Chapter Text
The bar seems different tonight, more crowded. It’s hundreds of conversations, loud voices competing with the shrill music that blasts out of the speakers, and Beth wonders whether it’s always been like this or if her senses are just particularly heightened today.
She winds her way through the warm bodies to slide on a free barstool at the end of the bar, at least a little shielded from tonight’s intensity of her surroundings. She doesn’t look around, doesn’t try to seek him out in the crowded room, knows that he’ll find her if he wants to, always finds her.
She gives the bartender a small nod as their eyes meet under the fluorescent lights above the counter and a minute later he hands her her drink, slides it over the polished wood until it’s in front of her, and maybe it should be alarming that he knows her poison without asking but she can’t bring herself to care as she takes a sip of the ice-cooled bourbon.
***
It doesn’t take him long to seek her out, not even with the bar filled to overflowing. He slides on the barstool beside her and she can feel him, the warmth radiating from his body, before she sees him. She steels herself with another sip from her drink before she turns to him and of course, he's already looking at her.
He’s in his usual attire, all-black, one of his hands is sprawled out on his thigh (and god, these fingers) and the other arm casually perched on the counter, balled up fist under his chin. He’s staring at her, eyes dark and searching, as though he’s waiting for her to say something, to confess something, and she can’t hold his gaze any longer, not when it feels like it’s finding its way underneath her skin to drag all her secrets to the surface, ready for him to see. So she looks away, a little too quickly, and downs the rest of her drink in one go because what else could get her through this. He waits it out, lets her finish her drink, but then:
“Ready to go?”
It’s rather an order than a question, the way he says it without much room to negotiate, and it catches her off-guard because what?
“What?”
“We’re leaving. Come on!”
And just like that he gets up from his stool, cutting off any protest she could’ve possibly raised, and weaves through the crowd towards the exit with rapid strides, expecting her to follow, and of course, she does because what the fuck?
She has to quicken her pace to keep up with him and when they finally step out of the bar she’s almost breathless. The fresh air hits her like a brick wall, sending a shiver down her spine, and she needs a minute to catch her breath.
“Where are we going?”
“Get in the car, Elizabeth!”
And usually she’d protest, would demand further explanation, but something about his too calm, too quiet demeanor throws her off the loop and she goes to the passenger side and gets in his car without another word. He follows her lead, slips in through the driver’s door and starts the car, maneuvering it out of the parking lot and onto the nearest highway.
He’s decidedly not looking at her, ignoring her, but she can’t take her eyes off of him, of the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare with every breath, the way his shoulders seem too tense and his grip on the steering wheel too white-knuckled, like a force of nature, a volcano about to erupt and then it does but it is nothing like she expected.
“Found the wire,” he declares and his voice is calm as he says it, there’s not an ounce of anger or annoyance in it, and he’s still not looking at her, gaze resolutely fixed on the congested traffic ahead.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she tries to save herself but it’s too quiet, too feeble of an excuse and she knows it. He doesn’t call her out on it.
“You’ve got one now,” he starts and when they stop at a red light, he turns to look at her, finally. “Just thought things were different now. That’s all.”
And she can handle being yelled at, can handle getting threatened or hold at gunpoint, but this, this quiet, almost resigned version of him she can’t handle. He rarely lets her see behind his stoic mask and sometimes she’s sure it’s just an accidental slip rather than purpose but looking at him now, seeing the disappointment, the hurt, the weariness and the betrayal, is the rawest she’s ever seen him, the rawest he’s ever let her seen him.
A car behind them honks and throws them brutally back into reality and just like that his mask slips back into place as he steps on the gas and drives on. Moments later they pass the Canadian border and a mild panic settles into her bones because she knows what it means to betray him like that, knows the consequences, has been on the receiving end more than once. Always lucky enough to talk her way out of them but nonetheless.
He turns right and suddenly there’s nothing but darkness and trees surrounding them, no streetlights far and wide. She’s too scared to look at him but wills herself to do it anyway. Something gold peeks out of his pocket and glints in the dim light of the rising moon and the reality of what is happening dawns on her. He’s going to kill her, once and for all.
She sucks in a breath, well aware that it could be her last, which doesn’t make it any better. They pass a sign, reading ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY - NO TRESPASSING’ in capital letters, and it’s the last thing she sees before her vision blurs from the sheer panic rising up her throat. It takes everything in her not to gag.
Her heart thuds violently in her chest, hammering against her rip cage and making it hard to breathe. Her hands shake, her feet tingle and she has to get away. She reaches for the buckle of her seatbelt, fumbling fingers trying to unbuckle it, but then his hand is on hers and it’s warm and it shouldn’t be as calming as it is. Then it’s gone.
“Don’t. Do. That.”
His voice is stern and piercing, although it’s still quiet. She listens obediently, lets go of the buckle and clutches the seatbelt instead, her hands wrapped so tightly around it that her nails dug into her palms. Breathing is getting harder. Really hard. As if she’d just ran a marathon. She feels a single tear roll down her cheek and her chest grows tighter as bile rises in her throat but then, as her vision grows more focused again, she sees speckles of light filtering through the trees and she forces it down again.
It might be a hallucination, a painting made up by her brain, the last ounce of hope it has to offer to keep her sane, but the closer they get the clearer she can see. It’s a lake, lying in front of them like a mirror that’s showing exactly what is above but converting it to an image beautifully smudged and broken. The moon and a thousand stars all become a Van Gogh, ready to cast a spell over its audience.
And the beauty of it calms her a little, her shaking hands, her erratic breathing subsiding, as she notices a house to its left, light blue with white window frames, well-lit by strings of light stretched between trees all around it. There are a few cars parked in front of the porch and she wonders briefly if they’re his boy’s cars, if he’s leaving it to them to kill her, if this picture-book house is nothing but a facade.
Suddenly the car comes to a halt, in rank and file with the other cars, and his hands slip from the steering wheel and into his lap. He makes no move to get out of the car or reach for his gun and she can’t bear the silence, the uncertainty for another second.
“Are you going to kill me?”
It’s quiet and shaky but it gets his attention and when he finally looks at her, sees her without any distractions, he notices the sheer panic in her big blue eyes. A short but bitter laugh escapes his lips but it fades into a weary sigh because she still doesn’t get it, huh?
“I ain’t gonna kill nobody.”
“What is this then?”
Her voice is stronger now that the aspect of getting killed is off the table and her hands flail around wildly in the confined space of the car, trying to point to the lake, the house, the cars, even the remoteness of it all, all at once.
“Family property,” he shrugs casually, entirely unfazed by her exaggerated behavior, as if that’d answer all her questions and it’s not enough, never enough for her. She wants more, always more than he’s willing to give, never satisfied with his words, and it’s like everything between them, like an endless game of cat-and-mouse.
She’s quiet for a moment, hands falling to the hem of her dress that’s ridden up her thighs a little. He can see her cataloguing the information and the moment she realizes it’s not enough, can see the protest in her eyes before it has time to reach the surface, time to bubble out of her, so he gives her another piece.
“Grandma invited you back.”