Aaron wakes slowly, his consciousness of the outside world dribbling back in fits and starts.
First, there's a sense of movement, then a low, droning hum and the warm, earthy scent of new leather, and finally, and most disturbingly, a tight, constrictive pressure bearing down around his wrists.
He rotates them a little, and feels the rough drag of coarse threads catching against his skin (probably rope), then gives his fingers an experimental wriggle. The pressure lessens significantly (not very well tied).
Cracking open his eyes, he's unsurprised to find his vision is filled, side to side, by matte black and shiny red, which seems to be the villainous colour palette of choice. Opening them all the way, he's greeted not only by the, equally unsurprising, discovery that he's apparently been bundled into the passenger seat of Robert's work car, but a skull-splitting, stomach-churning headache of the sort that he's hitherto only ever experienced in conjunction with hangovers and his one previous encounter with the Cube of Evil.
As his last, coherent memory is of walking down a road on the outskirts of the village whilst in complete possession of his faculties and entirely sober, the latter would seem to be the most likely culprit.
"I thought you said you'd make sure you knew how that thing worked properly before you used it again," he says.
No reply is forthcoming, so Aaron very cautiously and carefully turns his head towards the driver's seat. Robert is sitting ramrod straight upon it, his aggressively-correct ten-to-two grip on the steering wheel so tight that all of his knuckles have turned white.
"And," Aaron continues, "I thought you were supposed to give me a heads up before you pulled this sort of crap, not just kidnap me off the fucking street."
Robert's eyebrows twitch a little in response to the irritated growl roughening Aaron's words, but otherwise he remains entirely silent and impassively still.
"Also, you're shite at knots." Aaron twists his wrists, and the rope falls away. He holds his now-unfettered hands up with a facetious, "Ta da!"
Robert appears both unimpressed and unperturbed by Aaron's escape artistry. His eyes never deviate from their fixed stare on the road in front of them, and the car rolls along just as smoothly as before, its bizarre engine purring like a contented cat.
It's an oddly soothing sound, and concentrating on it helps ease the banging pain in Aaron's head slightly. He leans back in his seat, and watches the scenery spooling past the window to his side. It's nothing but dry stone walls and fields as far as the eye can see: deep into sheep country, and getting deeper. They're miles from the village now, and Home Farm.
"So, what's the plan?" he asks, when the monotony of pastoral tranquillity begins to become grating rather than soothing. "You wanting to show off in front of Lawrence again?"
Robert stirs himself sufficiently to shake his head this time, albeit almost imperceptibly.
"He's up to something shady?"
"No."
Speech. That's progress, at least. Sullen, monosyllabic progress, and clearly reluctantly conceded, but somewhat encouraging, all the same. Aaron presses on.
"You're up to something shady," Aaron guesses, "and you need me as an alibi, like you said you would."
"No."
"What the fuck is this, then?" Aaron snaps, the last dregs of his patience finally draining away.
Robert's jaw tightens, and he speaks his next words through gritted teeth. "I'm your arch; what do you think I'm doing?"
"This is supposed to be you arching me?" Aaron snorts incredulously. "First off, I thought we agreed we weren't actually going to do that shit for real. And second" – he gestures around the car with his very much free hand, making sure to encompass the luxurious upholstery of his seat and the speedometer – "this isn't exactly scaring me, mate. You're not even breaking the speed limit!"
"Fine." A muscle beneath Robert's clenched jaw twitches spasmodically, and he reaches over to fiddle with the touchscreen embedded in the dashboard to his right. "If you're not happy with the service..."
"I'm not happy with any of this, so—"
Aaron's next word remains trapped in his throat, because with one last, decisive tap of Robert's finger, the car lurches with such violence that it knocks all of the air out of his lungs. The engine roars, the smell of burning rubber and sulphur permeates the air, and after another bone-rattling jolt they shoot forwards so quickly that Aaron's stomach can't hope to keep up, and it drops to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.
Outside, the walls and fields and sheep blur together, whipping past the car in a confusing stream of light and colour that makes Aaron a little nauseous again. He tries to close his eyes against the sight, but even his eyelids are too heavy to move. The rest of his body feels as though it's being held down by some giant, invisible hand, pressing hard against his ribcage.
