. Tall grass extends from the dried-up creek and crawls onto the pavement, rustling with the knock of Brian’s leg.
It’s no more than five minutes until Brian can hear the place. Music is playing—he thinks it’s Steely Dan— and there’s a faint rumble of what sounds like a motorcycle idling. The sun has faded into purple streaks in the sky, giving way to the stars and constellations.
At least Brian won’t have to break in, saving him the trouble of having to find something to pick a lock with.
He stays behind the treeline for a moment, watching. The lack of cars is made up for by several motorcycles parked near the curb, most a shiny black with the occasional red or blue with flame or skull decals. The bar itself looked fairly grungy but not too unwelcoming—paint peels off the wood slats after years of harsh sun beating down, and there’s a fairly large tarp nailed into the roof, droopy with an absurd amount of leaves and rainwater. The holiday lights strung around the patio don’t do much; the bulbs faded and dull.
Brian couldn’t see inside. The windows are tinted and plastered with posters and washed-out neon signs, but he does hear what must have been a few people sitting out on the patio, conversing loudly over greasy food and beer. A woman stands by the curb, lit cigarette in one hand and her phone in the other.
So there is reception out here. Sweet.
Slinking out from between the trees, Brian steps up to the storefront. He knows he looks out of place—wearing a heavy hoodie and scuffed work jeans in the middle of July with an outdated and practically useless cellphone. If he could avoid talking to anyone, he would. Brian ends up on the curb a few feet away from the woman, giving her a small nod when she half-smiles at him.
Like before, Brian flips open his phone and clicks down to Tim’s contact. It gets halfway through the fourth ring before it abruptly stops, chimes descending in pitch as it dies. Brian pulls the phone away from his ear and gives it an offended glare, desperately pressing the power button over and over again.
How, in any possible way, could this day get worse?
He cusses, louder than he probably should’ve, and snaps the device shut. Brian has half a mind to slam it onto the ground and break the thing into oblivion, as if his list of necessities wasn’t already miles long. He shoves his phone into his back pocket and smooths a hand over his face again. He doubted the bar had a payphone, and who’d be dumb enough to lend him—
“You need a call?” A voice says from behind him, and when Brian turns around, the woman who had been smoking is already reaching back into her pocket to fish out her phone.
Brian blinks, but extends a hand. “Yeah, actually,” he steps closer, “if you don’t mind.” She gives it up with little more than a hum, handing her device over. She had one of those cases that doubled as a wallet, and as Brian opened the front of it, he couldn’t help but glance at her ID. Organ donor, a local, two years younger than him… Brian wonders if she’s noticed that her license is about to expire.
It’s already unlocked, or maybe she didn’t have a passcode. There are a few contacts saved in her quick-dial, none noteworthy, and all decorated with emojis. Her inbox isn’t much different from Brian’s—only a few voice mails and all from family. Brian’s tongue darts out as he types in Tim’s number, holding the phone up to his ear. His heel taps against the cracked concrete as it rings only for it to end with ‘Your call cannot be completed at this time, please leave a message after the beep’. His head tilts back, adam’s apple catching in the dying slivers of light.
He exhales and holds in a curse. Dialling again, Brian’s hand goes to his hair to card his fingers through the blonde strands. It didn’t end much better; Tim had either shut off his phone or declined the call almost immediately after it came through—both options not much better than the other. “C’mon, jackass,” Brian mumbles to himself, calling for the third time. This time, Brian’s lips quirk up when he hears the chime of the call being connected.
“Who’s this?” Tim bites, voice gruff with cheap cigarettes.
“I need you to bring my toolbox and money for a tow truck.”
“Brian? Whose phone are you on?”
“Doesn’t matter, the truck's dead.” From the corner of his eye, he can see the woman watching him. Her cigarette was still pinched between her fingers, burning close to the filter. It was obvious that she was trying to act like she wasn’t listening in, head tilted just enough to keep him in her vision. That, or maybe she thought he’d run off with her phone and all of the goodies in its case.
“The hell did you do to it?”
“Nothing! It just…” Brian waves a hand around, ending on the back of his head as he smooths his hair down, “shit out on me. I need a pick up.”
Tim laughs, “I’m not touchin’ this.”
“Yeah, and I’m not waiting on the side of the road for help I’m not gonna get. There’s a bar maybe three miles down from exit—”
“Five,” the woman butts in, and Brian turns to look at her.
“What?”
“This place is five miles up from exit one-five-three.”
“Oh, uh- thanks,” Brian gives a small smile before fixing his gaze back out to the road, “five miles up from exit one-five-three.”
Tim scoffs, “You left the truck alone?”
“Yeah, it’s not like I got a dead body in the back. Anyone who tries to steal it will be shit out of luck anyway.”
