Chapter Text
Apple pie. It tastes mostly the same everywhere he goes. Sweet apples, flaky crust, and hints of cinnamon combine on his tongue to make something that feels like safety regardless of the cruelty he's just inflicted at any given time.
Sometimes, when he’s feeling extra Bad, more phantom like or more unrealized, he gets a scoop of vanilla ice cream with his slice. This is usually the case; however, tonight is special.
The carnival is set up just outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. It’s a small, quiet enough town. The warmth and humidity press against driver's skin in a way that he's not entirely used to, but he can deal with it. The singing of the cicadas is quite pleasant, he thinks. The land is lush in a way he doesn't see often, and the people are nice enough, no one having questioned his usual nonverbal tendencies. The real reason tonight is special is that its luke’s birthday.
The information hadn’t come easily to Driver. As he tends to do, he did some digging when whatever this is between them started happening. He’s had too many close calls, too many getaways that claimed to be clean and were anything but. He needed to know whatever he could about Luke Glanton, mostly for his own peace of mind. This digging came in the form of literal digging through the employee files locked away in the management trailer. He snuck in at the dead of night, picked a couple of locks, and boom, there he had the most basic information someone could have about his bleach blonde friend. Some stuff he knew. Job title, how long he’d been working there, etc. He did learn, however, that his middle name is Ken, his previous job history is sparse, to say the least, and, of course, that his birthday is April 26. The birth year is a mess of scribble, the only numbers legible being 198. A couple of behavioral infractions and a handful of workplace accidents litter the remaining pages.
He collects the information he came for and, on his way out, nabs his own employee file from the cabinet as well. No one needs to know he was here. He tucks away the birthday in his brain like a flyer in a book and slips back into the night, management none the wiser. That brings him to tonight, when he’d asked Luke if he was doing anything special for the occasion. That had earned him suspicious looks and immediate questioning about where he had learned that. He’d thrown out that one of the other heartthrobs mentioned it (not technically a lie, it had come up in conversation), and it was easily believed, Luke, swearing under his breath that he was gonna slug Tony for that. After all the dodging and whining about how unimportant the holiday was, the stuntman finally ceded and agreed to dinner at a diner in town for some shitty food. Never one to pass up the opportunity for pie, Driver agrees to accompany him.
So here they are, sitting at a booth tucked away in a corner, table slightly sticky, with food that's felt more like a home for the wheelman than any shitty apartment he’s ever had. Luke is chowing down on a burger and fries, his poor nutritional habits once again catching up to him and telling him he’s starving. Driver has been slowly picking at his slice of pie and ice cream, content to enjoy the comfortable silence that's settled at the table while the blondes eat.
He hears them before he sees them. The scuff of work boots against the old linoleum. The low murmur of voices, about 3 of them. The footsteps approaching the table.
He’s sat himself at the corner bench for times exactly like this. He has a good view of the diner floor, back to the window, Luke in front of him, so he can always have the upper hand in case of a confrontation. Shannon used to call him a paranoid little bastard for his odd seating habits, but he knew. There would be a night when it was needed. It seemed tonight was the night. Three men stalked towards the two. A large, board-shouldered man with a long beard and calloused knuckles. A brawler. A leaner, taller man whose hair clearly hadn't been washed in some time. His eyes twitch, and his jaw works like he's on something heavy. Finally, a short, heavyset man with sideburns and a mean scowl. His eyes burn with a vitriol that's directed at Luke.
Driver tenses his shoulders, mentally noting exactly where the hammer he’s taken to carrying in the waistband of his jeans. He also lightly taps Luke's calf with the toe of his shoes, the stuntman's head shooting up from where he was zoning out while eating. With a very slight tilt of his head, he subtly gestures behind Luke, and the man across from him freezes, zeroing in on the noises behind them and trying to parse out voices. He doesn't have much time to do so; however, when a large, hairy arm settles on the top of the booth behind Luke's head, a matching fist presses into the table top, effectively caging Luke in. The two remaining goons tuck in at the front of the section, blocking Driver in, too.
Defiance flares in the blonde's eyes as he grits out, “Sorry, guys, wrong table,” through a working jaw. The larger man just sneers at Luke. “You're the guy from the carnival, yeah? Hot Luke or whatever? Nah, I think we got the right table.” he leans in closer, his breath reeking of whatever protein slop he just had. “You see, your buddy Tony fucked us over pretty good. Scammed us last week, and now he refuses to pay up. We can't just let that slide, you understand. Someone's gotta deal with this. You wouldn't happen to have his money on hand, would you, boss?” Luke swears a low “goddamnit, Tony, you jackass” under his breath before squaring up and asking, “How much does he owe you?”
