Chapter Text
Driver has never been treated this way before. Granted, he’s never met anyone quite like Lars Lindstrom.
“You’ll take the bed tonight,” Lars insists, standing over where Driver is slumped on the futon that Lars and his brother had brought in for him weeks ago. It’s pushed up against the wall adjacent to the small twin bed, identically dressed in some of Karin’s extra sheets and quilts.
Lars has his broad hands settled on his hips. He’s in a pair of his worn flannel sleep pants and his floral thermal shirt. His hair is still askew from his pillow and slightly oily. Driver can smell the sleepiness still clinging to him. He jabs a finger at Driver then at the bed to make his point.
“No,” Driver said gently, a small curl at the corner of his mouth. The stab wound at the pit of his stomach is aching, but even the near constant pain can’t diminish his amusement. “That’s your bed.”
Lars lifts his hands in exasperation, looking over at his unmade bed and back at Driver. This is an argument they’ve been having for a while now. Every night Lars catches Driver clutching at his middle when he thinks he’s alone and he kicks up a fuss about it every time.
“Yes. It’s my bed, but you can use it!” Lars steps closer to Driver, making Driver have to tip his chin up steeply to keep looking at him. “You’re not getting better fast enough.”
Driver cuts his eyes away from Lars’ earnest expression; that naked care that he doesn’t deserve in the slightest. He looks down at his shirt in the area that’s covering skin that’s slowly etching back together. He knows if he lifted it, the partially dissolved stitches would still stick out black against his pale skin and would still be bruised. Lars knows it too.
“And your bed will heal me?”
“Maybe!”
“No,” Driver denies gently, settling deeper into his futon and hiding a wince when the movement jostles his side. “I’m good here. Thank you.”
Lars’ eyes go wide with exasperation, his lips downturning with the effort to process the strong emotion bubbling up his throat. He’s quiet for a long moment, eyes travelling up and down Driver’s body and face. Driver sits still for him, lets him inspect him, so he knows that he’ll live. The pain, though sharp and distracting, is ultimately nothing.
“I can’t believe you,” Lars mutters finally in his small tone. He takes a step away from Driver and turns sharply to his dresser drawers. The wood hinges make a high pitched whine as he yanks it open. He continues to angrily whisper at himself as he snatches out articles of clothing for them both to wear, but it’s too quiet for Driver to understand.
“I’m not trying to be difficult.” Driver’s eyelids feel heavy, as his sleep has been pained and fitful lately. He’s run out of the nice pain meds the doctors gave him and Tylenol just isn’t as potent. It wouldn’t surprise him if he’s been keeping Lars awake with his constant shifting.
“Well.” Lars' voice is somehow still soft even with the annoyed edge to it. It amazes Driver. “You are. Being difficult.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just take the bed, then.” Lars plops a sweater and a pair of soft sweats down next to Driver.
“I can’t.” Driver immediately regrets phrasing it that way when Lars’ eyes settle back on him, eyebrows upturned in a way that obviously says poor Driver. “I mean, it’s yours. I’m not taking it.”
Lars doesn’t continue to argue, though Driver doesn’t miss the minute roll of his eyes before he reaches down to help Drive up off the futon. Wordlessly, he hooks his fingers under Driver’s shirt, easing it off him with minimum contact to his skin or bandaged left side. He redresses him in a woolen brown sweater that smells so strongly of Lars that Driver wants to bury his nose in it. He doesn’t, his breath catching in his throat as Lars bends to help him out of his pants instead. It seems to have become so clinical and routine to Lars over the past weeks, but it still takes Driver’s breath away.
~
Karin doesn’t let Drive lift a finger during the day. She sits him down on the couch with the remote he doesn’t touch before fluttering around the house cleaning up. Elinor chews on her fingers and babbles at him from her play pin that’s set up adjacent to the where he’s sitting. He smiles over at her, feeling a twinge of guilt that the little girl is witnessing her mother vacuum under some lazy man’s legs.
“Won’t you let me help with that?” Driver’s eyes leave Elinor to survey Karin running a duster over the top shelf of the bookcase. She stands on her tiptoes to do so.
“And have you pop a stitch?” She laughs brightly, slightly out of breath as she stretches to dust the very top off all of her trinkets. “I don’t think so, mister.”
He knows better than to argue with her. He’s witnessed her hold her own against the stubborn Lindstrom boys on more than one occasion. But he’s going insane from being so idle for so long. He swears he feels the barest hint of softness beginning to collect at his waistline from how forcefully sedentary he’s been.
“I would like to help out.” He pushes ever so gently, being careful not to sound too demanding as he does so. “Earn my way or something, y’know?”
