FORGIVE ME DEAR ANONS I could not resist the fugue-like storytelling
of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. Tim Roth and Gary Oldman
are hilarious and adorable, and this fill will most likely err on the side
of light-hearted. (Only, on second thought, it won't. Obviously.)

The black Impala slides down the California mountain roads like a panther of old Aztecca, gloss and glass and chrome glinting in the broad sunlight. Mr. White, navy pinstripe suit cut Italian to accommodate his broad torso, is at the wheel. Mr. Orange, brown tweed suit trimmed up English to accent his thinner frame, is sitting in the back seat - peering out at the trees and rocks as they pass in a dry tobacco palette. The radio is only picking up static, which is a point of contention in the conversation.

"Why am I even in the back seat?" Orange wonders vaguely, as if he doesn't know he's speaking out loud. "If anything, I think it's me should be chauffeuring you around, Larry."

White eases off the acceleration in his surprise. "No names! And nobody's chauffeuring anybody, you're just in the back because - " The radio whines and bleats and White dials the volume down. "Because." He twists around to glance back at Orange, who nervously studies the road ahead in case there's an errant deer or semi-truck. "How the fuck do you know my name anyway?"

Orange's nerves turn to helpless agitation. "You told me. Last night. You're Larry and I'm..." A sheet of paper that had White's picture, a name and a history. Orange resists looking in his own wallet to find his own goddamn name, scowling into the rearview mirror. "I'm Mr. Orange."

White, unsatisfied with the disparity of who knew what, pulls the car to the highway shoulder so he can rest his forearm on the back of the seat and get this sorted. "It just don't feel right, you back there. Makes me nervous."

Orange's face screws up like he's blinking through a cloudburst. "You don't trust me at your back, Larry?"

"No," White muses. "Just feels like I should be back there with you."

Orange coughs, glancing down at his knees, eyebrows up. "Well."

"Fuck you, wise guy. I didn't mean it like that."

Now Orange is concerned. "Why not?"

"Why not what?"

A stunned pause. Fuck, he's forgotten what they were going on about. "Why not try a.m. frequency on the radio."

"You want to get up here and try it yourself? I'm driving."

Orange looks around the backseat as if there might be luggage to take with him, then shrugs. He's hesitant to even leave the car, scuffling to the passenger side door and rearranging himself in the front seat with haste. "Was my tie always this color?" It's green silk, is Orange's tie. The soft lines of yellow in the fabric remind White of hair falling in green eyes.

"What color should it be?" White grumbles, pawing the shift to pull them back onto the road.

"I dunno. It doesn't matter." Orange hikes an elbow out the open window, chewing a hangnail. The two drive in the broken static of the radio. Orange leans forward, both hands on his knees, studying the road ahead intently. "I think that's the same goddamn billboard we passed half an hour ago."

"It hasn't been half an hour. And you're just struck by what the Frenchies call deja-vu." White reaches across Orange's lap for the glove compartment, seeking a pack of cigarettes. "It's like a misfire in the brain, y'know. Something that's supposed to go to short-term memory gets stored in long-term, and bada-bing you're left with the impression of having known it before."

"I didn't know you went to college." Orange finds the pack of unfiltered Jack Smooths first and pulls one free, fixing it in the corner of his mouth to light it.

"I didn't." White sits back to his seat, accepting the cigarette. "They had an education program in the Joint."

"I didn't know you went to jail." Orange amends, kicking the glove compartment shut with his knee.

"Yes, you did."

"What?"

"You knew I went to jail. You knew everything. We wouldn't be here if you didn't." White's certainty is the only tether holding Orange back from panic.

Orange takes stock of himself, of the suit he normally wouldn't be caught dead in. He looks like a schmuck, and an old schmuck at that. Orange loosens his tie. "It feel warm in here to you?" Runs a hand through his hair, an unfamiliar snag tugging at his finger. Orange startles, yanking his hand down and away, holding it up to study against the bright sun painting the dash. "Jesus fucking christ." The ring glints as if it's winking at him. "Am I married?!"

"What?" White parts his attention from the road. "Aren't you?"

"No," Orange's entire forehead pinches up and he jabs a hand out of the window. "That fucking billboard sign! With its same fucking missing piece at the corner. There. Look!"

