Archive of Our Own

Randy doesn’t know how long he’s been in the trunk, only that it’s been long enough that his anxiety over the entire hostage situation is overshadowed by the very real fear of pissing himself in the back of Benson’s Chrysler.

In hindsight, Randy should have expected he’d end up in the trunk. Benson wasn’t going to let him go, and hostages end up in trunks. It’s a total cliche, and it’s not even the first time he’s been locked in here. If he’s being realistic about this, it probably won’t be the last. 

This time is different, though-- it’s personal. Keeping the phone for so long hadn’t helped, but there wasn’t a clear solution he could see. He made sure to keep it silenced, but even the relative safety of being in the trunk while Benson slept hadn’t been safe enough to risk making a call.

Benson made it explicitly clear that he was to be quiet. If he made so much as a peep, he was going to be staying in the trunk for a long, long time. If anyone heard him, Benson would be forced to kill them. According to Benson, nothing, especially not Randy, was going to ruin this for them.

Randy’s been quiet, he’s been good, and he’s been in the trunk for a long time. Usually, he only has to stay in there when Benson needs to sleep, but like he said, this time is personal. This time, things came to a head. Randy couldn’t make a call, so it was really only a matter of time until Benson found out he had Miss Beard’s phone.

He’s still in the clothes Benson gave him that first day, and he’s sweaty, tired, and smells rank. He’s starving, stomach painfully empty, and his throat is dry and scratchy. The more pressing issue is that he desperately needs to go to the bathroom, which seems ridiculous considering he hasn’t had anything to drink in what’s surely been hours. And yet--

Randy never should have tried to keep the phone. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t bring himself to give it up. It was a bad decision. He knows that now. He’s learned his lesson, if that was the point of shoving him into the trunk. Benson hadn’t even told him to watch his head this time, which feels like an irrelevant point to focus on but at least it keeps him from thinking about how badly he needs to pee.

Oh God, it hurts.

His bladder is full to bursting, and it’s nothing short of painful at this point. If he moves at all, the pressure of it brings tears to his eyes. Randy screws his eyes shut, clutches his hands to his chest, and digs his fingernails into his palms. When the car hits a bump, a trickle of urine wets his underwear.

Randy considers knocking on the side of the car, thinks about calling for Benson and begging him to please let him out. The car is moving, so there’s no chance of anyone overhearing, but he can’t get his voice to work.

The music blares, car thrumming with electric guitar, loud enough to make it hard to get a solid grasp on his thoughts. Randy wishes it served as a distraction, but the trunk is hot and stuffy. It’s dark and it’s cramped, but it’s not unlike being locked in the janitor’s closet like those times in high school. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s somewhere else. 

He feels evil for thinking it, but he’d rather be scrubbing blood off the walls at Burgers Burgers Burgers. If he could only do that day over again and do it right this time, but there’s a lot he’d do differently if he could. Benson was successful in getting him to rethink his life trajectory, and now he’s locked in a trunk. 

At some point, the music is turned off and the car stops moving. Randy hears Benson open the door, shut it, and walk away. Somehow, it’s more terrifying with him gone, and Randy knows in this moment that he’d do whatever Benson wants if it means he doesn’t walk away and leave him in here for good. 

For a while, it’s quiet. Randy listens to the frantic beat of his pulse roaring in his ears and tries to take calming breaths like he would do at work after interacting with annoying customers or coworkers. Work. Don’t think about work. Think about something else, for fuck’s sake—

The sound of a gunshot makes Randy jump, and the movement brings startled release despite his best efforts to contain it.

Once it starts, he can’t stop, and he whimpers as he pees his pants like a toddler or a scared dog. It’s hot and wet, and piss soaks his pants and forms a puddle underneath him. He clamps his hands over his mouth to muffle a sob, holds his hands there as he cries himself sick.

Benson is taking far longer than normal to finish up with whatever he’s doing, and Randy really begins to think that he’s finally decided keeping Randy with him isn’t worth the trouble anymore. Randy sobs into his hands, trembling with heaving breaths, and tries not to throw up as his stomach convulses. It’s already bad enough that he’s pissed himself and he knows it’s going to take a while before he’ll be let out, if he ever will be. 

Finally-- finally, the car door opens and he hears the flick of a lighter as Benson pauses for a smoke break. Seconds go by, maybe minutes, but the car doesn’t start up. All Randy can think about is how small he feels, lying in a cold puddle of piss, waiting for whatever’s going to happen, to happen. 

More excruciating silence and then, blessedly, the trunk creaks open.

Randy doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life. Benson stares at him for a second, nose wrinkled, before his face contorts into a grimace. 

“Ah, fuck,” Benson grits out, eerie calm shattering into an explosive vibrato. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Randy flinches back as Benson’s fist slams into the side of the car. Benson shakes out his hand, muttering expletives, and Randy stutters out through tears, “I- I’m sorry. I- I c-couldn’t hold it anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Christ.” Benson cracks his neck, resetting. The frantic edge to his expression hardens into something steely. “Come on. Get out.”

Benson doesn’t wait for him to move, reaching out and half hauling Randy out of the car by the collar of his shirt. Randy keeps his head down as Benson drags him around by the arm, leading him into the gas station. The clerk inside is dead, slumped over in a bloody mess of red behind the empty cash register. 

This bullet didn’t tear through him like the shotgun shells had blasted open their coworkers, but Randy’s stomach turns all the same. Like before, he feels his limbs freeze up, cold terror making his fingers go numb.

“Benson?” he croaks.

Benson grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, not gently, but not as rough as he could be, either. “Listen to me, Randy. We gotta be quick about this, yeah? Don’t know how much time we have before someone shows up. You understand?” When Randy doesn’t answer, his grip tightens and his voice raises. “Do you fucking hear me?”

“Yes,” Randy says quickly, and then, when Benson’s hold on him starts to feel like brands on his skin, “Yes! I understand!”

“Then fucking do as I say.”

Randy nods, and Benson lets go of him in order to crouch down and relieve the dead man of his pants. Benson has a sour look on his face as he does it, but he does it unflinchingly, holding out the pair of jeans to Randy afterward.

“Put these on.”

Randy cringes.

“I said, put them on. You’re covered in piss. There’s nothing else to change into. Put the goddamned pants on,” Benson says, and Randy can tell he’s trying to be patient, but his tone is cut through with an undercurrent of his volatile temper.

Randy puts the pants on. A portion near the top is soaked with blood, but his shirt covers it. If it’s hidden, he doesn’t have to think about it.

Benson directs him to put his soiled jeans and underwear into the trunk of the car, so he does. After, he follows Benson around the gas station store, holding a plastic bag which Benson fills with miscellaneous supplies. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, ibuprofen, bandages, packaged snacks.

They take the bags to an unfamiliar blue car that’s parked near the road. It’s out of the way of the streetlights, so if someone were to drive by, it wouldn’t be immediately noticeable. That’s good; it’s not like Randy would be trying to flag someone down anyway.

Benson pops the trunk and Randy’s stomach drops. He takes a reflexive step back, which makes Benson’s face turn stormy, but Benson only snatches the plastic bag out of his hands and dumps it in the trunk before shutting it. Relief follows, brief though it is.

“Get in.”

Benson all but shoves him into the passenger seat of this new vehicle, and Randy tries not to think about how this car probably belonged to the dead gas station clerk. The same dead man whose pants Randy is wearing because he pissed his pants in the trunk of Benson’s car-- the same Benson, who held him at gunpoint and has killed four, maybe five, people over the course of a handful of days.

Randy can’t breathe, can’t think, can only watch as Benson locks the car and strides toward the gas pumps. He picks up a nozzle and douses the Chrysler and the surrounding area strategically, and Randy watches in horror as he lights a cigarette.

Benson doesn’t immediately toss the cigarette, hesitates like he hadn’t hesitated before shooting their coworkers. But he does toss it, and there’s a woosh as the trail of gasoline ignites and rapidly spreads across the lot. The Chrysler bursts into flames, and Randy gapes openly as the fire blazes. It’s close to the pumps– the entire fucking gas station could explode.

Randy jumps as Benson slams open the door of the new car. He gets in with a grunt, buckles his seatbelt with a sigh. He mutters, “That should at least make it harder for the motherfuckers to identify.”

“Benson–” Randy starts.

“Not right now, Randy.”

He sounds tired, and Randy is surprised at the anger that this observation conjures. Benson doesn’t have any right to be tired, not after what he’s put Randy through. Especially not after today.

Anger isn’t something Randy can do anything with, not like Benson can. He’s not in charge. So, he tears apart his palms, nails bursting through scabs, and says nothing.

Benson careens out of the parking lot, and they drive in silence until morning.

Randy doesn’t know how the hell he sleeps, but he must because Benson shakes him awake. He bangs his head on the car window and winces, reaching up to rub his head.

“Jesus, your hands,” Benson exclaims, cutting his movement short by taking his wrist in hand and twisting it so his palm faces out.

Randy’s ripped bloody gouges into his palms, both of them. He’s dragged his nails across his palms, too, leaving deep red lines alongside the familiar crescent moons. Dried blood flakes in the creases of his palm, more than Randy’s ever left on himself before. Now that he’s thinking about it, that must be why his hands hurt so bad.

“Oh,” he says dumbly.

“Fucking hell, Randy.”

“I’m sorry.”

Benson doesn’t like that answer, and his face twists in anger. His hand flexes, his fucked up hand, the one whose scabbed knuckles reopened when he punched the car last night. Benson runs his hand through his hair.

