Chapter Text
Jack’s police escort handed him an envelope before they stepped outside the jail gates.
“Don’t spend that on anything stupid,” the escort told him firmly. That told Jack all he needed to know about the contents of the envelope; it must’ve been his canteen check. He hoped he had made a substantial amount; minimum two grand. He’s worked his damned ass off in that jail, volunteering for as much as he could. Crop picking, litter cleaning, even childhood household chores just so that he might have a few bucks to pay for his cheap groceries as soon as he got out.
“I can spend it on whatever I want.” Jack shot back to his escort, sneering in his direction. “You’re not my mom.”
“Watch your tone,” the officer scorned. “You’re damn lucky we didn’t find any actual evidence. Once we catch the real guy, well…” He turned slightly, taking a step closer to Jack. “Expect to see us in court. You’re still considered a witness.”
Jack, instead of spending any time at all coming up with a smart response, blew raspberry in the officer’s face. He cackled as the officer stumbled a few steps back, and Jack skipped away with his belongings in one hand and the envelope in the other. “I’m gonna spend my check irresponsibly! I’m gonna gamble it away! Or buy drugs! See ya later!”
The officer narrowed his eyes, wiping off his face. “I’m sure I will!” he called after Jack. The orange man ignored him, flipping him the bird before rounding a corner.
Ah, freedom at last. The feeling was foreign by now, having spent so many months going through trial after trial, being somehow found guilty, and thrown in jail for evidence that was circumstantial at best. I mean, sure, Jack did all the crimes he was accused of, but he found it rather unfair that the police hadn’t found any solid proof.
But it looked like his work had finally paid off. So many successful attempts at sweet talking his way through getting out of there with enough good behavior had gotten him a good relationship with the wardens and inmates alike, and hopefully, lots and lots of money.
As Jack approached his apartment, he felt himself get a little more jittery. As soon as he got that door open, he’d be able to tear into his envelope and see his check. He could picture it now; a thick sheet of paper, signed by the court with a 2 written on the amount box, followed by three fat zeros. He’d never seen that much money in his life, he was sure. He had a plan for everything. Jack would make a new savings account, get a new job and a new car. He would save enough money to finally-
Jack twisted the doorknob to his apartment. Or, tried; the door was locked.
Oops. Silly me, I forgot the key! Jack fumbled with his tote bag in his left hand, fishing out his house key and trying to jam it into the keyhole. Except it didn’t fit.
Did they change my fucking lock again? he thought. “Bastards,” Jack hissed out loud, dropping the keys back in the tote bag before glancing back up again and noticing a paper taped poorly to his door.
EVICTION NOTICE
Jack’s heart sank. Surely not. Surely the police had negotiated something with his landlord, right? He read through the paper in frantic detail.
According to the note, all his belongings were moved to a storage unit all the way across town.
No biggie. I’ll just stop by there and get a U-Haul. Then I can talk to my landlord about-
His own reading interrupted his thoughts when he saw the words one-thousand and five-hundred dollars.
What. The fuck.
That was three-fourths of Jack’s check (if his delusional fantasies were correct), and he damn sure wasn’t gonna pay that much just for his shitty couch with cigarette stains and a busted refrigerator.
Teeming with rage, Jack ripped the letter off the door and shredded it to bits, kicking the door and grinding the shreds of paper into the concrete. “STUPID FUCKING BASTARD PIGS! MONEY-EATING FANTASY-LIVING PIECES OF DICK-”
He cut himself off when a woman and a little girl walked past him, shooting him confused stares.
“Mommy, why is that man so angry?” the little girl asked, as if intentionally in earshot of Jack.
“He’s probably on drugs, sweetie,” the woman replied softly, giving Jack a piercing glare. Jack just slumped over in defeat, baring his teeth at her. He huffed a sigh of victory when she started walking faster.