"All right, I'm looking." White pulls over carefully, idling the engine. "And I'm not too proud to admit it if we're lost; it's just that we been on a straight highway road for an entire afternoon with no turns, no crossroads, and no fucking signs." White exits the car and throws his cigarette.

Orange joins him around the side of the car, patting down his own pockets. "Can't find my wallet." He glares up at the cloudless sky. "Man, though, it is like a hundred degrees today."

White shrugs, studying the faded billboard looming over them for any comforting discrepancies. "Feels kinda cold t'me."

"Who the hell did I marry...?" Orange looks around as if his betrothed would be standing in the woods somewhere.

White pats himself down too. He unearths a stale cigar, a rusting revolver, and a 24 karat diamond ring.

"Ah, man, I'm burnin' up," Orange has his tie pulled free and the top buttons of his shirt open. He pauses. They stare at the diamond ring nestled in White's palm. Orange wipes his forehead, fist on his hip. Slouches forward, biting the corner of his mouth. The cigarette tucked behind his ear begins to smoke, cherry glowing. White and Orange both slap it away, cursing and laughing.

White stomps the cigarette like it's possessed, fist closed over the ring. Once convinced the danger is dead, White smooths his hair back and clears his throat. "Relax," he hitches his jacket straight, rolling his shoulders. "This is from years ago; that job that got me hard time." A reproachful chuckle. "I didn't kidnap you to Vegas or nothin'."

"White," Orange sits back against the hood of the car. He's not looking too good, is Orange, face ashen and shirt collar dark with sweat. He peels out of the suit jacket and mops the back of his neck with the tie. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Don't you fukken tell me that, don't you say it.

Larry, I'm...

You aren't nothin'. Just hang the fuck on, buddy boy.

White drops his taco back into its wrapper, expression dark. "What kinda question is that?"

Orange's big eyes flash over his dedication to the soda straw. He relents the beverage to answer. "Hunh?"

"You asked me what the last thing I remembered was. Obviously that's a stupid question, 'cause the last thing I'm gonna remember is you asking it."

"All right," Orange picks at a napkin. "So what's the first thing you remember, then?"

White gets comfortable in the restaurant booth, fishing a piece of tortilla out of a molar with his tongue. "... I suppose I can't actually remember."

Orange's smile is uneasy. "I remember the job we were on."

White startles forward, half out of his seat. "Oh, shit, we gotta meet Joe -"

"I remember getting shot."

White sits back down, as unhappy and stunned at this news as expected. "We musta gotten you fixed up."

"Did you?"

"Of course we did!" White lowers his voice as patrons glance over their shoulders. "You're alive, ain'tcha?"

"Who was the doctor?" Orange is pleading, long fingers clasped around the soda cup.

"I don't know, kid; it doesn't matter. You're here. You're safe." Larry stabs the tabletop with his finger at each word. "I'm gonna look after you." His bluster is held in the throat of his words, stubborn and warm.

Orange sulks at the wrappers of his dinner. "Deja vu."

"What?"

"All that." A hand flapping at the air between them. "Just something that feels like I heard it before."

"Yeah, sure," White grunts around his cigarette, "In our wedding vows, maybe?" A forgiving laugh. "Crazy dumb fukkin kid."

"I'm not."

"Dumb? I know. I'm just taking the piss out on -"

"A kid. I'm not a kid. I'm thirty two."

White has yet to successfully light his cigarette. The lighter flame keeps snuffing out, no matter how close it is to his face when he strikes the flint. "You told me you were twenty four."

"Yeah." Orange squints up at the water-pocked ceiling. "Hey, that's weird."

"That I find out you're a vain fuck on top of being a giant queer? I'd say so."

"No, asshole." Orange's drawl is nasal when he's trying to be extra tough. He thinks it sounds like New York, but really it just sounds like a headcold. "There's water damage on the ceiling of this restaurant. Don't get much rain these parts of Cali, last I checked."

White is gathering the refuse of their meal to a bright plastic tray. "A taco box is hardly an example of a fine dining establishment. Prolly took those damaged tiles from a trash heap."

Orange lets the matter drop. "Hey, Larry," He winces at the glare. Right. No names. "Is it cold in here, or what?"

PostScript: A list of helpful references include the original Reservoir Dogs script
(from where the diamond ring originates); paranormal television series'; para-
normal films (one after which this story is named, derp); a whole lotta Tumblr
culture; and the ResDogs k!meme on Dreamwidth. Shake well and serve with
ice. ;D