Brian hears the slam of a door. Tim sighs, annoyed, “I’ll be there in an hour.” Brian doesn’t get to say anything before Tim hangs up, and before he hands the phone back, Brian makes sure to delete Tim’s number from her contact list.
“Thank you,” Brian says, slapping the case closed and passing her phone back. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She laughs. Cigarette smoke curls around her before it gets carried off with the wind, the wispy trails ending when she flicks the butt of the cig onto the pavement below. Her boot makes a small scuffing noise as she snuffs out the cigarette, “No offence, but I think I’m the one who needs to buy you a drink.” She nods to the door of the bar, “It’s happy hour anyway, I think my wallet will survive.”
Before Brian can object, she’s stepping backwards and shouldering the door open. It’s held ajar for Brian to scooch past, and as he enters, he turns to the side so as not to bump into her. He mutters another ‘thank you’ and follows behind.
It’s hot inside, air thick with smoke and the sharp tinge of alcohol. The music’s a lot louder too, jukebox now playing a Boston song. Inside is like every other dive bar, typical with posters and plaques that line the walls. There aren’t many tables lining the walls, made up for by the twenty-some stools at the bar counter.
The woman stops at a booth tucked in the back, right by the emergency exit and kitchen door. It’s the cleanest and quietest—probably her go-to spot. She extends an arm towards the seat and motions for Brian to sit, muttering a quick ‘be right back!’ before squeezing past him and disappearing behind the wall that separates the table from the main bar.
So much for keeping a ‘low profile’.
Brian slides into the booth. The table is sticky with degraded wax, etched with words and poorly-carved drawings, leaving it uneven as Brian runs the tips of his fingers against them. Brian is more than half-minded to leave through the exit door and hike back to his truck; Tim’s been called, he’s got a rifle in his truck bed that needs to be wiped down, hell, there’s even a Sudoku book Tim nabbed from a corner station. Brian can’t find any real, justifiable reason for him to be sitting here, waiting for that woman instead of Tim.
But Brian stays put, fingers entwining as he bounces his leg. The woman's gone for maybe two minutes before she returns with two glasses of whisky in her hand. The thin cup thunks against the table as she pushes it towards him, fingers tapping as she moves to slide into the bench across from him. The bottom of the glass sticks to the table, and Brian finds himself tilting it from side to side in a mindless fidget.
She climbs into the bench across from him and taps her nails on her glass. “I, uh- Never got your name,” Brian asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. She smiles, face shadowed from the ambient light behind her. The cracked leather of the bench groans quietly when she leans back, and she slips her name over like a five-dollar bill. Brian repeats it, offering his own when you nod in confirmation.
“So, Brian,” you start, bringing the rim of your glass to rest against your bottom lip, “where are you from? You’re dressed pretty heavily for summer.”
“Down south,” the tip of Brian’s forefinger traces the edge of his glass, and he doesn’t miss your eyes falling from his and down to the whisky.
“Mysterious. South of here, or south of there?”
Brian smiles, his shoulders rising with the corners of his mouth. “Whatever option you like more.”
“Okay then, Mr Southerner. Do you have work up here? Friends, family maybe?”
He blinks, mindlessly dragging his tongue against his bottom lip. “Me and a co-worker are helping a friend move.” A white lie, but better than having to explain his current ‘job’.
“Up here? Really?”
Brian simply nods. You laugh, surprised, “I didn’t know there was a house for sale. I would’ve taken it if I did.”
He hums, “It’s the next town over. I was heading there, but uh— my truck died.”
“Ooph, that’s shitty. I’m guessing it’s down a-ways?”
“Quarter mile, give or take.” Brian shrugs and downs his drink.
“Not too bad,” you hum, and a sultry smile writes itself on your face, “I used to help my dad fix up cars. Maybe I could help?”
He has a feeling that you’re not offering help to actually help, but Brian can’t stop himself from wondering what you’re really up to. “I doubt I have the right tools,” He says and leans back, “but we can figure something out.” His smile matches yours, playful and bound to lead him to trouble. You’re tipping the rest of your drink back, sliding out of the booth, and heading towards the exit door before Brian can fully realise what he’s agreed to.
A hand is placed on his shoulder. You lean in, not too close yet not close enough, “Lead the way.”
The exit door buzzes when opened, its abraded metal edge grating against the uneven ground. It’s not much cooler since he was last outside; the deteriorating tar is still warm, but the beginnings of a nightly chill are starting to set in.
The trek back was quiet, if not a little longer for the occasional stops. Brian walks alongside the faded edge line, hands shoved in his pockets as he listens to you talk.
His truck is, unfortunately, still waiting on the side of the road. Its right wheels hung off the shoulder and gave the car a slight tilt. One of the hubcaps was missing a chunk, and another did not even belong to the Ford, nicked from another in a junk yard. The brown-and-cream paint is sun-bleached and chipped in some areas, and there are a few spots of rust forming from those times Brian scraped against some trees. There’s also a bullet hole in one of the bedside walls, affectionately placed by Tim after he fired completely blind and terribly missed the mark. The Ford is old and would fare better as scrap metal, but it’s Brian’s, even if he hates the thing to death.