Jack rolled his shoulders and averted his focus back to the disheveled shreds of paper on the ground. Not much to do now, he realized. The man gave the doorknob one last good tug before growling and kicking it as hard as he could, stubbing his toe in the process and hissing in pain. Right, the jail hadn’t let him keep his steel-toed boots. Bastards.
Jack stuffed the envelope into his tote bag and double checked to make sure his wallet had survived his fit of rage. It was luckily still intact, tauntingly nestled at the bottom of the bag. He gave it a furious grimace as he stumbled down the single step to the sidewalk. He needed to think.
He attempted to distract himself as his legs took him wherever they wanted to go. Jack didn’t care much himself; he mostly just soaked in his surroundings, pulling up his hood so that he looked a little more convincingly alive, and thought.
Okay, maybe I can still do it. I’ll just pay for my shit and get back to my house, then make myself look extra desperate for a job. Shouldn't be too hard. I’ve seen people even more fucked than I am land a measly job at a grocery store. I hear local places pay well. Or hell, maybe I can just make bank off tips.
His mind was wandering off to whether or not he had the body to be a stripper before he tripped, hearing a loud yowl below his feet. He barely managed to catch himself when he whipped around to see a black cat. The animal hissed at him and darted off into the road.
Jack scoffed, checking his bag again. “Damn mange-ridden…” he muttered to himself, though he was admittedly relieved to see that the cat had made it safely across the street.
The orange man turned around to see… Huh, that was odd. The abandoned remains of the pizzeria was there. How did he get here so quickly? Was the sun really setting already?
Jack reminisced as he stared up at the building. His old boss must've been laid off, surely. Jack would’ve found himself smiling at the fond memories of pestering the phone-headed man, except one thing was distracting his own thoughts.
That one thing he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried. You know you have to go back eventually, teased a tiny voice in the back of his head.
“Stop,” he said sternly out loud.
You have to save them.
“I can do what I want. I’m not scared of you.”
You promised.
Jack said nothing. Maybe because he looked crazy. Maybe because the voice was right.
You promised, Jack.
But this voice was different.
You promised, Old Sport.
What?
Jack was immediately ripped from his spiraling thoughts as he tore his eyes away from the building, seeing a figure approach him on his left.
Oh, fucking Christ, not you.
“Old Sport!” an accented voice called to him, the figure breaking into a run. The action set off Jack’s fight or flight, because before he knew it, he was sprinting away as fast as he could, clutching his cheap tote bag tightly in his hand.
The chase didn’t last. He tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, tumbling down toward the hard concrete. The abrupt stop sent the man behind him buffeting into Jack, making the fall all the more intense as the two slammed into the hard ground. Jack’s tote bag was sent flying ahead of him, the contents flinging every which way.
The two men groaned, Jack roughly throwing the other off him to scramble as his belongings.
“Didn’tcha hear, Old Sport? Place’s shut down.” The man who was chasing him chuckled with an arid voice. “Don’t reckon they’re takin’ applications after what we did to th’ place.”
Jack ignored him, shoving his house key into the tote bag.
“Though, I was hopin’ I’d see ya,” the man continued. “Got outta jail early, eh? What’d ya do, seduce th’ warden? I thought ya said ya didn’t have th’ body of a stripper. Whaddya know!”
“I was actually specifically hoping not to see you, Dave,” Jack mumbled dryly as he fumbled for his glasses.
Dave looked taken aback, a dramatic hand to his chest. “I'll be damned! If that ain’t the sweetes’ thing ya’ve evah said t’ me, Sport!”
“You’re the one who got me thrown in there in the first place,” Jack hissed, throwing an accusatory finger toward him. “Back-stabbing bastard.”
“Listen, Old Sport. I’m sorry about allat, but ya gotta gimme th’ benefit of th’ doubt! If I was thrown in there, I woulda nevah gotten out! They woulda figured me out f’ sure, and I’d nevah get t’ see ya again!” Dave leaned down to help Jack gather his stuff, picking up an embarrassingly large container of definitely expired makeup. He looked at it for a while before handing it to the tangerine, who snatched it from Dave’s hand with such a force that he flinched back. Jack saved the scene for later when he wanted something to laugh at.