12 thousand.”
The sound the blonde makes is something the driver isn't sure he’s ever heard come out of a human, much less the man across from him. It’s something between a cough, a snort, and a choking sound. That's a lot of money.
“Why the fuck would I have 12 thousand dollars? Go talk to Tony himself; leave me out of this bullshit.” Luke shoulders his way out of the booth, none too gently, giving a mean look to the skinny man who moves to get in his way.
As he stomps outside, all eyes turn to the driver, who's already had enough of this mess. He, too, moves to exit the booth, letting out a small, unremorseful “sorry” as he maneuvers around them. As he slips past, he notices a hunting knife in the belt of the shorter man, eyes catching and searing the detail into his brain as he strolls to the cash register to pay. He’s keenly aware of the doorbell chiming as the men walk out, grumbling to themselves. He’s on edge, fingers itching to slide into the leather stashed in his pocket and take over driving for Luke, just to calm his nerves. He sorts out the bill, only paying in cash, and says a soft “thank you, ma’am” to the waitress before heading outside to where Luke's bike was parked. He pulls out his gloves, the well-fitting softness of the old things soothing the tingle in his hands. This action would completely settle him, but the hind part of the mechanic's brain is still kicked into high gear when the sight of those azure blue eyes looking up at him from a cigarette never greeted him. In fact, the man was nowhere to be seen. Bike still here, no ashes on the ground, no Luke.
Looking around, he sees the old, beaten truck that the three stooges came in, but not them either. Hackles officially raised, something Bad is happening.
Driver tugs the collar of his jacket up a bit higher and starts a quick scan of the perimeter. The moon shines in his pale blue eyes, searching, hunting like a nocturnal animal in the dark. Stepping up to a group of dumpsters tucked behind a short wall, he hears a sound. A grunt, wheezy and pained and distinctly masculine. He crouches behind a pile of boxes and peers through the gap between the cardboard and the wall. There, he sees the three men standing in a semicircle around Luke, who was trying to keep all of them in his line of sight as they circled him. His nose was bleeding, a small cut just above the left eyebrow, and his knuckles were already a little bruised.
“I already told you, I don't have your fuckin money. Leave me alone, or I'll make you wish you did.” This deceptively calm comment earns the blonde a kick to the knees and a hit across the face, causing damage that the wheelman can already tell will be a black eye tomorrow.
Driver feels that familiar, poisonous creature in his chest start to unfurl like a cat seeing a mouse. Its a protective little beast and he’s made it all these months without waking it up, but seeing Luke like this, unarmed and vulnerable in a way he never is, makes it bear its teeth and shine its claws. In his heart, he always knew the night would end this way. That he couldn't escape what he is, the things he’s done. A scorpion cannot ignore its tail. All he really wished was for more time with Luke. He’ll miss him and his company in a way that already makes his head hurt and will surely continue all the way to the next town. He'll have to disappear again.
He silently pulls the hammer from the back of his jeans, gripping the hardwood of the handle like an old friend. His steps are silent, his head low, and his eyes laser-focused on the weak points of the men. He sees the glint of the hunting knife at the perfect moment, mere seconds before it plunges into Luke’s ribs.
All that happens next feels like it's in slow motion, likes hes seperated from his body entirely, merely a vessel to carry out these actions for some terrible higher being.
He lunges and slams the head of the hammer directly into the short man's skull, blood flying out like a popped water balloon. He rips it out and swiftly turns down, throwing it through the kneecap of the bearded man swinging at Driver from his left. The punch connects only barely, sliding off his jaw as the man crumples forward into the dirt. From behind, the skinny man jumps onto the driver's back, wrapping long, wild limbs around his neck and torso. Thrown off balance for only a second, the mechanic throws his weight into the concrete wall directly behind them, the tweaker's head connecting in a sickening crunch that leaves a gory drag path where he falls onto the ground. Driver kicks the chest of the dead man for good measure, caving it in before turning his cruel attention towards the large man who's swinging his arms in an attempt to grab drivers legs from his place on the ground. He clutches to an ankle in vain, the wheelman lifting over his head and bringing the hammer down directly into the face of his victim. His arms, face, torso, and pretty much everything are covered in an abstract painting of visceral.