“It got intense yesterday,” he says casually, and Randy must be making a face because he clicks his tongue in admonishment. “Don’t look at me like that, goddamned kicked puppy face.”

Randy turns his face toward the window, but that only serves to make Benson grab Randy’s jaw and make him look back at him.

“I didn’t call anyone,” Randy says sourly, though he knows it’s a moot point because part of the problem is that he had the phone in the first place. Benson hadn’t believed him when he found the phone on him, and there’s nothing to say he would now.

“We were going to have to get a new car anyway,” Benson answers, thumb grazing Randy’s cheek, pressing lightly into bone. “We gotta keep moving, yeah?”

Randy nods, sullen and silent. Benson sighs.

“You gotta work with me here.”

A nod.

“Look, I’m gonna level with you. We’re in this together, yeah? We both cleaned up that mess back there. The cops will be looking for both of us, but we’re out of that fucking shithole of a town. We keep going. You pull some stupid shit and it’ll fuck us. I wanna trust you, Randy, I do, but I gotta look out for us.”

Another nod, and Benson’s hold on his jaw tightens painfully. “Yes. I know, Benson. I’m sorry.”

“We need more clothes, so this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to get your hands cleaned up, then we’re going to go in, pick some shit out, get out quick. Drive and find a motel where we can shower and stay the night. You’re not going to cause any problems after last night now, are you? You’re gonna be good?”

“I’ll be good.”

Benson looks at him, assessing. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find because he leaves the car to go rummage in the trunk and returns with some first-aid supplies.

They clean up their hands with alcohol wipes, which hurts like hell and leaves Randy’s palms feeling like they’re on fire. Benson wraps his injured knuckles, then wraps Randy’s palms for him. He’s efficient about it, but surprisingly gentle, and it should be a bad sign that all Randy can think about is how he’s glad Benson isn’t mad at him anymore. He was worried things might be broken between them, and they are, but not as badly as he thought they might be.

“I was worried you were going to leave me,” Randy blurts. Benson looks up from Randy’s hands, and his eyes narrow. Nervously, Randy goes on, “I thought you were going to leave me in the trunk and not come back.”

Benson grabs his wrists and leans in close. He says, voice sharp, grip on his wrists tightening with each word, “You’re stuck with me. I’m not going through all this trouble for you just to leave you in the damn trunk and walk away.”

Randy swallows hard, takes a shaky breath. Benson’s hold on his wrists keeps his hands from trembling, and it’s easier to focus on that bruising hold than it is to try to comprehend what the fuck has happened to his life (Benson woke him up, that’s what).

“Also, while we’re at it, I should remind you-- if you reach out to anyone, or if anyone starts to get suspicious, I’m going to have to kill ‘em. Maybe I didn’t make that clear enough last time we talked about this.”

“Okay, Benson,” Randy says softly, just to let Benson know he’s heard him loud and clear.

Benson lets go of his wrists. “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

They go in the store to pick out clothes, and Randy recalls the first time they did this. The clothes they got then have probably been thrown out by the motel they stayed at and abruptly left when Benson realized what Randy had on him.

Yeah.

He never should have tried to keep the phone, but looking back on it, Randy doubts it mattered either way. If he was going to call someone, he should have done it sooner rather than later. He shouldn’t have let himself worry so much about the timing of it. There was never going to be a good time. He sees that now.

But that’s okay. This is okay, or it can be.

It’s like his mother told him once, not long before she divorced Randy’s father: this is survivable. If it’s survivable, that means you can adapt, and that’s something Randy knows how to do.

He’d adapted after he ruined Miss Beard’s life (or thought he did), and he’d adapted after his mom divorced his dad, and she became increasingly paranoid about his safety and that of his sister. He learned the rules: 1) bad things happen when you make your own decisions and 2) never do anything to upset Mom. In high school and at work it was imperative to abide by rule #3: always, always, keep your head down.

All of that was survivable, and this, by extension, is survivable, too. Benson ripped him out of his old world with old rules and put him in this one, but it’s survivable. He knows it is because he knows Benson doesn’t want to hurt him. Benson will, yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.

All Randy has to do is adapt. He can do that.

Finally getting to shower is a blessing. Yes, he has a time limit, and yes, he has to shower with the door open, but it’s something.

Randy’s palms sting as he washes his hair, and the water runs briefly pink. He finishes up and stands under the spray until Benson calls time, then rushes to dry himself off and put clothes on so he doesn’t have to be naked for longer than necessary.

The clothes don’t fit right– the shirt too big, and the jeans too baggy– but they’re clean and that’s all that matters. He no longer has to wear the dead man’s jeans.

“Look at you,” Benson says, smiling as Randy walks out. “Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

Benson pats the spot next to him, and Randy wordlessly joins him on the bed, tensing up. Benson’s gaze sharpens, and Randy’s heart rate picks up. How did he already fuck this up?

“Sorry?” he tries, but that only makes Benson’s jaw clench.

“Go get the bandages,” Benson says stiffly.

Randy rushes to obey, returning with the bandages, which he holds out to Benson. Benson helps him rewrap his hands, up over his wrists this time.

“Remember what we talked about earlier?”

“Yes?” Randy answers, sucking in a panicked breath.

“Good, that’s good.” Benson sighs, and an irritated look crosses his face like he’s being made to do something he doesn’t want to. And since it’s only him and Randy, it must be Randy who’s making him do it. Decisively, Benson gets up from the bed. “Right.”

Benson retrieves a roll of duct tape from one of the bags he brought in. Randy doesn’t remember seeing duct tape at the gas station, but Benson had enough time to do any number of things while he was in the trunk.

Randy looks from Benson to the duct tape and back again. He should have known better than to think Benson would leave him alone without some sort of precaution.

“Fuck,” Benson says, sounding not angry, but exasperated. “There’s that kicked puppy look again. Makin’ me feel bad for doing what I have to. Jesus, Randy. It’s either this or you wait in the bathroom with me while I shower. Pick.”

The second option sounds endlessly awkward, worse than gym changing rooms in high school, so he reluctantly offers his arms out. Benson smiles.

Benson tapes up his wrists and ankles before securing his hands to the cord of the lamp. It seems like overkill, but it certainly means Randy’s not going to be able to walk around the motel room without breaking the lamp in the process.

Before Benson heads to the bathroom, he turns the TV on for Randy like he’s a toddler who needs entertaining. It’s boring, but not any more boring than sitting and waiting with nothing else to do but think.

He lifts his hands, and the lamp cord follows. There’s some give, but not enough to do anything with it. He wonders if he’s going to have to sleep like this. Probably, he reasons. It’s a good thing he doesn’t move around too much when he sleeps, just stays curled up on his side. One thing’s for certain, though– it’ll be a hell of a lot better than the trunk.

Being on the road with Benson isn’t wholly bad, Randy discovers.

The first day, the catalyst, was definitely the worst. He spent the following days in a state of constant terror which was, although warranted, extremely exhausting. Then, of course, there was the day he spent in the trunk, and that was… well.

But it’s been better since then.

Benson is steady now, or as steady as he gets, which is not as steady as Randy had thought he was over the past year, but steady enough. Randy knows what will set him off and knows to be aware of his impulsive inclinations.

That’s not to say Randy feels calm about all of this, because he doesn’t. He’s more than aware of the undercurrent of danger and the very real threat of harm should he forget the rules. Even the quiet moments come with a sour anticipation of when the sword will drop, but it’s strangely manageable.

Randy’s always been a nervous person, according to his mom, but it wasn’t until after Miss Beard that he shut down with the force of his anxieties. He could always think of something that could go wrong, so he made himself as small as he could in order to avoid whatever devastation he had the potential to cause. It was always about something unknowable, something he didn’t necessarily have proof of. Irrational, maybe, same as his mom.

By comparison, the anxiety he feels now is grounded. The details are just as nebulous, but the fear is very real, less in his head. He’s right to be scared of Benson, and right to be fearful about what Benson is going to do. Benson’s proven that much to him.

The persistent anxiety finally has a clear source: Benson. That really shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

“Stop it with that shit.”

Benson’s hand leaves the wheel so he can pry Randy’s hand open. Randy winces at the forcefulness. He’d just ripped open the scabs on his palms, but Benson doesn’t seem to care about the blood as he twines their hands together.

“You always done that?” Benson squeezes Randy’s hand.

“Pretty much.”

“What for?”

Randy shrugs. “I don’t know. I get nervous, and it helps. It’s distracting.”

Benson looks over at him. “You think too much. Makes things more complicated than it has to be. I’m looking out for us. All you have to do is be good and ease up a little.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy.”

“Sure it is. All you gotta do is let go.”

Randy sighs, annoyed, and bites his tongue against the forming argument. Benson levels him with a glare.

“You know what I hate?” he asks. “When people clearly have something to say and they don’t fucking say it.”

Fine. Well then. Randy will bite, just this once.

“I never know what you want, Benson,” Randy says. “It’s all mixed signals. And, you know, if I could just stop being nervous I would have done it by now. It’s not like I like it.”

Benson laughs. “See, you’re always thinking shit like that but you never say it. I can see it on your face all the damn time. Even when you ate that damn burger. Drives me insane.”

Yeah, so Benson’s said. Randy has half a mind to really start arguing, but he’s tired and it’s not worth it. He’s definitely not in the mood to work his head around Benson’s contradictions.

“I’m going to take a nap.”

“What are you, five?”

The look on Randy’s face makes Benson laugh, and Randy thinks he could punch something. He rests his head against the window and looks at the scenery zip by until he gets dizzy and closes his eyes. 