“That would’ve been preferred, actually,” growled Jack, finding his glasses and tossing them carelessly into his bag. Damn things were the wrong prescription anyway.
“Aw, but then you’d nevah get t’ hear about my plan for th’ two of us! I was lookin’ for ya, y’know,” Dave whined as he picked up Jack’s wallet, not even trying to hide the motion of pocketing it. Jack grabbed his wrist before he could do so.
“I don’t care,” Jack said simply.
“Aw, c’mon! I wanna take ya t’ Vegas, jus’ like I promised!” Dave almost pleaded. God, this man was pathetic. “We’d come back rich, Old Sport! Wealthiest men America has ever seen!”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Right. Like we even have any money to start with. Give me that.” Jack attempted to snatch the envelope from Dave’s hand before he could get a firm grip on it, but once Dave had it, he stood up quickly and held it up to the street dim street light.
“Shit, Sport, you make bank in th’ guttah? I didn’t know they paid strippers.” Dave chuckled at his own joke, making an attempt to open the envelope. Jack sprung up from his spot on the sidewalk and whacked Dave’s hand, stopping him from doing so. Dave annoyingly held it higher, causing Jack to jump to try and reach it.
“Aww, you’re adorable when yer’ tryna reach shit,” Dave teased, planting a hand on Jack’s face and shoving him down. His hand smelled rancid. “You’ll nevah get the quirks of bein’ tall like me, Sports!”
“I’M- GHK, ALMOST SIX FEET TALL, DIPSHIT- GIVE IT BACK-!” Jack struggled against Dave’s pushing, reaching his hands up high.
“Don’tcha see, Sport? This is exactly what we need! This’ll be a real great start f’ gamblin’!” Dave laughed at Jack’s futile attempts at grabbing the envelope.
“You wish!” Jack bit back. “I earned that shit myself! No Dave required!”
Dave brought his raised hand to his chin, thinking. Jack wondered if it hurt. “Arrite, I’ll make ye a deal. If that check has more than a thousand on it, I’ll let ya go do whatevah Old Sport-y activities ya want. I’ll be completely outta yer hair. No more Davey t’ worry about.
“If it has less than a thousand, ya gotta go t’ Vegas with me.”
Jack raised a reluctant eyebrow.
Dave scoffed, taking his hand off Jack’s face. “An’ you’ll get t’ keep half the earnings.”
Jack considered. On one hand, Dave really was insufferable. Quite possibly the worst person for Jack to go on vacation with. He smelled bad, never stopped talking, and was overall embarrassing to be around in public. He was too confident, too sure of everything…
… But was Jack ever sure of anything?
On the other hand, Dave seemed to have incredible luck when it came to tough situations. He’d strayed from the law for quite possibly decades on end. Jack was, evidently, not so lucky.
And what was Jack gonna do anyway? Knowing him, go broke and watch TV until he got evicted again. He might as well try and extend the time before his inevitable fate. But he still liked the illusion of free choice.
“Two-thousand,” he decided.
Dave looked down at him. “Whassat?”
“If the check has less than two-thousand dollars, I’ll go with you. Any more and I’m staying right here.” Jack gave him a stern look, eyebrows furrowing to indicate his seriousness.
The laugh that came from Dave was absolutely infuriating. That was the opposite of the desired effect. “Arrite then, deal!” Dave took his hand off Jack’s face, handing the envelope back to him. Jack snatched it back and moved away from the taller. Much to Jack’s dismay, Dave scuttled right back next to him, leaning over his shoulder to watch. “Shake on it?” he suggested, holding out his hand.
Jack spat on the other’s hand. “I’m not touching you,” the tangerine retorted, turning his gaze back to the envelope before he could see Dave lick the saliva off or something equally freakish.
With trembling anticipation, Jack tore the top seam of the envelope, slowly lifting the check from inside. Both he and Dave leaned close to read what it said.