A second of silence falls between, filled with the chatter of crickets as Brian studies your face. You’re barely lit up by the dim street lamp a few feet away, beam flittering with dozens of moths. Brian, oddly enough, feels like one of them, being culled into the light—into you.
He licks his lips, and his gaze falls to the ground. Loose gravel crunches under both your shoes. There are about twenty—thirty, even—different reasons why he should’ve left you at the bar. Brian chooses to ignore them. Maybe he chooses to gaslight himself into believing that there isn’t even a list, and that he’s not a murderer working for an eldritch entity. He’s about to tell you to get out of the drying mud, but you’re on him before he can get a sound out.
He’s pressed against the passenger door, steel cool even through his hoodie, while patches of rust grab the threads. His lips quickly meet yours in the near-black of the night, and Brian doesn’t care to think—or even to ask why— and is instead placing his hands on your waist to pull you closer. Your body is warm and a comfort against his as you snake your own hands up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulders. The neckline of his hoodie tightens against his skin when you scrunch the yellow fabric beneath your fingers.
One of your hands falls to Brian’s hip and pats around for his car keys. Brian fumbles his leather-covered one down to your wrist before you’re able to find it in his back pocket. Your lips fall from his to protest, only to be immediately chased and re-captured. “It’s unlocked,” Brian mutters between his sloppy kisses, “just get inside.”
You pull away then, forcing a few inches in between his face and yours. Brian frowns. You grin, “I took you for a guy whose truck broke down, not an idiot. Just because it’s dead doesn’t mean you should leave it unlocked. There are bears, y’know.”
“Bears?” Brian’s eyebrows raise, pout replaced with a playful glimmer.
“Yeah,” your smile widens as you tug Brian from the door. You swing it open and grimace at the hiss the hinges make.
“At least I’d get a check from insurance,” Brian jests as he’s shoved inside the cab by a hand on his chest.
Inside the truck is not much better by looks alone. If he had known any of this would’ve happened, Brian probably would’ve shaken the mud and caked-on blood from the weather mats, or at least thrown Tim’s junk into the back. There are candy wrappers, spare clothes, and old beer cans hidden under the bench, alongside a pistol that had been stashed away for emergencies. If he remembers correctly, Tim used up all the ammo and the sole reason it’s still there is because both men forgot about it before it could be removed.
You don’t comment on the mess and instead take Brian’s hand, climbing up to join him. The cabin was nearly pitch black, lit just enough for your silhouette to be everything Brian saw. He’s meeting you halfway, chapped lips on your softer, red-tinted ones. Your hand snakes to the back of Brian’s head, nails raking against his scalp. He whines, the sound quiet and short, but still a tad embarrassing.
His hands run from your hips down to your thighs, fingertips feather-light as he traces them back up to the waistband of your shorts. Brian unbuttons them, his mouth parting from yours to let you shimmy the rough fabric off. The clothing gets tossed to the other side of the car, discarded. Brian doesn’t slide a hand in between your legs like you thought he would, and instead moves to peel his gloves off. His index finger hooks under the band, clasps still done. Your hands find Brian’s before he sheds the leather.
Brian’s eyebrows raise again in a silent question. You exhale, shoulders sinking just an inch. “Keep them on,” you say, “I like them. Keep the gloves on.” He blinks, but tugs the glove back down and returns it to your hips. Your hand that wasn’t in his hair rested against his jaw, thumb pressing into the joint. You taste of whisky—Brian is sure he does as well—and something sweeter, like cinnamon or cardamom. Two fingers fall in between your legs and gently draw lines against your skin. He traces higher, skimming over where your thigh and cunt meet before two knuckles ghost over your dampening panties. Your breath hitches, and that was all Brian needed before sliding the thin fabric to the side.
The position Brian was in was nothing short of awkward and mildly uncomfortable. The edge of where the door and bench meet jabs into his back, and the window crank keeps catching the sleeve of Brian’s hoodie as he grasps the fat of your hip. His hand is a little cramped with the strained position, fingers slicking against your cunt. The rut of your hips makes the back of his hand rub against his cock, met with little rocks of his own. Brian’s also dangerously close to slipping off the seat entirely, the only thing keeping you perched on his lap being the leg he had on the muddy floor.
Thank god for being on a decrepit road. Lord knows what Tim would do to him if he got arrested for public indecency.