Benson doesn’t ask him any more questions, so Randy pretends to sleep.

Benson wants to take a trip to the library, and because Randy goes where Benson does, Randy goes, too.

It’s no secret that Benson’s searching the internet for news about them, though he doesn’t say it directly. Randy sees the message for what it is– Benson doesn’t want him asking questions or he’d have outright told him why they were going– and by all means, Randy should leave it at that.

He manages to keep himself from asking about it at the library, mostly due to the fact that whatever Benson found set him on edge like a bomb about to blow. Benson ushers them out of the motel as soon as they get back, despite his earlier insistence to spend a couple nights there as a break from the constant travel. He’s as short-tempered and impatient as he would be if the cops were breaking down the door, which sets Randy’s frayed nerves on fire.

Crossing the next state border causes Benson to finally lose the volatile edge he’s carried ever since the library, but Randy can’t say the same. With his imagination left to run wild, he conjures up the worst possible scenarios, all of which end in bloody carnage.

It keeps him up at night, making it hard to eat. As it is, Benson already gets snippy with him for not eating enough and for eating slowly when he does.

“What’s up with you?”

Randy looks up. Benson’s staring at him from across the rest stop table, a wrinkle between his brows. He’s already finished his food, while Randy is still tearing his chicken nuggets into smaller pieces so he can eat them without taking bites out of a bigger piece.

“Are you going to eat those or what?”

“I’m going to eat them.”

“You’ve been tearing them apart for over five minutes and haven’t even eaten any. It’s like watching paint dry.”

Randy frowns. “I need to break them into smaller pieces and then I can eat them.”

“Yeah, that’s why we chew our food.”

Randy picks up a sliver of chicken nugget, chews, and swallows. He looks at Benson pointedly.

“Jesus, you’re weird.”

It’s not a nice sentiment, but a familiar one. He’s heard it countless times growing up, all in varying tones of disgust and annoyance. Getting bullied for being weird is a tale as old as time. It’s survivable and nothing that sets off alarm bells in his head. It’s when the f-slur comes out or when people start calling you a retard that you have to worry.

“Did you find out something about us at the library?” Randy asks.

Benson steals Randy’s side of fries, having determined that Randy wasn’t going to eat them. Which he wasn’t, not unless Benson got on him about wasting food.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But–”

“It’s not for you to worry about.”

Randy eats another fragment of chicken nugget. He glances around the rest stop when another car pulls into the lot. A young couple gets out and heads to the bathrooms.

Benson clicks his fingers in front of Randy’s face. “Hey.”

Randy blinks, draws his attention back to Benson. Benson’s tense shoulders relax.

“You keep looking like you’re going to run off, I’m gonna have to put you on a leash,” Benson says lightly, like it’s a joke.

“I wasn’t thinking of running off.” Benson hmphs in response and Randy says, “Are the cops looking for us?”

“Doesn’t look like it’s gone nationwide,” Benson begrudgingly answers. “Now stop asking questions, you nosy little shit.”

Randy wonders about his mom and sister and about Benson’s mom, too. Benson’s told him before that it’s not worth tying himself in knots about something he can’t do anything about, but it’s not that easy to stop. He doesn’t know if it would be better or worse for his family to think he’s dead in a ditch somewhere instead of foolishly hoping for him to return.

Benson grabs Randy’s hand and squeezes hard, uncaring of Randy’s dirty fingers, greasy and dusty from ripping apart his chicken nuggets. “Stop thinking so hard. Focus on me. And finish your damn food.”

Benson keeps a firm hold on his hand, anchoring him in place. The pressure verges on the edge of comfort, just shy of painful. It’s hard to think clearly when Benson’s touching him like that, holding his hand like they’re on the world’s worst picnic date.

Randy picks up a bit of chicken, and Benson squeezes hard until he puts it in his mouth. Benson mutters something under his breath, something like ‘banging your head against a brick wall’ which Randy elects to ignore.

“Say, Randy, you could go anywhere in the world, where’d you want to go?”

Randy eats some more chicken, mulls over the question. “Like a specific place?”

“Don’t overthink it.”

“It’s a broad question. It could mean anything.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. First place you thought of then.”

“I’ve never been to the ocean.”

“Me neither. We could go. Drive up the coast. I’ll take you one day.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Sure. It’s a promise.”

“Where would you want to go?”

Benson shrugs. “Guess it’d be cool to see a waterfall. Like a really fucking big one. Niagara Falls or some shit.”

“There’s big waterfalls in California, I think.”

“We’re headed that way. I’ll think about it. We need to get some better camping shit first.”

Benson squeezes his hand, and Randy eats some more chicken. The couple that had stopped to go to the bathroom get in their car and drive off, which is a relief. Dealing with other people is nerve-wracking. It’s better they be left alone, the two of them. Safer.

Randy squeezes Benson’s hand, and Benson squeezes back.

The venture to Wal-Mart comes as a welcome surprise. Benson gives him the basket to hold while he’s dragged around the store, and Randy gets to look forward to eating something other than fast food and whatever the gas stations sell. 

Randy adds a can of raviolis to the cart. They’re mushy but in a way that has a pleasing mouth feel. His mom never liked his taste for them, saying that they’re processed and that fresh raviolis are healthier, but she’d buy them for him when he was sick. Getting to eat them when he’s not sick is new and exciting-- plus, Benson looks pleased that he actually picked something out.

“Shit’s overpriced,” Benson says, inspecting a portable camp stove. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find one of these at a thrift store and I’ll be able to cook up some real food.”

“You know how to cook?”

“You don’t? Everyone’s gotta learn to cook or you’re stuck relying on other people and you gotta eat to live. You don’t cook, people don’t cook for you, and you’re stuck eating shit for life. It’s a basic fucking life skill. People don’t get that.”

“I can make French toast,” Randy offers.

Benson shakes his head. “I’ll teach you to cook one day. We can figure out how you like your food made and maybe that’ll get you to eat more for once. You’re skinny as hell.”

“I’ve never really liked eating.”

“I’ve noticed. Fucking weird hill to die on, but we’ll figure something out.”

Randy can’t help but find that hilarious. Benson still hasn’t given up the idea of fixing him. First, he wants him to confront past grievances. Now he wants to fix his anxiety and eating habits. Even his mother, for all her hovering, had never been able to fix either.

What a joke. Benson can’t fix shit if he’s part of the problem, but Randy would like to see him try– or actually he wouldn’t, seeing as how it went that first day. It could be called a comical disaster if people hadn’t died.

Benson takes Randy by the arm, whisking him off to another aisle. Everything is too goddamn expensive, according to Benson, and Randy is inclined to agree. He has no idea how they’re going to afford to keep going like this, running on handfuls of stolen cash, but he supposes Benson would tell him that it isn’t his problem to worry about. Benson is the ringleader of this circus, after all.

Benson gets more ammunition for his gun, which Randy pretends he doesn’t notice. Out of sight, out of mind, so the saying goes, and the fact that Benson’s been using ammo is something that Randy really doesn’t want to dwell on.

He’s pretty sure that makes him a bad person, makes it seem like he doesn’t care, but what can he do? There are new rules in place, and this is part of the adjustment.

One rule states that when Randy’s thinking too hard, he’s supposed to focus on Benson. Benson is holding him by the sleeve of his shirt, and if he tries to pull away, Benson will grab his arm or his hand and hold him tighter.

So, Randy subtly moves his arm enough that Benson looks over and wordlessly switches his hold on Randy’s sleeve to around his bony wrist. He pulls away again, and Benson laces their fingers together, squeezing hard enough to elicit a minute squeak from Randy.

“Cut that out,” Benson says lowly.

Randy squeezes Benson’s hand, hoping to offer reassurance that he’s okay now. Benson, as always, appears to question his thought process, but ultimately doesn’t let go of Randy’s hand as they walk through the rest of the store.

They get a couple strange looks, as they sometimes do, but Benson is nothing if not unapproachable, and thankfully no one is stupid enough to say something. Randy doesn’t know what they are, what exactly this is anymore, but he concedes that it’s probably not normal (and the ring of bruises on his neck and arms surely don’t help in keeping up the illusion).

Benson cuts through the pet aisle as they make their way across the store to get back to checkout and comes to an abrupt halt. The glint in his eyes says he’s going to say something Randy isn’t going to like, and he does.

“Could get you one of those.” Benson nods to the rack of cheap dog leashes and collars. A hint of amusement plays on his lips as he adds, “I meant what I said about keeping you from running off.”

“Benson,” Randy protests, unconsciously glancing around to see if someone was around to overhear. “That’s… it wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be right.”

Benson barks a laugh. “You trying to say because it would be ‘indecent’?” he asks, complete with finger quotations. “Think I give a shit about that?”

Randy glares. “Are you trying to fuck with me?”

Benson whistles. “Watch your filthy mouth, Randy. We’re in a public place. There could be kids around.”

“Benson.”

Benson grins wolfishly. “Come on, Randy. Think about it. I wouldn’t have to tape you up at night. Be a little more comfortable that way. Wouldn’t hurt your shoulders and wrists like the tape does.”

Randy really doesn’t know what to say to that. Benson laughs and shakes Randy’s shoulder.

Randy sighs. Benson is just fucking with him.

Benson was not, in fact, fucking with him.

“Are you serious?” Randy asks.

All things considered, Randy can’t honestly say he’s surprised when Benson parks the car outside a pet store. Annoyed, yes. Surprised, no.