$199.99
“... Is this a fucking joke?”
But Dave was already celebrating. “FUCK YEAH! Oh, Sports, we're gonna have th’ time of our damn lives!” the man shouted, throwing his fists in the air.
Jack didn’t know why the usual sinking feeling in his stomach was absent. Something like this should be upsetting, devastating, and yet… Jack could use this. Dave’s luck and Jack’s bitter charm? Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
“‘M gonna pack my shit!” He could hear Dave shout. “This is gonna be th’ best damn week of our lives, Old Sport!”
-
This was decidedly the third worst week of Jack’s life.
For one, Dave was even more talkative than he’d been last time the two had teamed up. Disgustingly so, to the point where Jack was sure he'd rip his own eyeballs out if he had to endure one more of Dave’s tales about spelunking or whatever it was he did with his free time. Jack could not possibly care less.
Secondly, it turned out that Dave didn’t have a plan. Not even an iota of a plan, other than “We’re gonna have fun at Vegas, Old Sport!” He didn’t have a map, or a route memorized, or road snacks, or even a fucking car. Dave was terrible at planning causally, a fact Jack was humiliated to not have guessed himself.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Jack huffed, exasperated after walking a horrifying thirty minutes with Dave so close.
“Relax, Sports! I know where I’m goin’,” was Dave’s idea of reassurance, waving his hand in the air.
“This isn’t even the right direction,” the tangerine complained again. “The sun set behind us. We’re going east.”
Dave rolled his eyes, the smile never leaving his face. “Well, ya gotta go further before ya get close, or whatever they say.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that. Like, ever.” Jack didn’t even think about the fact that he was holding a conversation with the man he was supposed to be holding a deep-rooted grudge with.
“Old Sport. There's about five billion people alive t’day, and a fuckton more who existed before that. Do ya really think that not a single other person has said that sequence of words?”
“You’re such a fucking- Wait, five billion?” Jack cut himself off. “That’s not a real number.”
Dave cackled at Jack’s genuine confusion. “Oh, Sport, I know it’s hard t’ believe there are other people in th’ world than you an’ me. It’s flatterin’, really, but ya gotta get out from under yer rock and go out more.”
“... Huh…” Jack hummed, running into Dave when he failed to realize they’d come to a stop. They were on the side of the highway, on a bridge that overlooked a car dealership. The lights illuminating the place were bright against the night, contributing wholly to the lack of stars. The vehicles were cheap, not a single brand-new car in sight. Not that it mattered; Jack couldn’t afford a car no matter the condition, and he knew damn well that Dave was even worse off than him.
“Well, here we are, Old Sport!” Dave announced, clapping a hand over Jack’s back. “Any of ‘em speakin’ to ya? That ol’ blue one is a beauty.”
There were at least twenty blue cars in the lot. “What the hell are you talking about-? Neither of us can afford a c-”
Before he could finish his thought, Dave had swung over the bridge, and Jack felt his blood run cold. They were way too high for him to have survived that. Oh, fuck, what was Jack thinking. Another death that was all his-
“Sports, down here! Throw yer shit down already, I'll catch it!”
Jack’s eyes widened as he peered off the edge of the bridge. There was a ledge just below the drop, and a hill that led up to it; apparently not nearly as far a drop as Jack had thought.
“Don’t fucking do that, asshole!” Jack called down to Dave, who was holding his arms out above him to catch Jack’s stuff.
“Aww, were ya worried about lil’ old me, Sports?” Dave joked, fluttering his eyelids. “Color me charmed!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jack shouted back, throwing down his stuff as hard as he could toward Dave.
In a terrible move of misjudgement, Jack may have thrown his bag a bit too hard, because the combined momentum and his leaning over the bridge sent the tangerine plummeting after his belongings.
In a panic, Jack attempted to wrap himself around the bag to keep everything securely inside. It wasn’t as far a fall as Jack had initially thought, but it sure as hell felt longer than it looked. Even then, it wasn’t long before he felt his body hit another, a loud, muffled collision which slowed for only a moment before he felt the combined weight of himself and Dave tumbling down the grassy hill and toward the dealership lot.
