Disclaimer: I don't own the movie "Drive Angry." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I started writing this a while ago and then lost steam for it. Now I am back and determined to get it dusted off and completed.
Disclaimer: couple of years post movie, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, angst, romance, mild sexual content, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers.
Feed me Faith
Chapter Three
Eventually it became the new normal. She went to work, he watched the baby and most days she even got dinner out of the deal. She used the money she saved on the sitter to buy him the basics, so they could at least pretend he was a normal human being. Things like underwear, a comb and the package of undershirts they'd immediately had a screaming fight over when he placed them in the cart.
Well, at least she'd done the screaming anyway.
Taking him to the mall was an entire three-hour ordeal. Buying him shoes and clothes that actually fit. Making an educated, very educated, guess about underwear and socks sizes before cruising over to the hygiene section only to feel her soul dribbling out her ears as he insisted on smelling every single god damned stick of deodorant in the place before settling.
She used the opportunity to buzz back and forth down the aisle, picking up a pack of disposable razors and shaving cream, toothpaste, toothbrushes and his own shampoo that smelled similar to the deodorant he'd picked. Figuring it was high time he stopped smelling like her and wasting her salon specials.
He was reading the back of a bottle of face cleanser when she finished and for a long moment she just couldn't help but stare. Before all this, the Accountant had been a pillar. A strong, immovable force in an expensive suit and an open smirk. He'd smelled like sulfur and feathered-dust, charcoal and earth. He'd looked at her like he knew her, but had never seen anything like her all at once. Like he could see everything she was, had been, or ever would be, but she was still an oddity in a God's eyes. And now here he was, standing in the skincare section of Walmart in a worn pair of jeans and a white dress shirt that was just a bit too big. Sporting two week old stubble and long fingered hands that liked to spread out and skim over as much of the world as possible. Touch starved and curious.
It was surreal as shit.
Was he ever going to get back to what he'd been, or was all that just gone forever?
And was it a good thing if it was?
How badly did you have to fuck up to get kicked out of hell?
Near as she could figure, stripping someone of their memories was as about as cruel a thing you could do to a person. Especially to someone like him, someone who'd been part of all.
And now he was just…him.
Stripped down like a car without an engine.
Without a purpose save for changin' diapers and cooking her dinner.
Hell, he didn't even have a name.
She looked up, guilty. Reminded yet again that they hadn't had that conversation yet, only to do a double take at the empty aisle.
Fuck!
She found him ten minutes later browsing the men's section. Where a sad little section of cheap suits she couldn't afford hung limp and wrinkled. The entire thing making her irrationally angry as he attempted to straighten them on their hangers. Pissing her right to hell that she couldn't buy him even the shittiest one on the rack, just so he could feel normal.
Naturally, there was only one thing left to do at that point, save for armed robbery.
She marched the two of them over to the Diary Queen and ordered them ice cream cones dipped in chocolate. Forgetting they were broke after the baby face planted into her bowl and he got ice cream down his shirt after biting into the cone like a god damned idiot. Laughing the entire way home at his unimpressed look. Occasionally reaching back to keep Amber-May's head out of the mess as she slept on, none the wiser.
It kind of felt like a good day for once.
But things really started feeling like something when she got home early one day and caught him holding Amber-May in the living room. Swaying slow and gentle as the TV played soft, sixty-year old jazz from a music channel she hadn't known existed until just then. The two of them damp from a recent shower - his hair curling wet against his neck as a low, base-line hum slipping from his throat as they moved. Dancing around with an easy smile as Amber-May snuffled a sleepy giggle into his shoulder.
It'd snuck up on her.
This feeling, whatever it was.
The one that told her she could get used to this.
That she liked this.
It was dangerous, she knew, and maybe once upon a time that would have meant something. But now it just felt right. Like ever since Milton had come out of nowhere and into her life, this was where things had been heading all along.
And for a change, things actually got better for a while after that.
It evolved into the three of them eating dinner together at the kitchen table. Watching movies on the couch and talking about nothing in particular as they cleaned up from breakfast and folded the laundry. Going from strained evenings to this whole new thing she'd liked from the beginning. Encouraging it like it was the best sort of vice as even he got animated - excited - in his own way.