Benson ruffles his hair, and Randy glares at him. Benson only smiles.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t cause any trouble.”

Randy crosses his arms for effect so when Benson looks over his shoulder to shoot him a warning glance before entering the store, his displeasure is evident. Benson rolls his eyes.

This is a test, and Randy fully intends to pass it. He can be left alone, outside of Benson’s line of sight, and he will still be there when Benson returns.

He feels a little like a dog waiting for its owner to return, which is perhaps too topical, and has his ears flushing scarlet. It’s not like that. They just happen to be outside a pet store, and Benson has to take precautions. He knows that.

Benson returns with two bundles of heavy chains, which jangle as he sets them on Randy’s lap. Randy examines the length of chain, one a leash ending in a leather handle, the other a collar.

Randy frowns, turning over the cool metal in his hands.

“There’s always the duct tape, but I thought I’d give you the option.”

See, Randy’s thought this over. It would be more comfortable than sleeping with his hands and feet bound, and he wouldn’t have to worry about breaking the lamp on accident. That said, there’s one glaring problem.

“It’s embarrassing.”

Benson scoffs. “What, you afraid someone would see? It’d only ever be at night and you’d only ever wear it for me.”

Randy asks, “For you?”

Benson freezes. He looks at Randy, away and back again. Shortly, he says, “I’m the only one who’d ever see it.”

“Right.”

Benson clears his throat. “Well, you think about it.”

Randy bites the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile. Benson wants to see him wear the collar and leash. Good to know.

He files the information away to analyze at a later time, and decidedly doesn’t think about how the chain would feel wrapped around his neck.

The matter of the leash is shelved– that is, until it isn’t.

The routine of being duct taped before bed is so familiar by now that he’s loath to switch it up, never mind be the instigator for the change. Besides, Benson doesn’t bring it up, so Randy firmly puts it out of his mind.

Randy’s fine, he’s comfortable, he follows the rules. He doesn’t make any mishaps, nothing of note anyway, but there are times when it’s unavoidable.

Today is one of Benson’s angry days. He has them on occasion, and the signs are there.

First, he has a nightmare, one of the screaming ones that wakes them both up in the middle of the night and sets the mood for the coming day. Second, he doesn’t let Randy finish his breakfast at his own pace, but snaps at him when he eats too slowly for Benson’s liking. Third, when Randy tries to start up their game of questions and apologizes in the face of Benson’s obvious irritation, Benson backhands him.

After that, Randy stays quiet and tries to get some sleep. He doesn’t particularly want to sleep– he never has anything but nightmares anyway– but he’s tired and sleeping passes the time.

Benson’s never hit him before, not like that.

It’s admittedly an odd point to be focused on, but it’s true. Benson’s punched him, roughly grabbed him, bruised him, choked him, yelled at him, but he’s never hit him in the face. This new development is added to the list of rules: no asking personal questions, however harmless they seem, when Benson has an angry day.

Benson wants to sleep on a real bed tonight, evidenced by the fact they end up at another sketchy motel instead of camping on the side of the road again.

Randy gets to clean up, and he pokes the forming bruise on his face with unease. It’s noticeable, unlike the ones on his arms, which can be covered up. His wrists are ringed red, raw and achy. He shouldn’t have scrubbed them so hard in the shower and now the already sensitive skin feels like it’s on fire.

That’s when the leash comes to mind, and at first, the idea is immediately nauseating, sending a distress signal throughout his body. He’s already lowered himself so much throughout his life, so keen to not be a bother by objecting. Benson even said he found Randy to be pathetic, said it so bluntly there was no room for misinterpretation.

Benson wanted to fix him, said as much, but Randy doubts Benson’s insistence on keeping him is about that anymore. Not all of it, anyway. He’d make an even bigger fool out of himself by thinking it was.

Randy scratches his wrists, catches himself, and makes himself stop. The itch to dig his nails into his skin sticks around, unsatisfied. Randy’s breath comes short, and he takes a calming breath.

“How hard is it to put on a damn sock?”

Randy jumps. He’s been sitting on the toilet, one sock on, the other halfway on for some time now. Benson’s been watching him through the open doorway, glaring at him from where he’s seated on the bed, eating a carton of fries.

Randy’s nose wrinkles, and he tries to smooth his expression out lest Benson think he’s being judgmental, which he is.

He bites back an apology, quickly finishes putting the sock on, and scurries out of the bathroom. Benson has that ‘if you don’t calm the fuck down, I’m going to hurt someone’ look on his face, so Randy tries to hide how on edge he feels. The thing is he doesn’t know what the fuck he should be doing with his body. Should he sit on the chair, or on the bed with Benson, or even on the floor? He doesn’t know what the protocol is when Benson’s like this. So, he stands around awkwardly, stomach tied in knots, fingers curled into his palms, lightly pressing.

“What, you need me to tell you that you can sit on the bed?” Benson sneers.

Yes, Benson. Actually, he does.

For a brief second, Randy imagines punching Benson, breaking his nose and drawing blood, and immediately feels guilty for it. The guilt overshadows the anger, but only just. It’s like Benson doesn’t even know what he’s like, for fuck’s sake. Does Benson have any self-awareness? Randy does, and that’s why he’s always hated himself.

“You have something you want to tell the class? Go on, Randy. I’m all ears.”

The cold note to Benson’s tone doesn’t make it easier for Randy to calm himself down. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. This is survivable. He’s going to be okay.

“I don’t have anything to say.”

“You really want to lie to me? You thinking of doing something you shouldn’t? Do I have to remind you what happens if you do?”

Randy winces. “I- I’m not– I’m not thinking of telling anyone. Or leaving. I’m not. I promise.”

Benson stands abruptly and pushes him against the wall, hand on his throat. Randy wonders where he went wrong, but maybe this was another unavoidable misstep. Benson probably expected him to say that, of course he did. Does he want an admission of guilt? To have his suspicions confirmed?

“Benson, I’m telling the truth,” he chokes out through the hand around his neck. He goes still, like he always does, not wanting Benson to think he’s going to fight it. “Really.”

Randy whimpers as Benson’s grip tightens, fights the urge to shut his eyes against the fury on Benson’s face. His body goes electric with fear– with excitement too, the twisted kind, like when Benson held his face in his hands, fingers pressing so hard into his skull it hurt.

“Don’t fuck with me, Randy,” Benson says through gritted teeth.

“I’m not. I’m not,” Randy gasps.

Benson lets go of his throat and Randy sucks in a frantic breath of air. He’s going to have bruises on his neck again, and with the mark on his face, he’s going to draw attention. But now’s not really the time to be worrying about that.

“Benson,” he says weakly, and that’s all, because the next thing out of his mouth was going to be an apology, which definitely wouldn’t go over well.

When he doesn’t say anything, Benson tells him to just go lay down and shut up, so Randy does. They watch TV in stilted silence, and thankfully the black-and-white horror movie that’s playing is shitty enough to circle back around to being good.

Randy distracts himself with the movie, mustering up the courage to ask the question. He hasn’t been sleeping well, his wrists hurt, and Benson’s in a foul mood. He can offer them both something and literally tighten his own leash.

When the movie ends and Benson wordlessly gets out the duct tape, Randy asks, “Benson?”

Benson shoots him a pointed look, eyes flinty. The look says: You need to go to the bathroom, you need to eat, you need to shower-- what the fuck do you want now?

“I, um, I wanted to ask if, um, I could sleep with the… you know, instead of the tape?”

The look on Benson’s face would almost be funny, if Randy weren’t so sick to his stomach with anxiety.

“You didn’t like that option,” Benson says, slow cadence betraying his suspicion. As if Randy is up to something.

“My wrists hurt.”

Benson stares at him for a long moment, but ultimately decides to retrieve the collar and leash from the front pocket of the backpack where they’ve been ever since Benson got them.

Benson steps over to him, chains in hand, and Randy stays still as the collar is lowered over his head. It’s cold and heavy, an entirely foreign feeling that he’s disturbed to find makes him flush with heat. The cold chain feels good against the forming bruises on his neck.

Benson tightens the chain and attaches the leash with careful fingers. Next comes the padlock, small and silver, which gets looped through the chain links and secured with a barely audible click. The key, strung on a chain, goes around Benson’s neck.

Randy feels as though he’s been punched. All of the air is just gone, no trace, and he struggles to take in a breath. The collar isn’t tight, but it’s like he’s being choked all the same, heart racing in his throat.

Benson’s hand rests on his neck, the first gentle touch he’s given all day. Randy wants to say he isn’t desperate for it, but the tension in his body releases, and he’s unwound.

“You’re okay,” Benson says, less like an observation or a question and more like reassurance.

Randy nods once and swallows hard, Benson’s fingers moving over the pulse of his throat. His fingers graze the collar and slide underneath, his thumb moving over Randy’s skin in the impression of a caress.

Benson’s eyes are intensely focused, the blue of them piercing. It’s like Randy’s being dissected, flayed open to expose his bloody insides for Benson’s viewing pleasure. He can’t meet his eyes any longer, but Benson tugs on the chain and he has no choice but to look back.

“I think I like you like this,” Benson says lowly, and Randy can imagine how it would feel for Benson to nick him with a knife and peel back a layer of skin, the way the air would be like fire against his raw flesh.

He shudders. His mouth is dry, so he asks Benson for some water. Benson loops the end of the leash around his wrist before moving to pull the water bottle from the side pocket of the backpack. Randy leans forward, pulled by the chain.

“Here.”