Jack was uselessly frozen in a panic, but was somehow kept securely in arms that weren’t his as they skidded to a stop. He dared a glance from the curve of his own tight arms, peeking out just enough to see Dave’s ruined (as if they weren’t already) shoes buried in skid marks that scored down the hill. Grass stained both of their clothes; Jack discovered he didn't really mind. None of his current outfit was anything he particularly cared about. He figured Dave would feel much the same.
“You good, Sports?” Dave asked, his tone just barely too genuine for Jack's comfort. “That was quite a fall. Didn't know you were an athlete.”
“Shut it,” Jack hissed, squirming out of Dave's rather firm grasp and digging in his bag. Miraculously, every one of his items was intact. “You break anything?
“Prolly!” Dave was already standing up, and he held a hand out for Jack to take. Jack only stared up at him, hoping to rub it in that he would never willingly touch the man as he got to his feet on his own.
“So.” Jack brushed himself off. “How do you plan to steal a car we don't have the keys to?” But Jack was talking to no one, apparently, because Dave had disappeared without warning.
“Dave?” He wouldn't dare abandon me. I'm the one with the money. It'd just be a waste of his time, I can get home just fine-
Jack was not comfortable with the fact that he was lying to himself. “Dave?” he tried again.
Spinning in circles, he eventually saw Dave emerge from a tunnel which drove through the hill, something heavy over his shoulder. Jack scoffed and raced after him, surprising the aubergine with a sharp punch to the arm. “Quit running off!”
“Ow!” Dave whined, giving Jack a faux-injured look. “Ease yer nerves, Old Sport. I know what I'm doin’.”
“Oh, please, then,” Jack shot back. “Enlighten me. For I haven't a fucking clue what you're doing.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Had it gotten colder?
“Arrite,” Dave agreed. “We's gonna break int’ that there buildin’, an’ find the keys to th’ car we're takin’. Howssat sound?”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Won't we get caught?”
“That a serious question?” Dave asked, appearing confused. For a moment, Jack might've mistaken it as genuine. “Course we won't. Have ya met me?”
Sure I have, but I hardly know you. Jack kept the thought to himself. “Which car are we gonna get?” he asked instead, looking over their options. It was overwhelming, if he was honest. For such a run-down looking place, there sure as hell were a lot of cars. Mostly old, not a single model after 1980, Jack was sure.
“I dunno,” Dave shrugged. “Which one d'you want?”
That was a tough question. Jack knew next to nothing about cars. After about ten seconds, his best answer was a hesitant shrug.
Dave seemed satisfied, perhaps even happy with that answer. Despite claiming indecisiveness, the aubergine pointed to one in particular. It was interesting; a dark blue color, one of the shiniest in the lot, and very small, though you wouldn't be able to tell if not for the much larger surrounding vehicles.
“Is that a Mini Cooper?” Jack tilted his head. That was one of the few models he for once did recognize. He'd seen them in old British movies.
“Sure as th’ grass is green, Old Sport!” Dave exclaimed. “Always wanted t’ drive one. They're so cute an’ little!”
Jack seemed reluctant. “I didn't know they sold those in America.”
“Ya say that like ya weren't born here, Sports. Everythin’ is sold in America.” Dave tapered off his response with a giddy laugh.
Once they reached the building, Dave tried the door. Of course, it was locked; that was when Jack decided to finally pay attention to the heavy object Dave had been carrying. It was apparently a crowbar.
Jack gasped and crouched down, clapping his hands over his ears. Dave only gave him a puzzled look, tilting his head the way a curious dog would.
“What? Nevah pried open a door, Sports?”
Jack opened his eyes, taking his hands off his ears. “Um. You weren't gonna break the glass?”
Dave barked a laugh. “Now why in the hell would I do that?! I told ya we ain't gettin’ caught.”