He watched her read until she'd slammed a book into his hand, and from there on, he burned through every book in the house. He beat her at chess every single time with the set that'd been there when she'd moved in. The one that was beat up and missing pieces they'd replaced with bottle caps and the smooth little rocks the baby liked to dig out of the dust and sneak inside when she wasn't looking.
Before long, Amber-May was just as likely to reach for him as she was for her. And she barely paid attention to watching him watch the baby because, true to his word, the man seemed to have a sixth sense as far as Amber-May was concerned. Knowing how to cheer her up before an oncoming meltdown. How to sooth her when she woke up at night, creeping into the bedroom she didn't lock anymore to scoop her up so she could get some sleep before her morning shift. Dwelling more and more on the way his face lit up when Amber-May laughed. Finding joy in the simplest things as she smiled at them from the kitchen. Leaning against the counter as she tried to make her coffee last and the minute hand slow down before she had to run out the door to make it to work on time.
Domesticity was a good look for them, she figured.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked one night, stepping down from the porch with her arms crossed over her chest. Rubbing her arms at the evening chill as he turned to face her.
She was surprised when he looked almost embarrassed. Like she'd caught him doing something he shouldn't be.
"Listening," he answered quietly, too quietly. Looking off and away like the expression on her face was contagious.
"Listening, huh?" she commented airily. Pretending not to catch on to the tension. Coming to stand beside him, bare toes curling in the grass. "To what?"
The night was soupy and thick, like most summer nights around here. But this one was cold enough to make her shiver as he canted his head to the side. Fingers spread like he could feel the air moving between them despite the suffocating still.
It was going to storm.
Probably tomorrow or the day after.
You could practically feel it coming.
Something mean and dark that would have everyone on edge. Something that could turn into tornado sirens and the reality that she didn't know shit what to do next.
"Everything," he answered simply.
She looked off in same direction. Past the open country sprawl, the fallow fields and rusting farm equipment that went on for as far as the eye could see. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen to settle here. It was isolated - no neighbors within three miles and a big ol' stretch of sky between her and the highway. There was a barn and a rat-infested house further up that her landlord was trying to sell, but other than that it was hers. Theirs.
"I feel like I could hear more...before."
He had.
That much was obvious.
If the world and all the people in it had a rhythm, he'd had the ability to listen in. Hell, he'd been part of it. It was only after the fact, when she'd kept herself awake questioning every shadow, that she realized how seamless he'd been. His confidence had been ancient, but the way he'd gone about chasing Milton down? Well, that'd been uniquely him. The only time he'd ever been thrown off kilter was when Milton had pulled out the God Killer and aimed right down the barrel. Not like when she'd done the same in that tower. With Milton, The Accountant had known he was ready to pull the trigger. Not like her. Not with him.
"It's strange," he continued, surprising her by continuing when she was used to short sentences and clipped words. "I feel like everything is familiar, but at the same time nothing is. I know I used to have it. I used to know. But now it's just...gone."
She twisted her tongue around a thready exhale. Wondering all of a sudden what he saw back then when he looked at people. Did they have expiration dates flicking like dying neon signs above their heads? Could he see intentions? The future? The past? What were the limits? What exactly had he lost other than just a purpose?
Speaking of-
"You know, I can't keep saying 'hey you,' or refer to you as 'The Accountant,' even if it is just in my head," she posed firmly. The hairs on her arms prickling as the humidity turned almost suffocating. "It's awkward. So…got any ideas?"
He canted his head, somehow managing to look uncomfortable and contemplative at the same time.
"You could pick one," she suggested.
He shook his head.
"Names are given," he answered firmly. The collar of the navy dress shirt he'd picked out at the store ruffling in the breeze. Making him look soft rather than stuck up. Approachable. Kind.
"So are titles," she pointed out mildly. Tracing her big toe in the dry dirt in front of her.
"Names are different," he insisted, in that quiet way she recognized as him putting his heels in. "Besides, I assume the title was given to me, not an occupation I created?"
She shrugged.