Randy fumbles with the water bottle, unscrews the top with shaky hands. He gulps water, feeling the chain on his neck move as he swallows. The sensation has him half-hard, and he prays that Benson doesn’t notice.

It’s futile, perhaps, to wish for that when all of this began because Benson noticed him. Benson noticed him then and notices him now, watching him with a quirk of a half-smile.

Benson turns the lights out and they lay together on the bed, the leash pooled in the space between them. Randy was right that it would be more comfortable than the duct tape, and he’s thankful he didn’t choose to humiliate himself for nothing.

He shifts on the bed, wiggling his arms and legs, relishing the freedom of the movement. He catalogs the weight of the collar, the lock pressed against the hollow of his throat, the way the leash would pull at him if he were to move too much. The sensation plants him firmly in the moment, something the pressure of the duct tape never did, only ever made it hard to relax.

“Go to sleep, Randy.”

“I’m trying.”

Benson’s fingers card through the hair at the back of Randy’s head and find the soft bit where spine connects to skull. They rest there, and Randy can’t think of anything else but that, drowning out the persistent anxiety threatening to swallow him whole.

All that’s left is Benson, who similarly wants to eat him alive. That knowledge brings a sense of familiarity that Randy can welcome. He can be adaptable.

Wearing the collar for the second time comes easier than the first, and by the third, he doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Benson takes it out of the bag. Randy feels some pride at that, at how fast he can adjust to the new rules.

Benson’s fingers graze the tender skin of Randy’s throat. The lock clicks shut and the key returns to its spot around Benson’s neck.

A thought crawls up from the darkest parts of Randy’s mind when he sees the key resting over Benson’s heart: Randy’s wearing the leash, but Benson is locked up, too. The light flutter in his chest prompts bone-deep shame that he swallows down like a hot knife.

“What are you smiling about?”

Randy shrugs. “I have to have a reason?”

Benson scoffs like it should be obvious that people need reasons to be happy. Randy has one, but he’d rather chew glass and face any punishment Benson can throw at him than acknowledge it. There must be something wrong with him.

Benson tugs on the leash. “What, don’t tell me you’re happy to act like a dog?”

Randy’s skin prickles with heat, and he knows he’s flushing scarlet all the way from the tips of his ears to his neck. “I- I…”

Benson laughs. “I’m just fucking with you, Randy. Lighten up.”

“Right,” he says stiffly like Benson hadn’t just found the right words to make him bleed. “This was your idea in the first place.”

“And you brought it back up. You didn’t even flinch when I put it on you this time. Makes me think you’d do whatever I told you to.”

“That’s… good?”

Benson wraps the leash around his fist, pulls it taut until the chain tightens around Randy’s throat. Randy gasps, jerking forward with the leash. His head swims, bright lights flash in his eyes.

“With that attitude, people will walk all over you. And you’d let it happen,” Benson says, disgusted. “You’d piss in your pants if someone told you to.”

Randy’s stomach twists. Anxiety, humiliation, and anger meld together into one indecipherable entity.

“I have,” he says flatly.

Benson’s face shutters, and his voice hardens. “I wasn’t talking about that, Randy. I thought that was behind us.”

“Really? You’re the one that wants to walk all over me.”

Benson’s fingers hook under the collar and pull him in closer. “You don’t know shit about me or what I want.”

Randy licks his lips and Benson’s gaze briefly flickers to his mouth. Irritation coils in his gut like a poison at the warning in Benson’s words. Randy knows the rule for when Benson’s tone has that inflection, but he decides to press.

“You don’t want anyone else to walk all over me because you want to be the one to do it.”

Benson slaps him. Hard.

Randy stumbles, momentarily losing his breath like he does when Benson has punched him. His cheek throbs and he’s left reeling, mortified at how his dick swells from the pain.

Benson sighs and hauls him up, hands firm on Randy’s shoulders. Randy tastes copper, blood on his tongue from where he bit his cheek as Benson’s hand connected with his face.

“You’re really fucking annoying sometimes. I know I gave you that whole ‘speak your mind’ spiel, but damn.”

He touches Randy’s cheek, which will be bruised twice over now. Randy leans into the touch. He won’t hold a grudge for that one since he had all but asked for it. Benson doles out pain, but he also provides comfort, and Randy laps them both up like he’s starving. 

“Let’s sleep this off, yeah?”

Randy nods and Benson’s thumb presses hard into his throbbing cheek. “Yeah.”

Lights out, and Randy lays in bed, the weight of the leash resting on his side. Benson’s snoring lightly, and Randy thinks about the gun on the nightstand. He’d have to crawl over Benson to reach it, but if he were careful, he could do it.

And then do what? Shoot Benson? Benson could easily wrestle the gun from him, wouldn’t be scared to do it, so Randy would have to shoot or getting hold of the gun would be pointless.

The key, then. It’d be trickier to get successfully, seeing as it’s hidden on the chain under Benson’s shirt, but it wouldn’t be impossible. All he’d have to do is get the lock open, but that’s easier said than done.

It’s like the phone again. He could have called, but the thought of getting caught was paralyzing. If Benson woke with Randy half on top of him, trying to get the key or the gun, Randy would be back to the duct tape and back to the trunk.

Randy doesn’t want that, and despite everything, he doesn’t want to hurt Benson, either.

He touches the chains at his throat, fingertips gliding across the metal links. He won’t be tempted.

When Benson gestures for him to come over, Randy is immediately suspicious. He stares at the collar in Benson’s hand, shooting it a wary glance.

“There you go again, thinking too fucking hard. What’s the problem now?”

Benson always puts the collar on and leashes him up right before they go to bed, but they’ve only just got to their room for the night. That means Benson is going out, and if he’s going out without Randy, it’ll be for a while, and if that’s the case, it means they need money, which means people are going to get hurt.

“It’s early,” Randy says.

Benson rolls his eyes. “You and your routines. No wonder you never took control of your goddamned life. Still pisses me off.” He shakes his head. “Stop distracting me. The point is, you’re overthinking again.”

“Am I?”

The look on Benson’s face is the same one he often wore at work, a perpetual state of ‘done with this shit.’ Randy’s been around Benson long enough that it’s kind of funny to watch him visibly struggle to find patience. It’s like a game Benson doesn’t even know he’s playing, one that Randy always wins. Randy had to teach himself to be patient, or he never would have been able to abide by the rules he had in place for himself.

“I was thinking you could put this on now, so you don’t have to later,” Benson explains slowly, like Randy might have a hard time understanding him if he doesn’t. He’s on the verge of general annoyance and anger, and he could tilt either way depending on how Randy pushes.

Even for Benson, a full tilt to anger would be an overreaction– unless there’s something Randy’s missing.

Benson looks at the collar, then at Randy before diverting his gaze. He rubs his mustache. Nervous ticks, Randy realizes, and it all makes sense now. Benson is embarrassed.

Biting back a smile, Randy says, “Okay.”

It’s Benson’s turn to be suspicious, but Randy only lowers his head and waits until the cool metal slides over his head. Benson attaches the leash and locks everything in place.

“Can we watch TV?” Randy asks.

Benson clears his throat. “Yeah, sure.”

Randy lays on the bed and fiddles with his leash while he waits for Benson to complete a sweep of the hotel room. The phone, paper, and pens are removed and hidden; the bathroom is searched for sharp objects. Benson sets his gun on the TV dresser and joins Randy on the bed.

“You hungry?”

Randy shrugs.

Benson digs through the backpack for chips and jerky. Randy asks for a fruit cup, which Benson snorts at, but wordlessly hands over.

Randy eats until Benson stops nagging at him to do so, and settles in to watch the news until Benson changes the channel. No one’s talking about them out west and Randy can’t shake the thought that no one is back home either (is it still home if he doesn’t live there anymore?).

Benson tugs him down by the leash, and Randy follows the pull. Benson’s hand finds the back of his neck, guiding his head down to rest on Benson’s lap. Randy freezes for a second before relaxing into it. He turns his face toward the TV.

The next time they get a room for the night, Benson puts the collar on him early, and Randy goes along with it. The collar is like a fashion statement; he’s seen people wear chain necklaces before, so it’s not weird. And if it’s not weird, then it makes perfect sense why he really doesn’t mind it.

The moment Randy knows he’s in too deep begins with a passing thought: he’s so ready to get to the motel so he can put his collar on and sleep. The knowledge that he’s going to get to relax on a decently comfortable bed and shut his mind off for a bit puts him in high spirits. He points out any interesting scenery on their drive (cool trees, mostly) and prods Benson about when they’ll finally go to the beach as promised.

His good mood is infectious, as it turns out. Benson calls him a nerd, affectionately, since he accompanies the word with a shoulder squeeze. He smiles a lot today, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Benson is tactile as usual, but his touch softens like it does when he’s not as outwardly worried about Randy flying off, no longer feeling the need to cage him in with his bare hands. Randy leans into these touches, so freely offered, and laces Benson’s fingers with his when Benson’s hand leaves his knee.

Benson looks over at him, eyebrows raised in honest surprise. Randy smiles, a small smile, but more than he usually deigns to give Benson. Benson grins and squeezes his hand.

Randy likes Benson’s hands, likes the feel of them, rough on his skin. He knows this about himself, and maybe Benson does too, but it doesn’t feel like something Benson’s earned the right to hear said aloud.

It’s not until he and Benson actually get to the motel that Randy clocks what exactly he’s so excited about. A shower, TV, and a bed are one thing, but what he really wants is some down time.