Instead of what Jack expected Dave to do, the aubergine slotted the crooked end of the crowbar into the gap between the door and the outer wall, effectively bending the doorframe just enough for the lock to peek out. He reached his spindly fingers in the gap, working the latch until he heard a very faint click.
Jack watched in awe as a grin spread across Dave's face. “Come on,” he whispered, pushing the door open and reaching up to grasp the bell so it didn't jingle. Their arrival went unannounced, the two men tiptoeing their way into the store.
“I've been ‘ere before,” Dave revealed, pulling a tiny flashlight out of his pocket and turning it on, leading the way down a hall and toward a cracked open door.
Jack was… amazed, to say the least. “How many cars have you already stolen?” he asked, cautious about his volume.
Dave snickered in response. “Not enough that they've noticed. Two or three?”
“That's a lot to go unnoticed when they're trying to sell the damn things, isn't it?” Jack was appalled. Dave really was the perfect criminal.
“Ah, stupid bastards ain't even keep track of their own sales. They barely notice when a car goes missin’ and it is their fault.” Dave was keeping himself from giggling as he pushed open the door, shining his light on a wall of lockers. Jack guessed each of them had a key to their respective cars. Dave scanned the lockers until he found it; the used 1970 Mini Cooper.
“Okay, I need you t’ do somethin’ for me, Old Sport.” Dave put a finger on the locker, seemingly so he wouldn't lose his place. “Go t’ that car an’ look in th’ glove box. There should be a key f’ this here lockah inside. Snag that an’ bring it ‘ere, an’ we'll open this baby up like she's our birthday present.”
“Mini Cooper, glove box… Got it.” Jack gave Dave a thumbs-up before becoming disgusted with the action and wiping his hand on his jacket, despite not touching Dave at all. He turned and swept out of the room, making a quick but quiet beeline to the front door. He opened it as slowly as he possibly could; his hand was just barely out of reach of the bell, so he couldn't silence it if he tried. Even so, the sound it produced was so miniscule that Jack could reasonably convince himself that no one could hear it.
He sprinted to the car as fast as he could without making noise and swung the door open (what kind of dealership left its cars’ doors unlocked?), trying to remember which compartment was the glove box. It had been a long time since he'd driven a car.
But he swore that was it. The hatch under the right-hand dashboard, you couldn't miss it. But there was no key to be found. Jack would never admit the panic that induced, but that part sure as hell made it harder to focus on the task at hand. Maybe the center console-
There was no center console. What kind of ridiculous car had Dave so confidently chosen?
With an exasperated sigh, Jack climbed in the back of the car, seeing as there were only two doors total; a detail Jack had only just noticed upon trying to find a way into the back seat. He desperately moved the seat covers out of the way, looking everywhere; under the seats, in the seat pockets, the side compartments, quite literally everywhere.
Jack was sure he was going to burst with rage and give up when he saw them. A single locker key, hung so obviously on the rearview mirror that Jack was certain they'd appeared there on their own just to taunt him.
Letting out an angry growl, Jack snatched the key off its proud hiding spot and making a run for it back to the building. He didn't bother being quiet; the adrenaline from his frustration-induced panic had made him want to get out of here as fast as possible. The bell rung louder than he wanted, but he didn't care. Jack only cared about getting to the room.
And he did. Bursting in so loudly it made Dave whip around with barely a sliver of fear in his eyes, he thrust the key in Dave's direction.
The aubergine caught it with no struggle, laughing instead at Jack's misfortune. “What's gotcha so outta breath, Sport? We ain't in any hurry.” He started working the lock to the locker he still had his finger on.
Jack could barely catch his breath. He thought he was more in-shape. Apparently not. “You… Fucking… Liar…”
“Liar?” Dave turned, the lock halfway turned. He moved a hand to his chest. “I'm hurt, Old Sport.”
“It was… NOT… In the fucking glove box… It was on the MIRROR… You stupid… Fuck…” Jack coughed when he finished his sentence, holding his chest and leaning down.
