Chapter Text
Michael jerks awake, startled, looking at his alarm clock mechanically. 5:08 am. Shit.
He rolls over, groans, presses his face into his pillow, and prays for the sweet release of death.
There it is again . Loud music, obnoxiously loud, which he now recognizes as the thing that woke him up. It’s rap, but like, shitty 80’s rap, which Michael fucking despises . Dying internally(and probably also externally), he drags himself out of bed and to the front desk, not even bothering to put on real pants. Hey, fuck off; alright, his pajama pants may be covered in rubber duckies but they’re stupidly comfy and he’s a grown goddamn man who can make his own choices.
Geoff is tired .
He’s fucking exhausted, it’s like 5 in the morning and he’s been in his shitty pickup truck for almost 8 hours now. It’s time for a break.
He’s practically falling asleep at the wheel, like the old man he is, so he finds a rap station and blasts it, barely listening. Geoff pulls over at the first motel he sees; again, parking like the old fucking man he is, and shuts off his truck. Grabbing around blindly with one hand in the backseat, he find his bag of clothes, his bag of guns and other assorted weapons, and his bag of cash.
Tired as he is, he knows better to leave the bags in his truck overnight. He steps out, cracks his neck, knuckles, and back(okay so what if that one was by accident he’s fucking OLD).
Geoff walks into the motel.
He won’t be here long.
Holy shit, this dude has a lot of tattoos. Like, Michael has to look at him a few times to make sure his skin isn’t actually a living, moving mural. The tattoos are at first glance intimidating; at second, a work of art. They’re pretty cool, and honestly, Michael’s jealous the guy can pull them off so well.
“So… you’re up early.” The guy’s voice is rough and tired, but his eyes are bright.
Michael snorts. “No shit, buddy, somebody’s gotta check you in. How long you stayin’?”
The guy squints and scratches his stubble (again how does he pull it off so well; even the whole tired, deep-set eyes and messy hair thing is working for him). “Uhh, maybe a week? I’m alone, so a single works.” Then the guy backs up a step, giving Michael a long once-over.
Michael holds off on speaking his mind just yet out of respect for the work ethic that comes with running a motel, but this guy is already testing Michael’s already short temper. It’s the crappy 80s rap music, he swears, because he’s not normally this quick to wanting to throw down the gauntlet.
The guy starts laughing. “Nice pj’s you got there.”
What the fuck? “Fucking fight me, asshole, they’re comfy.”
Smug Asshole keeps chuckling. “I didn’t know they employed 8 year olds here.”
Michael is almost growling. Almost. “You can accept my rubber ducks as they are, or you can find you and your fucking high horse another motel to stay at. Sound good?”
The guy puts a hand on his heart theatrically. “Oh no, I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you in any way sir,” but he’s fucking grinning.
Michael rolls his eyes, but concedes. “Name?”
There’s only a brief pause, and Michael may have even imagined it because then the guy says confidently, “Ryan Haywood.”
“Card?”
“Cash.”
Now, this isn’t surprising to Michael, who lives in one of the lesser nice parts of town, but still, it’s a little weird. He put’s Ryan’s name in the system, huffing when it takes a little too long to load.
“Aaalright, Mr. Haywood, you’re checked in. Need help with any bags?”
“Nah, I got it. Thanks though..?”
“Michael.”
The guy’s eyes crinkle with a genuine smile. “Nice to meet you, Michael. See you tomorrow, probably.”
Okay, so the guy isn’t that bad, but Michael still holds a small grudge on behalf of his rubber ducks.