Karin stops flicking around her duster to turn and look at him. She smirks in that way that tells Driver she’s reading him like a short, simple book. She pushes her hair out of her face and rounds the coffee table to sit down on the couch next to him. She pats his knee goodnaturedly.
“Lars is making you stir crazy.” Her tone is light and amused as she says this. Her smile broadens when his shoulders jump guiltily at her statement. “It’s okay. You can admit it. He does have a sort of… single minded focus on things he considers important.”
Driver’s heart does this embarrassing thing where if jumps up into his throat and flutters around like Karin’s feather duster. He can count on two fingers the amount of people that have ever found him important. It’s exciting to be considered important at all, but especially to a man like Lars. If only that didn’t mean being treated like he was made of splintered glass.
“You’ve become somewhat of a happy accident,” Karin goes on to smooth over Driver’s pensive silence. “No one knew what to think when Lars and Margo found you… I was surprised he even agreed to step foot in the ER after Bianca.”
Driver doesn’t know much about the famed Bianca. He’s heard small clippings of gossip and whispers peeking out from behind hands at church from time to time. But Lars himself has never even uttered her name to him. Driver knows Bianca was a doll. He knows she was deeply important to Lars. He knows she has her own plot at the Mt. Olivet Cemetery at the edge of town. That’s about as far as his knowledge goes.
“Can you tell me about her?” Driver asks suddenly, feeling emboldened by his curiosity. “Bianca.”
“Oh,” Karin breathes, her surprise lilting out into her voice and raising her delicate brows. “She was special. She was a doll, yes, but she was Lars’ doll.”
Driver shifts so he can look at Karin head on, careful to keep his face neutral at the pain that blooms in his side.
“It was all him in the end, but I think Bianca was able to embody that sort of… healing process that needed to happen.” She smiles wistfully down at her lap, just slightly tearful. “He was very sad for a long time. When Bianca came along he came out of his shell a bit. It was so nice to see everyone come together to help him out.”
She looks back over at Driver and her eyes shine. She reaches out and rests her hand on Driver’s hand. He allows the contact with a small twitch of his lips. He’s not used to the easy physical affection everyone in town aside from Lars seems to favor. He thinks he likes it.
“Anyway,” she sighs finally. “I should let Lars tell you about her. It really was all him anyway.”
She lets go of his hand and stands up. He goes to stand up after her but she pushs him softly back down with a hand on his shoulder. He watches as she disappears into the kitchen and begins tinkering around with pots and the contents of the fridge.
He huffs lowly and looks back to Elinor. She’s a very good baby. Friendly and quiet. Happy. Sometimes she scares Driver so badly.
Soon, Karin comes brisking back into the living room with a warm bottle in her hand. She dips low over the lip of the play pen to pick Elinor up with a heaving grunt.
“You want to help out?” She asks, stepping up to the couch once again. Driver recoils, already knowing where this is headed. “She needs to be fed, burped, and rocked to sleep.”
Driver looks from Karin’s face to the baby in her arms with trepidation. He’s never held a baby that small before.
“C’mon,” Karin goads. “It’s easy. And she likes you so she won’t fuss.”
Karin nestles the baby's weight into the crook of Driver’s right arm and then turns back to resume her cleaning.
~
Something about the drone of the vacuum or Days of Our Lives or the warmth of Elinor snug against his chest. Or maybe it’s the lack of good sleep he’s gotten in weeks. Whatever it is, he’s falling asleep against the arm of the couch with Elinor’s soft head tucked under his chin within twenty minutes of her drifting off too.
It’s a light sleep. He can still hear the TV and the vacuum and Karin singing to herself as she moves about. It’s more comforting that way, he realizes. He’s surrounded by the sounds of a home. Something he never even thought he’d get the chance to borrow.
He’s not sure how long they lie there. It’s maybe an hour to an hour and a half before he hears the backdoor whine open and thud shut. He opens his eyes slowly, knowing Karin would let them know if it was an intruder.
It’s Lars standing there in the archway where the dining room meets the living room… ruddy cheeked and tightlipped and looking like he’s swallowed something painful. He doesn’t say anything for what seems to Driver like too long of a time. Just stands there and looks. Not just at Driver, but at Elinor in his arms.
“You’re home early,” Driver whispers first, rubbing a hand comfortingly on Elinor’s back to keep her anchored in sleep. Lars isn’t the type to leave work early. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer for another long moment. He looks bewildered, surprised. And another emotion Driver can’t quite put his finger on because he himself hasn’t ever felt it. Lars is filled with immensities. Who knows what kind of brilliant things are happening in his head at any given time.
“The weather,” Lars finally answers, reaching up to slide his makeshift mask-beanie off his head. His hair sticks up in all directions, especially in the place where a tuft had been peeking out of the mask eyehole on the side of his head. “Supposed to blizzard.”