“Oh, ha! My mistake, Sports. All th’ cars I've stolen, the key was… Um…” Dave was looking past Jack's shoulder now, a lump in his throat.
Jack noticed. “What?” he asked breathlessly, risking a peek behind himself.
Oh.
That was a flashlight.
Quickly now, Dave turned the lock, opening the door of the tiny locker and retrieving the keys to the Mini Cooper before grabbing Jack's arm and dashing out the door.
“HEY!” A voice called out toward them, and Jack tried to ignore the loud set of footsteps getting uncomfortably close behind them. He instead focused on how fast his legs could take him, though it was hard to keep his balance with the much lankier Dave practically dragging him along.
Once they were outside, Dave made a beeline for the car, shoving the keys in Jack's hand and pushing him toward the driver's side.
“WHAT THE FUCK-? DAVE, I DON'T DRIVE, I CAN'T-”
“Jus’ get the hell in, Sport!” Dave shoved him again and turned around, pulling something out from his pocket and throwing it at the security guard who was just barely on their tail. A flash of silver, and the guard's hat was mangled on the ground. The guard froze in fear as Dave pulled out another throwing star, threatening to toss it as he bolted to the car.
Jack hadn't realized that he wasn't in the car and quickly got in, shoving the key in the ignition and turning it. But nothing happened.
The passenger's door swung open to his right, Dave clambering inside. “DRIVE, SPORT! I GOT THIS GUY!”
“You didn't tell me it was a fucking stick shift!” Jack shouted, desperately trying to figure out how to work this damn vehicle.
“Step on the clutch an’ start ‘er up!” Dave commanded. “Th’ pedal on yer far left!” He cranked his window open and tossed another throwing star out, leaving Jack to wonder how many he had left.
Even so, Jack followed Dave's instructions and started the car. “O-Okay, now what?!”
“Keep yer foot on th’ clutch!” Dave shouted, cranking his window shut. Jack did so, and Dave reached over to shift the car into… something. “Now, slam on yer gas an’ slowly let th’ clutch go!”
Jack didn't have time to mess up. He followed the words near-perfectly. The last thing he expected was for the car to go flying backwards, hitting the guard who was apparently behind them.
“Clutch again!” Dave shouted. Jack obeyed, and Dave shifted to a different gear. “Gas an’ let go!”
It quickly became a routine for the both of them, a series of clutch, gas, let go, clutch, gas, let go, and Jack found himself falling into the action quite easily. They were almost out of the lot and on the road when Jack heard gunshots, instinctively huddling down only to see Dave's body halfway out the window with… was that a fucking glock?!
And his eyes didn't deceive him; Dave was, indeed, shooting at a car that was apparently following them. To no avail, because the car quickly lost its course and crashed into the nearest light pole.
Jack's adrenaline was higher than ever, and he could imagine Dave's commands without having to hear them. He pulled out onto the road as Dave eased his way back through the window, rolling it back up and changing gears for Jack.
“WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF PLAN WAS THAT?!” Jack shouted, albeit a little impulsively. The plan was good on paper, and he knew it.
“One that worked, clearly!” Dave cackled, patting Jack on the shoulder. “Clutch.”
Jack did so, angrily now that he had his thoughts at least a little in line. “Fuck you.”
“An’ she's a beauty, ain't she!” Dave kissed the dashboard with a loud and dramatic “Mwah!” and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs.
“How the hell are we gonna fit anything in this hunk of metal?” Jack hissed. “It doesn't even have a center console.”
“What the hell are you on about, Sports? Only thing's gonna be in here is you an’ me. No room, no problem!” Dave wouldn't stop with that infuriating laughter. It made Jack want to strangle him even more than before.
“Where the hell is a gas station?” Jack asked, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. “I haven't been anywhere to piss since I got out of jail.”
“Strong bladder!” Dave commented. “Next exit, there's a Shell. Couldn't miss it!”