You’re wet, noticeable even through his gloves. It’s more than easy to glide the tips of his fingers against your clit as Brian greedily drinks your hushed moans. After a few passes, your hand was back on his wrist, dragging his fingers to where you wanted them. His middle finger presses in, curling forward once his other fingers meet your skin. On the third or fourth drag, Brian adds his ring finger, and he presses wet kisses to your jaw, savouring the way you twitch.
He nips at your skin and inhales when your back arches. Brian can’t adopt a proper in-and-out motion with the way you’re positioned, and instead continuously curls his fingers, palm pressing against your clit every time your hips stutter.
“Shit— wait,” you breathe and slap his wrist away. Brian’s glove is wet as he pulls it from between your legs with a quiet noise. The leather glistens in the dim light, drying slick, smearing on your skin as he reaches for your thighs again. Your hands reach for his jeans, and Brian slinks down further in the seat to help you wriggle them off. The denim is shoved down enough so the zipper wouldn’t rub your skin raw, although his boxers didn’t get the same treatment. The grey fabrics pulled down only enough to let you grab his cock. Brian doesn’t think to ask if you want to use a condom, mainly because he didn’t have one, but also because you’re lining him up with your entrance before he can protest.
One of your hands is on his shoulder, and the other goes to the roof of the car as you sink down onto him. Brian doesn’t rush you, bucking his hips up until your thighs are flush with his. He curses, the word coming out breathy and with a whine. You aren’t stationary for long and set a rhythmic pace, leaning in to catch Brian’s bottom lip in between your teeth. He groans louder than he wanted to, hands tensing as he eagerly returns your hungry licks.
When he pulls away, there’s a thin line of saliva connecting your lips. Brian quickly wipes it off his chin with a pass of his sleeve. “This is—fuck—not the help I thought I’d be getting,” he whimpered, pushing you down until he’s bottomed out again. Your skin is sweaty against Brian’s, slicking even more with every roll of your hips. His fingers dig into the fat of your waist, black leather dulling the would-be bite of his nails. Brian’s head thunks back against the seat, hips twitching up when you press open-mouthed kisses along his throat. Brian moans, his breath coming out shaken and rushed as he slots his palm against the back of your neck. He finds your clit again, thumb tracing small circles on it.
You giggle, the sound melting into a gasp when Brian thrusts up. “Would you rather have walked back alone?” You tease, voice uneven, “I wouldn’t have offered you my phone in that case.” Brian slams his lips back onto yours and smiles into the messy kiss, moaning as you tighten around him. Your fingers are back in Brian’s hair and hold his head back, fast pulse noticeable beneath your lips. He whimpers every time you yank on the strands, cock twitching with the dull pain.
He was so close, if you just—
You moan, “Fuck, Brian, I’m—” Your pace falters into small, trembling jerks as your forehead falls onto his shoulder. Grunting, Brian thrusts up into you a few more times before you’re being pulled off and forced back onto his thighs. He’s groaning and whimpering into your ear as he twitches with his orgasm, fingers still digging into your flesh. Silence fills the car. When you finally pick your head back up, the side of it is pressed against Brian’s, and he feels you press a kiss to his temple through his dishevelled hair. You straighten up, stretching and then returning your hands to his shoulders. You smile, tired this time, and Brian’s gaze follows yours to his lap. Unsurprisingly, there’s a mess—His hoodie’s stained with his cum, and there’s a wet spot on his boxers. Sign of a good time, I guess. A gentle hand pushes you back down onto his chest.
For a long time, there’s nothing audible but slowing breaths and the hum of crickets. And perhaps Brian zoned out—you both did, truthfully—his hand in a steady back and forth motion against your slightly sweaty and still clothed back. Gravel crunches outside, followed by the heavy hit of something against the driver's door. Brian looks over, and he feels your forehead lift from his shoulder. Tim, of all times he could’ve picked, decided to show up now. It hasn’t even been an hour, or maybe it has, and time just flies when you’re having fun.
Brian cusses and gently shoves you off. He reaches for his coat that had been stored between the seat and the cab wall, shaking the heavy fabric open before tossing it onto your lap. Brian tucks himself back in his jeans before turning towards his partner, not bothering to zip his fly. “Jesus, Tim. Do you know how to knock?” Brian spares you a glance as you struggle to tug your shorts back on in the confined space.
Tim laughs, moving his gaze to the road to keep the few shreds of privacy intact. “Knock on what? The open window?” Brian glares at him, but otherwise keeps his mouth shut.
Like the gentleman he was, Brian would walk you back to the bar and, at your request, put his number into your phone. Brian hasn’t decided whether he’ll pick up your calls or not. White lies don’t always stay white or a lie, and one of the last things he wanted was to bring another innocent person into the mess that’s his life.
If he answers—when he answers, because Brian has little self-control, he’ll tell you he’s a mechanic, and that he likes to go hunting.
All things considered, it really is on you for offering your phone up. And at the end of the day, Brian can’t find anyone else to blame besides you when he ends up outside your window.