When Benson slips the collar over his head, it’s like he’s been relieved of a heavy weight. He’s been in waiting mode all day, and finally he’s free of it.

He’s more than ready for some down time and judging by the way he’s dragged to the bed, so is Benson. He flops down on the mattress (ouch, the springs poke through on this one) and tugs on the leash to pull Benson down with him.

Benson lets go of the leash, and Randy makes a face. Benson says, “I need to go see what we have for dinner. You barely ate any of that jerky I gave you. You gotta eat something, dumbass.”

“The texture was bad.”

“You coulda fucking said that earlier.”

Randy flips through channels while Benson makes macaroni and cheese in the microwave. A grainy nature documentary tells him about the lives of coastal birds, and Benson doesn’t even complain about how watching TV isn’t supposed to be educational.

Benson brings him a paper bowl full of dry cereal. They don’t have any milk, but Randy likes it better this way. He can eat as slowly as he likes, and it won’t get soggy. He eats two pieces at a time, one in each cheek, savoring the crunch.

Benson’s staring at him, so Randy offers out a Froot Loop. Benson shakes his head and forcefully opens the microwave when it dings, takes out the bowl of macaroni, and curses as he spills hot water on himself. Randy picks out two more pieces of cereal (purple and yellow, complementary colors) and pops them in his mouth.

Benson finally joins him to watch TV, idly moving the end of the leash underneath him. He scarfs down his dinner, barely tasting it, and takes a handful of Randy’s Froot Loops.

“You like these?”

Randy nods, and Benson eyes him skeptically, same way he had when he got Randy coffee once and he added more than one packet of sugar. He holds his hand out, and Randy’s eyes flick to the pile of cereal.

“Gotta make sure you eat more.”

Randy eats the cereal out of Benson’s palm without a second thought, and it’s surprisingly easy to eat it this way when Benson nods approvingly as he finishes the handful. Benson grabs more Froot Loops, and Randy finishes them all.

Benson eats most of the macaroni and cheese, but he leaves some for Randy. Randy likes macaroni and cheese, so he takes the plastic fork from Benson without complaint, though it’s disgusting to use the same one as him. Benson prods him in the ribs when he puts the fork down for too long, so Randy eats.

Benson has a thing about being useful, he’s learned. It manifests in different ways– by making sure Randy eats, that he doesn’t hurt himself, that he’s comfortable enough (clean clothes and better sleeping arrangements go a long way). Benson’s mentioned in passing that he used to take care of his mother, and if Randy weren’t certain he’d get punched for it, he’d ask if he feels guilty for leaving her.

Old habits die hard, and if what Benson wants is to forge them both into new people, he’s doing a shitty job of it. But that’s Benson’s problem to solve, not his.

Randy moves so he can lay his head on Benson’s lap, and it’s all soft breath, the rustle of fabric, the clink of chains.

Randy has a lot of time to think in the car while Benson drives and because of this, eventually finds it within himself to come to terms with the fact that there’s something deeply wrong with himself. The peace that follows this acceptance is only thanks to the knowledge that if there’s something deeply wrong with him, then there’s something even more rotten and fucked up going on with Benson. 

If there wasn’t something wrong with Randy, he would be less okay with Benson’s company, would still be crying at the slightest provocation. If there wasn’t something wrong with him, he would try harder to leave or reach out for help. If there wasn’t something wrong with him, he definitely wouldn’t like wearing the leash.

Benson pats the top of Randy’s head and brings the beer bottle to his lips again. Randy tilts his head back and swallows a mouthful of lukewarm beer. Benson drinks next, but he doesn’t cringe at the taste.

“It’s still gross,” Randy informs him. Getting drunk is a rite of passage, so Benson said. Randy hadn’t seen the point of it when he turned twenty-one, and if it weren’t for the way Benson held his jaw as he brought the beer bottle to his mouth for the first time, he still wouldn’t.

Benson smiles over the lip of the bottle. He takes another sip before handing it off to Randy.

“Finish that.”

Randy obeys, though the taste of beer is akin to what Randy would imagine drinking piss to be like. Benson even agreed with that point, so Randy doesn’t really get why beer was his drink of choice. Then again, Benson had said that the point of drinking isn’t for the taste but rather for a moment of alcoholic bliss. That sounds like a depressing concept, if you ask Randy, but what does he know.

Benson smiles at him. He cracks open another beer, takes a long swig, and hands it to Randy. Randy has a small sip, determines that he still hasn’t had enough beer for it to start to taste good.

His head is a bit fuzzy around the edges, kind of bubbly, but he doesn’t think he’s drunk yet. Or maybe he is, and he was expecting it to be more eventful. He thought there would be more throwing up and passing out, but he is only one beer in.

Tonight’s motel came with a rickety table and chairs, both too small for their legs, leaving them both cramped close together. The length of the leash hangs between them, the weight of it ever-present, pulling Randy back into the moment.

Benson teaches him to play cards, real games not kids’ games like go-fish. It’s surprisingly fun– Randy’s always been quick at learning new rules– and when he earns a grin from Benson after winning for the first time, he’s left smugly satisfied.

They finish another beer between them and are working on a third when Benson loses his hold on the cards as he shuffles them. The cards go flying, scatter across the floor and table, and Benson groans dramatically.

Randy stifles a giggle at the grumpy look on Benson’s face. He’s able to contain himself until Benson kneels to pick the cards up off the floor and his knees loudly crack. Laughter boils over and Benson shoots him a playful glare.

“Think this is real funny, don’t you? Fine, you clean this shit up.” He abruptly stands, banging his knee into the underside of the table in the process, and the open beer bottle topples onto its side. “Fuck.”

Beer splashes onto the carpet and all over Benson’s shoes. Randy laughs harder and bites hard on the inside of his cheek to try to stop the giggles. Benson isn’t smiling, but there’s a glimmer of mirth in his eyes that settles the sudden frantic flip-flop of Randy’s stomach.

Randy stands, red in the face from trying not to laugh. The leash clangs against the wood table and comes to swing in the air at his side. Smiling, Randy says, “I’ll get it.”

Later, Randy will wake up after a few more beers and blame it all on the alcohol. Now, though, he feels remarkably clear-headed as he drops to his knees. Benson’s jaw goes slack.

The leash pools on the floor at Randy’s side, a pile of chain and soft leather handle. The cards make a shushing sound, sliding underneath Randy’s knees as he shifts.

Randy’s come to terms with the fact that there’s something deeply wrong with him because he doesn’t so much as hesitate before lowering his face to Benson’s feet and licking the spilled beer off the toe of his filthy boot. There’s no further thought past the initial desire, and in the morning, Randy will hate himself a little for that, but right now it doesn’t even cross his mind.

Benson makes a strangled, animal sound. “What the fuck, Randy?”

Randy’s tongue drags across the shiny leather, tasting beer and dirt and God-knows-what-else. Benson really shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s the one that started all of this, and Randy is very adaptable.

Benson wanted someone to look at him and see him, well, Randy sees him. Randy can give him attention. Randy can stay.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Benson asks roughly, but he doesn’t tell Randy to stop. He doesn’t make a grab for the leash or the collar, doesn’t twist his fingers into Randy’s hair and yank him around like he’s done before.

Randy licks over the top of one shoe, up to the laces, and moves onto the other. He licks up a splash of beer, a spot of dust, leaving the leather spit-slick and shining in the dingy motel light.

Randy sits back on his heels and looks up at Benson, who towers over him, a wild look in his eyes that Randy’s sure is reflected back in his own. Benson touches Randy’s jaw, fingers lingering a few seconds before he pulls his hand back. A noise works its way past Randy’s lips, unbidden.

“Are you my dog, is that it?” Benson asks.

Randy doesn’t know what he is, but he does know that he belongs to Benson. Benson belongs to him, too, has for over a year though he didn’t know it at first.

Benson could have killed him a hundred times over by now, could have left him to rot in the trunk of his car, but he didn’t. That means something. It has to.

Randy repaid that favor. He didn’t call anyone, he didn’t go for the gun, he stayed. He wears the collar every night and Benson holds the leash and that has to mean something.

“I asked you a question. Are you my dog, Randy?”

Tears prick at Randy’s eyes, and he hasn’t cried in so long, not since those first terrible, excruciating days. The sudden tightness in his chest is alarming, but he ignores it, like he always ignores the bad things.

“I… I don’t…”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Benson asks, which feels unfair because he was the one who got the collar in the first place. He’s enjoyed Randy wearing it, too. Randy knows he has, it’s not like he’s done a good job of hiding those pleased smiles. Randy has looked forward to every hint of approval, has hidden every moment away in his memory to look back on.

“I’m-” Randy licks his lips and swallows hard, throat suddenly dry. “I’m being good? Like you said to.”

“You’re–” Benson exhales sharply. He grabs Randy’s jaw, thumb pressing hard into the soft bit under his chin. “Well, how about this– you want to be a good dog so bad, then act like one. Bark.”

Humiliation zings up his spine and makes him want to shrivel up and die. Randy’s old rule for when people would tell him to do shit like this was always to play along until whoever was taunting him got bored and left him alone. Benson called him pathetic for it and if anyone else asked him to bark like a dog, Randy knows the rule would be to say no.

But Randy is wearing the collar, the leash dangling at his side. If he’s wearing them, that means it’s just him and Benson.

So, Randy barks.

Randy’s never barked before, never practiced how to do it, and the best he comes up with is a soft woof. He tries again, letting out an arf this time, high-pitched and shaky.