Jack didn't hesitate to pull off into the parking lot. He pulled the front mirror down to examine his face, surprised when a twenty dollar bill dropped from the mirror and into his hand. He stared at it for a moment before looking at Dave. “You. Go to pump three and fill up the tank.”
Dave tilted his head. “They ain't gonna take no check, Spor-”
Before he could finish, Jack held up the dollar like it was the rarest thing on Earth. Dave stared, slack-jawed, and climbed out of the passenger's side, Jack following suit. The two exchanged glances of… Jack didn't know what that was. Mutual respect? Victory? Either way, he let Dave pass by him as he went inside the gas station.
Jack approached the clerk and handed him the bill, trying not to flash a rich folk's grin. “Twenty on pump three?” he asked, unintentionally masking his voice to be a little more rugged.
The kid at the counter blinked slowly at him. “That'll be twenty dollars,” he said thoughtlessly.
Jack frowned. No shit. He slammed the bill down on the counter and scurried off to the restroom.
While he washed his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror. His face was littered in new scrapes and bruises, one cheek stained green from the grass, scars painfully visible with his makeup having mostly rubbed off.
Dave hadn't commented on it.
… Huh. Dave hadn't commented on it a single time.
Jack reached his hand up to brush against his cheek. The scars, no matter how hidden, were always tactile against his already rough skin.
Don't get attached. You saw him for what he truly is already. You're just in this for the money.
Jack shook his head and dug his makeup out of his tote bag, carelessly smudging it over his new bruises and marks just the same as he did the old ones. He ended up with a stained jacket, but that was perfectly fine by his standards. As long as he didn't risk looking less than human, he didn't care how unkempt his clothes appeared. He always made outfits look worse, anyway.
Stuffing the container of makeup back in the tote, Jack limped out of the restroom, seeing Dave across the store with armfuls of snacks.
Jack approached him with a puzzled expression. “How do you plan on paying for all that?”
“I don't!” Dave announced proudly.
Jack frowned, looking him over. “Dude. The clerk is… right there.”
Dave followed his gaze to the tired looking clerk and waved much too excitedly for Jack's taste. “Bah, he gets paid minimum wage, he don't care! Look, see. Hey! I'm jus’ gonna take this!”
The clerk barely responded, resting his pimpled face on his hand. “Whatever, man…”
“See?” Dave turned back to meet Jack's eyes. “He don't give two shits. Let's blow this popsicle stand!” Dave practically skipped out of the store, Jack following a considerable distance behind him.
Before Jack stepped out, though, he spotted a nickel on the floor. The tangerine bent down to pick it up, retreating back to the counter and placing the coin down in front of the clerk. “For your trouble,” he mumbled, shooting the kid double finger guns before walking backwards out the door.
Dave was just about to climb back into the passenger's seat of the car when Jack snapped his fingers. “Nope. You're driving.”
Dave looked up with wide eyes. “Aww, lil ol’ Sportsy trusts me t’ operate heavy machinery? How endearin’!”
Jack squinted. “If I ever hear those words come out of your mouth again, I will destroy you,” he threatened, shoving Dave out of the way of the passenger's seat.
Dave threw his hands up innocently, chirping a sharp laugh. “Fine, whatevah. Let's go find a bank so we can cash in yer silly ol’ check and be on our merry way!”
“We'd better be getting a damn hotel or something,” Jack muttered, leaning against the window once he'd gotten the door shut. Dave joined him, starting the car back up.
“Sure thing! Aftah th’ bank,” Dave nodded and pulled out onto the road.
Jack sighed. “Sure, whatever. After the bank.”
And just like that, the car fell into silence. Between the two, at least; Dave had figured out how to work the radio and the heater, both of which were blaring loudly. Jack found it nice, since both noises were a much preferred alternative to Dave's awful idea of storytelling. They'd occasionally grab a snack from the back seat, munching on them without a word to say between them.
If I'm gonna be stuck with him for a week , Jack thought privately, I might as well put an effort into making it fun.