Driver blinks. It’s the end of March and the frost is so deeply set into the landscape of Winter, Wisconsin that it feels like it will never let go. His body isn’t built for it the way Lars’ is. Where Lars is thick, broad. Body made to chop wood and protect his innards from the aching wind. Drive is whippet thin and wiry muscled. Vulnerable. He wore a jacket in the depths of California. No wonder his recovery is so slow going up here in the northern frigidity.
“Oh.” Driver shifts ever so slightly and it makes Elinor grunt. He goes still immediately, patting her bottom placatingly. “Should we go to the store and get some stuff?”
“Uh, no.” Lars rips his eyes away from Driver and Elinor to look across the room to the other archway. The archway that leads to the stairs. Which leads to where Karin is still belting out Carole King while scrubbing the bathtub. “It’s too cold for you to go out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not-...”
“I can-...”
“No!”
Driver’s mouth snaps shut and Elinor lets out an irritated squeal. Driver sits up - gritting his teeth against the pain that blooms in his abdomen - so he can cradle her in the crook of his elbow and shush her, but Lars’ sudden outburst startled her and she’s angry. Her little fist balls into the neckline of Driver’s shirt and she screams her protest.
“Ellie?” Karin comes down the stairs just then, wringing her hands dry in the front of her sweater. She smiles absently over at Lars while making a bee-line for her daughter. She takes Elinor gently from Driver’s hands. “Oh poor thing. Did Uncle scare you?”
“Sorry.” Lars is quick to apologize, looking down at his shoes in shame. His sudden break in eye contact leaves Driver’s gaze free falling out there in the middle of the room. It flops onto the wet floor next to Lars’. “Sorry.”
“What’s got your temper?” Karin asks, as soft and smiley as ever. “These two were snoozing so good.”
Lars doesn’t answer. He keeps his head down as if he’s been scolded. Driver’s gaze travels back up, however, so he can quirk his lips back at Karin in a weak facsimile of a smile. He doesn’t understand the heavy feeling that’s suddenly come over him. Their first fight, maybe. If you could call that small exchange a fight.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Karin goes on instead of waiting for an answer from Lars, seeming to understand she’s not going to get a straightforward one.
“I got something for us,” Lars finally, eyes finding Driver’s again like a homing device. “I came over here looking when Driver wasn’t in our room.”
And like that the heaviness goes airy. It turns purified, sweet.
Our room.
Theirs.
“And that made you holler like that?” Karin laughs, hoisting Elinor high on her hip. “Of course he’s over. What? Do you want him to sit and stare at the garage wall all day?”
Lars makes a face that reads ‘Obviously, not.’ but just shakes his head instead of snarking. He steps across the living room to stand in front of Driver and offer his hand. Driver takes it gratefully and allows himself to be pulled up to stand.
Karin and Elinor see them out the back door. Lars had insisted Driver put on one of Gus’ coats and wrapped his small grey blanket around his shoulders for the short walk. They step out and Driver realizes why.
A new glacial wind has blown in since this morning, bringing with it fat, fluffy snowflakes that whip against their faces painfully in the racing wind. Even despite the fresh salt on the walkways and driveway, ice has begun to crust and slick along the pavement. Driver has half a mind to reach forward and brace himself on Lars’ shoulders to keep his balance, but unnecessary contact is a boundary that he hasn’t been willing to test quite yet. So he struggles on the accumulating ice as Lars walks confidently in front of him.
Maybe it’s experience or boot quality or heft. Driver’s not sure why Lars is able to step through the puddle of black ice that sends him toppling down to the ground. It’s so quick that he barely has a moment to shout in surprise and reach out so that his fingers skim the hood of Lars’ coat. He’s just suddenly landing hard on his front and a pain that rivals the original stab is piercing through the epicenter of his healing wound and rocketing out in all directions over his stomach.
When the pain registers, like a hot poker being jabbed in his center, he finally lets out a yell that can be heard over the howling wind. Lars turns and skids down to his knees at Driver’s side, a hesitant hand settling on Drivers’ back.
“What happened?” Lars gasps, his other hand coming down on Drivers’ shoulder in an attempt to roll him over.
Driver tries to answer but he’s too busy gasping for breath and grappling at the ground like he can yank himself from under the immense pain. He can’t answer. He can’t even form syllables. Only try to close his mouth against a scream as Lars’ attempts to move him.
“Oh, uh-...” Lars’ voice has gone all high in panic. He snatches his hands back, flapping them in the air a little to mitigate the tingling fear. “What? What can I do?”
“Don’...” Driver tries to shift but the inferno in his abdomen reignites, nearly blinding him. “I can’t move.”
“Why?” Lars’ hands are back on him now, but this time they’re holding him down and still instead of tugging on him. “Why not?”