As Randy ate the burger, he hated himself viscerally. When he pissed himself in the trunk of Benson’s old Chrysler, he had hated Benson like he’d never hated anyone before, blood-boiling anger that rapidly turned into distraught humiliation. Looking up at Benson, who dishes out tough love because he knows nothing else, Randy can’t find it in himself to hate either of them for their choices.

Benson laughs, and it’s mocking, but also undeniably giddy. “Jesus, Randy.”

His hand lands on the top of Randy’s head, and Randy can imagine it’s like a gesture of absolution, if Benson had the authority to provide such a thing. But he doesn’t, and he only ruffles Randy’s hair.

“Pick up those cards now. For real this time.”

Randy does. Benson sits back down and opens another beer, taking a long swig of it before lighting a cigarette. He blows smoke into Randy’s face, smiling at Randy’s wrinkled nose.

“Hand those over.”

Randy returns the deck of cards to Benson, and Benson shuffles the deck after looping the handle of the leash around his wrist. The cards don’t go flying this time, and Randy grabs the beer and drinks. Still bad, but Randy thinks he’s buzzed now. His body feels light and airy, filled with clouds, and he’s floating.

He never wants to come down.

Benson has left a piece of paper and a pen inside the motel room, and he’s gone to the car to retrieve the bag of clean clothes they forgot inside. He’s been gone for longer than it would take to walk to the car and back, and Randy knows that this is a test.

Randy doesn’t pay the paper and pen any mind, and doesn’t mention it when Benson returns, pale and shaky. He picks out a set of clean clothes for Randy, and after Randy’s done changing and showering, the paper and pen have vanished.

The next day, they sleep in the car on the side of the road, and Benson doesn’t leash him up. This, Randy is not a fan of, and trying to sleep without the chain around his neck has him waking up throughout the night. He doesn’t say anything to Benson about it, thinking it’s a one-time thing, but the tests don’t stop there.

Benson lets him pick out a book the next time they go thrift shopping and even lets him take a shower with the door closed for the first time in months. He leaves Randy unsupervised while he fetches them breakfast, even leaves the phone out in plain sight at the next motel they stay at.

The leash lengthens and lengthens some more until finally it’s taken off.

Randy sits on the bed, waiting patiently, but Benson is ignoring him. Or not ignoring him exactly, but not doing what he expects him to do, which is to put Randy’s collar and leash on for him like he always does as soon as they get a room.

Benson makes himself food in the microwave while he looks at the map, marking down the path of their journey up north.

“Benson?”

“Yeah, Randy?”

“Aren’t you going to… you know. Get the collar?”

Benson’s posture stiffens. He squares his shoulders, swipes his hand over his mustache. “I was thinking… I reckon you don’t need it anymore.”

Randy blinks. What.

“Okay,” Randy says.

He sits there and processes this new information, and once he has, realizes how pissed off he is. So pissed off in fact, that he doesn’t want to talk to Benson tonight, but because they’re stuck in this small room, the only thing he can do is go to bed early. And that’s exactly what he does.

True to his word, Benson doesn’t reach for the collar the next few nights. Randy’s nightmares start to ramp up again like they had in the worst days, and he loses so much sleep over it that he sleeps a lot in the car. Benson’s responding snippiness doesn’t help either, because he doesn’t have the right to be upset when he’s the one that changed the routine. Randy was perfectly fine, and Benson once again took a shotgun to his sense of order.

And, well, Randy’s kind of pissed off about that.

The anger simmers for a few nights on low until Randy once again wakes up in the middle of the night and decides he’s going to do something about it, something inadvisable. Benson’s not going to like it, but it’ll be his fault.

Randy knows the rules, pays attention to them, and because he does, he can concoct the perfect storm. He can’t be one-hundred percent certain about how Benson will react, but he can make an educated guess.

The first step is to wait until they’re in public, when they’re at a restaurant and eating dinner, surrounded by people. Benson has the gun on him, yes, but he won’t be able to shoot down a room full of twenty people, which means he’s not going to want to draw attention to them.

The second step is to select the right fuel to start the fire. He wants Benson to be mad, but not blindingly livid, so Randy knows he can’t pick something that will hit Benson too close to home. Something upsetting, but nothing that reeks of betrayal.

The third step, quite simply, is to argue. Stoke the fire and see what happens.

It could go wrong. Randy hopes it won’t.

“Hey, Benson?”

“Hm?”

Randy doesn’t have to feign nervousness. Facing Benson’s temper isn’t going to be pleasant by any means, but it will be survivable.

He fiddles with his fork. “I was wondering… do you think I’ll ever get to talk to my mom? Let her know I’m alive? I could send a letter maybe or–”

“No.”

Randy’s heart jumps to his throat. He forges onward. There’s no point in chickening out now if he wants to set things right. “But why? We’re safe now, so I thought–”

Benson takes his wrist under the table, pain splintering through bone as he’s held tight. Benson takes a deep breath, lets it out through his teeth. “Randy, we have talked about this. It’s never going to be safe for us. Not in a year. Not even ten.”

Randy nods. Benson doesn’t relax his grip, and he’s curt for the rest of the meal, just like Randy was aiming for. The next part is more nerve-wracking than the first, but it has to be done.

When they complete the trip back to their motel, Randy brings the topic back up, and he doesn’t back down this time. To Benson’s credit, it’s not until Randy slips in a snide comment about not having to worry about getting locked in a trunk and pissing himself if he were back home, that shit really gets out of hand.

“God fucking damn it, Randy!” Benson yells, and his fist connects first with Randy’s stomach and then with the door, leaving Randy doubled over and a crack in the wood. “Why can’t you learn to keep your mouth shut? Fuck!”

Randy has learned, which is why he knew what would sting. He’d be more self-satisfied about it if his stomach didn’t hurt and if he had enough air in his lungs to breathe properly. And Benson is scary like this, too, eyes blazing with a fire fit to kill.

Benson yanks him up by the back of the neck, manhandles him into the motel room and slams the door behind them. He leans in close, teeth gritted as he snarls out, “What the fuck is wrong with you today? I thought we were past this but apparently, you’re still, still, thinking about doing something stupid. I can’t fucking believe you.”

Benson’s a raging inferno now, and it’s too late to do anything about that but wait it out. Randy shrinks against the door as Benson paces around the room, running his hands through his hair and yelling. He tosses the phone to the floor, and the plastic bursts apart.

Benson pulls the gun from the back of his jeans, and that’s when Randy knows that he’s gotten more than he bargained for. Benson stalks over to him, cornering him back against the wall. The gun presses to his forehead.

“I think you need a reminder of how things work around here, don’t you, Randy? Sounds to me like you’re forgetting your place.”

The gun digs into Randy’s forehead, and he whimpers, vision blurring with tears. He presses himself further against the motel wall, letting his body go slack.

Before Benson shook up his world, he used his anxiety as an excuse to numb himself, but there’s no running from it now. There’s simply nowhere else to go. The whole spectrum of emotions plays in his mind like a symphony, a deafening cacophony of fear and anxiety and anger and desperation and satisfaction and lust and everything. 

“I’m not going to leave, Benson. I don’t want to leave,” Randy says, blinking away tears. “I promise. I’m sorry I asked about my mom. I won’t ask again. I’m sorry.”

Benson doesn’t strike him for this apology, and he knows he’s said the right thing. Benson, though, is still shaking with rage and what Randy now realizes is genuine terror. He couldn’t handle it if Randy left, and Randy shouldn’t feel bad about that, but he does.

Randy thinks back to all the times he could have been quick and grabbed the gun and hadn’t because he knew how it would go if he did.

“Benson,” Randy pleads. “The collar. I can… you can… put it on me?”

This was the whole point of this, after all-- to make Benson understand. 

A flicker of shock, or possibly confusion, crosses Benson’s face. The gun digs deeper into Randy’s forehead momentarily before Benson lowers it, favoring to grab Randy by the throat, fingers pressing into the tender spot under his jawbone.

Randy tilts his chin up, and Benson’s palm rests on his windpipe. Benson leans in close to his ear and hisses, “The fuck did you just say?”

Randy swallows, feeling the weight of Benson’s hand on his throat. There’s not much pressure being applied, but it’s enough that his already frazzled brain lights up in pleasure like it had that time in Benson’s house when he was thrown against the wall.

“The collar,” he whispers, voice quiet so Benson doesn’t hear the triumph in it. “Please? I promise I won’t try to leave. I won’t ask about my mom again.”

Benson lets go of him and steps away, eyes flicking from his face and down lower, back up. The anger is gone, which is good, but this almost stunned silence is just as unnerving. Still, Benson turns and grabs the collar and leash from the backpack.

The sensation of the collar around Randy’s neck has become a familiar one, and the tension he’s felt all day surrounding his plan leaves his shoulders as Benson affixes it in place and attaches the leash. The physical manifestation of his capture is oddly comforting, makes his brain feel soothed to see evidence of why he can’t leave, even if he wanted to. It’s okay to want this if there’s no other option. 

Benson wraps the length of the leash around his fist, chains clinking. Randy moves with it, moves where Benson pulls him without hesitation. He doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to worry. All he has to do is follow the pull of the leash and let go.

“You’re never gonna leave me,” Benson says. “I won’t let you. And I’m not letting anyone separate us, either. Definitely not your fucking mom.”

“I know, Benson.”

“Do you? I wonder. You were being a good boy up until today.”

Randy leans back so he can feel the chain pull taught, jerking him back forward. Benson watches him intently, eerily still, eyes dark. Randy’s cheeks flush, and he licks his lips nervously. Benson’s eyes track the movement.