Hell, for all she knew it was.
"How did you pick her name?" he asked after a moment. Looking back at the house where Amber-May was already down for the night.
"I don't know, it just seemed right," she answered. Remembering the horrified embarrassment that'd slicked through her when she realized she didn't know. Eventually wondering out loud if Milton had even known, voice cracking parched as Webster jumped behind the wheel. Startling themselves with the first words either of them had spoken in hours.
He nodded, self-satisfied.
She just blew out a frustrated breath.
"If that's what you're waiting for, I get that, but you're going to need to pick one eventually. Webster can't get finish up your I.D and shit until you do. Unless you want him to chose for you, which I don't recommend. He's not exactly your biggest fan, considering Milton and all. He nearly blew his stack when I told him you'd showed up back when."
He made a face before responding primly.
"Point taken."
"How about we work on it? You and me?" she offered suddenly. Meaning it as he looked over at her with a surprised expression that gradually upgraded to a nod and a slow building smile.
"I'd like that."
"Where are the candles? Shit! Wait- here they are- can you grab the matches? They're on top of the fridge, I think?"
The storm the next night knocked out the power while they were eating dinner. Making it dark enough that she didn't notice anything was wrong until she caught how his hands were shaking as he rattled with the matches and tried to get one to light.
The flame flared eventually. Filling the air with the tang of burnt chemicals, sulphur and the fading stink of pine. Only to huff out of existence when he dropped it almost as quickly. Getting a glimpse of a flinch that had nothing to do with the flame flirting between his fingertips.
"Hey, hey it's alright," she soothed, feeling her way over to him as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Carefully prying the box from his hand before she set it aside. Making sure he could feel her weight against him before she pulled out another match. "I'm going to light another one so we can see what we are doing, okay?"
The jut of his chin as he nodded was more sensed than seen, but she waited for it regardless as Amber-May let go of an unhappy cry from her high chair.
She felt the flinch less this time, but still damning as she lit the candle and tossed the match into the sink. Letting it hiss as it hit the pasta water cooling in the pot.
"It's alright," she said again. Finding his hand in the dark without really thinking about. Lifting it up and rubbing it. Breathing humid-warm on his fingers like he was just cold, not paralyzed.
"What is it?" she whispered, catching the flash of lightening through the window. Counting the seconds before the thunder rolled. Close, but not too close.
"I don't know," he gritted, fisting her hand gently when she squeezed it. Wondering if the cold sweat breaking out across his forehead was due to the dark, the flames, the storm, the smell- or all of it at the same time.
"Well, I'm here," she told him, wincing a bit. Hoping it didn't come out as pathetic as it sounded. Not knowing the first thing about this type of comfort as the muscles under his skin twitched and jumped like a frightened horse.
"I know."
His answer was an unfinished sentence that ate at her.
Bothering her enough that she couldn't leave it there.
"I won't let anything happen," she assured. Stupidly wondering when she'd started making promises she knew she couldn't keep. Not realizing how much she hated the tension practically vibrating from him until it was all that was filling the space. Edging out the oxygen.
He didn't say anything. Watching Amber-May mush peas into her tray through the thin candlelight as the storm lit up the distant sky.
"Com'on," she eventually urged. Judging when it was time to try for something more ambitious. "Let's finish dinner before it gets cold."
It might have even been romantic, eatin' pasta in the candlelight. You know, save for the PTSD and the mushed peas that somehow ended up in her hair. But she figured since it made him smile, maybe it was romantic anyway.
They put Amber-May to bed that night together. Juggling candles and sleeping baby as he smoothed a fresh sheet down in the crib and tucked the mustang plushie Webster had shoved in her face the first week safely to the side.
And while god knows she was tired, she ended up sitting up with him during the night. Not on opposite ends of the couch, but somewhere in the middle as the power whumped and shuddered - vainly trying to come back on. Forgetting to care as wax started pooling across the coffee table. Too busy listening as he started reading aloud from one of the trash novels that'd been left in the hall closet by the previous renters to think about the fact she had to work at five tomorrow morning.
Funny how life really was all about the little things.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – Stay tuned for the next chapter.