“It hurts!”
There’s the sound of chained tires crunching up the driveway followed immediately by the slam of a door. Lars’ hands don’t leave Drivers’ back.
“Gus!” Lars calls, voice pitched strong and hard against the dampening of the snow. “Help me! He’s hurt!”
And when they manage to drag him up and into Gus’ car, the pain is so overwhelming he nearly passes out. His eyes stay open but he goes into a nearly fugue state. The deep, infernal agony transports him back to that parking lot. That fight. That knife.
“Where we goin’?” He mumbles, listing over as Lars slides into the backseat with him and pulls him against his side.
“Hospital,” Lars whispers, his fingers gently twisting in Driver’s hair.
~
It’s nerve damage. The lingering pain despite his steadily healing skin. The deep electricity when he moves a certain way. Apparently the serrated edge and drag of the knife had fucked him up permanently. It left a lifelong affliction upon him. He will never get away from it. That time. Those atrocities.
Driver stops listening after that. Once the nurse pushes the blocker and pain killers, he turns his head and lets himself fall into a deep, black sleep. Hopefully Gus catches all the important stuff, because Lars isn’t listening either, if the way he’s pacing like a caged animal is anything to go by.
~
He’s so out of it once they get back home that he doesn’t even notice Lars leading him by the arm into the wrong house until they’re at the foot of Gus and Karin’s stairs. He blinks his eyes up from where they’d been fixed unseeing on his feet, too look up at the window on the landing. Karin has the weather curtains pulled. There's a disarmingly sweet baby picture of baby Lars on the wall to his left.
“Come on. You can do it,” Lars encourages, mistaking Driver’s hesitance for fatigue. “Just one step at a time.”
Driver realizes distantly that he should marvel at the way their arms are hooked together, but he’s summoning all of his remaining energy to argue. He wants to go to his bed in their room. Not wherever the fuck they’re taking him now!
“I want my bed.” Driver’s speech is slurred and half dumb. He leans hard into Lars’ side, half because he’s bone tired and half because he’s trying to indicate that he wants to turn the fuck around.
“You’re not sleeping on that couch,” Lars deadpans, putting a foot up on the first step like he’s ready to drag Driver up the stairs. “You were in the hospital.”
“I want to go to our room.”
“Well I don’t want you to.” Lars’ voice is clipped and angry sounding. Like he’s mad or disappointed. Maybe he is.
Driver’s little fit did force them out into a blizzard. Forced him into that hospital that harbors so much trauma for him. Forced him to stay up late and half carry him across the house to put him to bed like a little kid. He has every right to be angry… Driver is a guest, after all. A guest who’s obviously overstayed his welcome. A guest who’s overestimated his cruciality.
“Okay.” Driver tries to push himself off of Lars, boosting himself up the first two steps before smacking the wall and nearly knocking down Lars’ baby picture.
Lars settles a gloved hand on the middle of Driver’s back, steadying him as he struggles up the rest of the steps. Driver tries to pick up the pace, as if he could outrun Lars’ touch in this condition. He ends up just sort of stumbling around idiotically and making himself look like a fool.
“I’m fine,” Driver grits out once they get to the top of the stairs. He can hear Karin talking softly in the master bedroom and suddenly remembers to keep his voice down for Elinor. “I don’t need you to tuck me in.”
He now realizes what room he’s being sequestered to. It’s the same one he had slept in the first week he was here after Lars found him. The Pink Room with the overly-soft bed and strong potpourri scent. It’s not a bad room, but it’s not Lars’. Driver is surprised by how upset that fact is making him.
“I’m fine.” Driver looks over his shoulder once he gets to the bedroom door and sees that Lars is still following him. Stalwart and only slightly irritated.
“You’re not.” Lars tries to follow Driver into the Pink Room. As if he hadn’t just shut Driver down. As if he hadn’t just told him that he doesn’t want him around anymore.
“Goodnight.” Driver turns and immediately closes the door before Lars has a chance to step into the room with him. He stares at the white pane for a long moment, listening for Lars’ retreating footsteps. They don’t come for a long, pregnant moment, like Lars is pondering breaking through the door before deciding better of it.
Driver finally turns from the door when Lars’ footsteps hit the stairs again. The perfectly made up, too soft bed sits innocently across the room. He crosses to it and perches on the edge. He’s suddenly wide awake and wired, thinking of his car out in the drive with its engine unturned in days.
He could run for it.
He won’t. Not tonight.
Sprawling across the top of the bedspread, he stares up at the pink ceiling. Exacerbated by the pink of the walls. Blushed by the lamplight. He thinks of the lid of Lars’ eye, the shell of this ear, the curve of his mouth. He thinks about how he’s read it all wrong.
So, what’s new?