He does it again and again and again and again, pure white hot rage flowing cleanly through his veins. How dare these fucking cretins try to hurt his Luke? If he were less enveloped in his violence, he would laugh at how pathetic they were to think they could threaten and harm the stuntman and get away with it.
A noise to his left has him dropping to his knees, looming over the body of the somehow still alive short man. This resurgence doesn't last for long, however, when Driver takes a fistful of the bloody flannel and drives his fist into the man's face until it's less of a face and more of a Mess piled onto skull fragments. He can feel his knuckles split, the pain only fueling this massacre. He doesn't stop until he becomes lightly winded, dropping the body and shifting back onto his haunches, standing up to his full, frankly terrifying height.
He’s panting, his head spinning as the adrenaline slowly drips out of his veins, and all he’s left with is a vast hollow where the rage was. It's only a minute or two later when he can feel his limbs again, feel the burn in his muscles, and the wet that seems to be coating every inch of him. His lungs sting in a way he missed, and the sounds of the nearby road slowly filter back in. It's this last sense returning that kicks his brain back into normal gear, and he remembers Luke.
His blood freezes.
Fuck. Right.
Luke is 6 feet away, on the ground, and just witnessed all of that. He truly dreads the turning of his head; the reality of what he’s about to lose (of who he's about to lose) slams into him with the force of a truck. He sees flashes from his mind: elevator doors, soft blonde locks, lily perfume, and a look of utter horror, a complete disconnect from the person she thought he was. He expects to see all this again, replicated on the sharp, handsome face of the man next to Driver. He braces for impact and
oh.
That's not quite what he was expecting.
He expects horror. What he sees is a terrible fascination and what is distinctly unbridled lust.
The blonde is kneeling on the ground, splattered in so much blood and absolutely panting at the sight of Driver in front of him. He still has the edges of that manic, brutal thing dancing in his eyes, in the way his jaw clenches and the grip he still has around the hammer. Jesus fucking christ, the hammer. The way he wielded it was so powerful, so direct and clear. Like watching a ballerina dance, every movement intentional and clean. The way he defended him, of all people. Luke has never had anyone defend him, always been the other way around, his fists in the air. It makes something wriggle and ache in his gut, his body directing so much blood to his cock, he thinks he's gonna pass out right here. They’re both silent for a while, save for the panting from both parties. Driver clearly won't be the one to break it, a look of fear and apprehension appearing on his perfect, pretty, blood-covered face. Like he expects Luke to bolt, to call him a monster, or to simply slip away. Right now, Luke wants nothing more than to grab the driver, shove him against the nearest wall, and bury his face between those perfect, toned thighs.
He won't, however, because the tension is still too fragile. Instead, he slowly raises a hand like he's talking to a frightened animal and gently asks, “You okay, baby?”
The question startles Driver, the silence having grown too loud for him, and the sudden appearance of noise makes his already frayed nerves short-circuit. He blinks, a response not even forming on his tongue before it dies. Instead, he gives a stiff thumbs-up. Luke nods and stands up, wincing at the pain in his knee. The driver takes a step forward automatically, then another and another until he's grabbing Luke by the jaw and slamming them together in what is less a kiss and more of an open-mouth bite, teeth clacking against teeth and scraping over lips. Luke wraps an arm around drivers waist, clutching at the damp fabric of his jacket. His other hand comes up to grip possessively onto the side of his neck. Driver's free hand tangles in the bleached-blonde locks of Luke's hair, pulling hard to expose his neck, where driver latches on and bites hard. The pain blossoms in the stuntman and rapidly turns to white, hot pleasure coursing down his body. The taste of blood mingles with the sweetness lingering in Driver's mouth, and he can feel the temperature difference from the gore that's slowly drying onto his skin and the absolute hot mess he’s dripping into his boxers. It makes his thighs clench to try and relieve some of the ache that's been building low in his gut.
Luke notices the squirming and connects their lips in a closer version of a kiss than earlier before grabbing drivers arm and dragging him out of the corner of the lot and over to the bike. He walks with an urgency Driver has never seen from him before. Ripping the helmet off the handlebars where it's secured, he shoves it into drivers hands and practically manhandles him onto the back of the bike before hopping on the front. The engine roars to life, rumbling under drives legs, and he wraps his arms around the blonde, hands settling a little lower than strictly necessary. He feels Luke do a full body shudder, leaning back into drivers chest before peeling out of the parking lot.