“You were fucking with me earlier, weren’t you?”

Randy shakes his head, and Benson jerks hard on the chain. Randy yelps.

“Try again.”

“Yes.”

“You’re really a stupid little shit sometimes. Don’t ever use that head of yours. You like this, don’t you, Randy? That why you were acting up?” Benson asks in a raspy whisper that makes Randy bite back a whimper. 

When he doesn’t answer, Benson jerks the leash again and Randy gasps in pain. He whines out, “Yes.”

“You like this so much, how about you prove it?”

Randy nods, doesn’t know what he’s saying yes to, but he knows Benson doesn’t want to hurt him. Benson won’t hurt him unless he makes him.

The gun is still in Benson’s other hand, and he lifts it up to Randy’s face. Randy flinches back and Benson shushes him as he rests the side of the gun against Randy’s cheek.

“You’re okay,” Benson says, and it’s not phrased like a question, but at the same time it is. Randy nods, a miniscule movement.

Benson’s eyes are dark, and his breathing is coming heavy, but then again so is Randy’s. They stay like that for a few prolonged seconds, Randy fighting the urge to squirm, feeling like an object on display as Benson assesses him. Finally, Benson takes the gun off his cheek and brings the muzzle to his lips.

“Suck.”

Randy opens his mouth, heart hammering so hard and so fast he feels faint. Benson holds the gun steady, waiting, and Randy leans forward and takes the tip of the gun into his mouth.

The metallic taste makes him cringe, but his dick twitches in his pants as his tongue slides along the length of the barrel. It’s cold and rigid in a way a penis wouldn’t be, but the action is similar to what he may have imagined, if he had ever let himself think of what it would be like to suck Benson’s cock.

If Benson pulled the trigger, Randy probably would never even have enough time to realize it. Benson doesn’t want to kill him, though, Randy reminds himself, or he would have by now. The gun may be loaded, but his finger isn’t on the trigger and the safety is on. He’s sure the safety must be on, and he’s sure Benson’s finger isn’t on the trigger, so he must be okay.

He’s okay. This is okay.

The chain clinks as Benson’s hand comes up to cup his cheek. Metal scrapes against his teeth and Randy opens up wider, willing his jaw to relax as he tries to take the gun deeper and gags as the wider bit of the gun presses against his tongue. Benson inhales sharply and takes the gun out of his mouth.

Randy makes a small sound that is, admittedly, close to a whine. Benson’s eyes trace a path from Randy’s red, wet mouth down to his dick, straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You do like this, don’t you?”

The way Benson says the words toes the line between derision and reverence. It makes Randy’s skin go hot all over, whether in a bad or good way, he’s not entirely sure. Randy, thinking of the glimpse he got of Benson half-hard in his jeans, says softly, “So do you.”

Benson ignores this. His hold on Randy’s cheek tightens as he whispers, “You’re a sick little freak, Randy.”

And Randy could die of embarrassment if it weren’t for the secure hold of Benson’s hand on his cheek keeping him grounded, the collar snug around his neck. Benson can say whatever he wants about him, even though it makes tears prick at his eyes, tears which Benson gently thumbs away.

When Benson’s hand leaves his face, Randy leans forward to take Benson’s thumb into his mouth. It’s an impulsive decision he never would have acted on before, but he’s collared and leashed because he practically begged for it and he can’t possibly sink any lower by looking more desperate for whatever Benson will give him.

“Christ,” Benson mutters.

Randy sucks lightly on Benson’s thumb, tasting dirt and grime and salt. Benson presses his thumb down onto Randy’s tongue, hooks behind teeth and pulls him down.

“Knees.”

Randy drops to his knees unceremoniously, sharp pain like a splinter through his kneecaps. The leash hangs heavy at his side, and Randy looks up at the end of it, held firmly in Benson’s hand. Benson studies his face.

“Benson?”

Benson shushes him again, and Randy gets the message loud and clear: dogs don’t talk. He recalls what Benson had him do before, how it elicited that frightening delight from Benson, and swallows hard to brace himself.

He barks softly, a soft little woof that sounds deafening in the still room. Benson smiles and lowers the gun to rest by his hip.

“Be a good boy now.”

Randy shuffles forward and takes the muzzle of the gun into his mouth, less afraid this time. As his head goes empty, fuzzy around the edges, his mouth goes slack. He takes the gun deeper, slowly bobs his head up and down, thinking about how he wants to make this good for Benson, as if Benson can feel it.

Benson’s free hand finds twines into his hair, twisting and grabbing a fistful of it at the crown of his head. Randy struggles to bend low enough to suck the gun as instructed while moving where Benson’s hand guides him. His hands scrabble for purchase, needing something to hold onto.

Benson snarls, “Don’t fucking touch me. Hands. Off.”

Randy’s hands fly back down to the ground from where he had tugged on the hem of Benson’s jeans. He slurs out an apology around the gun, and Benson lets go of his hair so he can tug at the leash.

Randy’s so hard it hurts, and he desperately wants to grind against something, the floor, his hand, Benson’s boots, anything. He tries to convey this with a muffled whine, but Benson either doesn’t get the hint or doesn’t care, just presses the gun in deep enough to make him gag. He swallows around the gun, lightheaded.

“Breathe,” Benson commands, and he does.

Randy keeps his hands on the gross texture of the carpet, knees smarting against the hard floor. He bobs his head, tears forming as his jaw begins to feel strained from keeping his mouth open wide. He remembers to breathe this time, slowly through his nose.

The toe of Benson’s boot meets his clothed erection, and Randy yelps. He coughs, breathes through it when Benson instructs him to, and rolls his hips against Benson’s foot. Benson laughs, and it’s mean, but also delighted.

“You’re so desperate for it, ain’t ya? Gonna come in your pants, humping my leg like a bitch in heat?”

Randy chokes on the gun, and grinds against Benson’s shoe, tears streaming down his face.

Benson’s voice softens. “Come on. You can do it.”

The pleasure crests, more intense than Randy’s ever felt when he masturbated with a shameful hand on his cock. His vision blurs and he makes a series of soft, helpless sounds, hips twitching against Benson’s shoe.

“Fucking hell,” Benson says and takes the gun out of Randy’s mouth, a string of saliva dripping from the barrel.

Randy looks up at Benson, eyes glassy, disoriented as Benson yanks him to his feet. Benson sets the gun aside and wipes the tears from Randy’s face, pats him lightly on the cheek.

“Go shower.”

Randy walks to the bathroom on unsteady feet, reeling from the whiplash of coming in his pants with a gun in his mouth to being given a stack of clothes and all but shoved into the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror, at his pink mouth and watery eyes. He looks, in a word, wrecked.

As Randy showers, over the roar of the water, he hears the TV turn on. Over that, he hears what may be a faint moan and the sound of Benson swearing. Randy puts his face directly under the cold water, tries to ignore his burning ears.

Once he’s freshly clean and in a fresh pair of clothes, he finds Benson lounging on the bed, Randy’s collar and leash lying beside him. Benson’s changed, too, and he’s in the process of cleaning his gun with deft hands. His eyes are on Randy as soon as he’s in the bathroom doorway, and he snaps his fingers impatiently. Randy darts over to him.

Benson wordlessly slips the collar around his neck and locks the chains together, putting it back in its rightful place. Randy’s throat tightens as he fights off the sudden urge to cry, fights off the urge to dig his nails into his palms.

“Did… did I do good?” he asks meekly.

Benson grabs the back of his neck, squeezing. The touch is grounding, and Randy follows it, relaxes into the security it provides. He feels like a live wire, like he might shake apart without Benson’s hands there to keep him in shape.

“You did,” Benson says roughly. He pulls Randy forward, fingers digging into Randy’s skin, and places a firm kiss on his forehead. “You did good, Randy.”

The underlying tension in Randy’s body releases, and he clambers onto the bed so he can lay down, resting his head on Benson’s chest. Benson seems solid when he’s not, and even though Randy knows that rationally isn’t true at all, he gives in to the illusion.

Benson resumes cleaning the gun, methodical and practiced. That gun has been used to kill people, and Randy has come with his mouth around the barrel. He has no idea where to even begin reconciling these two truths, so he opts in favor of not thinking about it and instead watches Benson’s hands.

Benson’s busted hand is an angry red, but he only split a couple knuckles when he punched the door. Benson isn’t holding it like it’s broken, but it’ll bruise. Randy shifts to place a kiss over the red parts, fleeting and tentative. Benson snorts, but doesn’t reprimand him, so Randy flicks his tongue across his knuckles.

Kitten licks over scars, texture under his tongue, taste of blood in his mouth. Benson’s knuckles are left gleaming in the low light, and Randy closes his eyes and licks.

“Freak,” Benson says, and it sounds fond this time.

Randy wants to tell Benson that it’s his fault, but words are too complex, and he’d rather stare impassively up at Benson and expect him to catch his meaning. Benson’s fingers find their way back to his hair, tugging lightly.

“We’re gonna be okay, you and me,” Benson tells him, voice low. “It’s gonna be good, y’hear? Think we’ll head to the beach like I promised.”

Randy wants to believe Benson, so he chooses to. The two of them will be okay, and Randy will get to see the ocean. 

“Okay,” Randy whispers when Benson’s hand in his hair tightens to a fist.

“Good boy.”

Randy tucks himself against Benson’s side like he could fold himself into something smaller if he really tried at it. Benson scratches the top of his head, fingernails scraping against his scalp in small, soothing circles.