It's impossible for him to see where they're heading now, and he can't imagine it's any easier for Robert. The road they're on is hardly straight; they could be pointed straight at a wall, or a ditch, or...
Or, judging by the mud splattering across the windscreen and the rumbling of the car's wheels, straight into a field.
Robert slams on the brakes, and they eventually judder and rock and squelch to an unsteady halt several interminably long seconds later. Aaron takes a deep, shuddering breath in, then sighs out a heartfelt, "Fuck," on the exhale. Beside him, Robert groans, then hunches forward and lets his head fall heavily against the centre of the steering wheel. The horn blares. It sounds like someone screaming.
After taking a quiet moment to allow his thundering heartrate to slow to something approaching normal levels and his stomach to resettle itself in its proper place once more, Aaron asks, "What the fuck was that all about?"
"You said you weren't scared," Robert says; a little petulantly, as though he'd been insulted by that.
"It wasn't a complaint," Aaron says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to stave off the incipient return of his headache. "Jesus, I thought we'd agreed not to do this unless it was essential to... to whatever the fuck it is you're planning to do about Lawrence."
Robert makes a noncommittal noise in response which suggests that he had perhaps chosen to regard it as a suggestion rather an agreement of any kind. If they weren't stranded in the arse-end of fuck-knows-where, Aaron would be done with his shit. As it is, though, he not only has no idea of where they are, he hasn't got the first clue how the hell Robert's weird demon-car even starts, so punching him out and taking over – which is currently the most tempting of the limited options on offer – is just as out of the question as simply walking away.
Instead, he tries to distract himself for long enough for the need to do violence to safely ebb away. The only thing of any interest in his field of vision is the touchscreen Robert had been messing with earlier, and he leans over to take a closer look at it.
It shows what appears to be a list of – very strangely named – settings, within which 'Hounds of Hell' is currently selected. Aaron scrolls through the 'Demonic Essence's and 'Hellfire's, looking for anything approaching an entry that might reasonably be expected to conceal a normal function of a car, but every single one seems as though it could be the title to a particularly crap horror film.
When he reaches 'Lucifer's Rest', however, Robert stays his hand with a glancingly brief touch to his elbow.
"I think you'll like that one," he says.
Aaron snatches his finger away immediately.
"Oh, for..." Robert huffs, and taps the screen himself.
The console between their two seats makes a high-pitched whine, and splits apart, the two halves sliding up and back, releasing a blast of cold air as they reveal a silver-lined compartment. Inside, there are four bottles of lager, glistening with condensation.
"The bar," Robert says, picking up two of the bottles. He opens them with the bottle opener that helpfully slides out from the side of the chilled compartment, and hands one to Aaron.
Aaron sniffs at it dubiously, which makes Robert crack a smile for the first time, though it's a small, brittle-looking attempt that barely deserves to be called as such. "Poison's Chrissie's thing, not mine."
He takes a long swig from his own bottle as though in demonstration, and, after a short pause to make sure he doesn't turn puce or vomit blood, Aaron follows suit.
Despite himself, the lager goes a long way towards improving Aaron's mood, and by the time he's drained the bottle dry, he's mostly resigned himself to his situation, if not forgiven Robert for putting him in it.
It seems to have the opposite effect on Robert. His scowl gets increasingly deeper set as he drinks, his shoulders stiffer, and head held ever more tensely.
Then he starts to shuffle in his seat, turning his body towards Aaron and then away again, and swiping his tongue back and forth across his bottom lip every time he opens his mouth only to snap it closed again a moment later. A constant ripple of sharply aborted movements that make him seem as though he's about to vibrate straight out of his skin if he doesn't do or say whatever it is that's he's so obviously holding himself back from.
It's annoying enough to watch that Aaron has to ask, if only in the hopes that he settle down enough to stop doing it afterwards. "What," he begins grudgingly, but apparently that on its own is sufficient acknowledgement to get Robert talking, because he's quick to interrupt with:
"Diane gave Andy my dad's wedding ring. He's having it melted down to make two for him and Katie."
"Right," Aaron says slowly, thoroughly nonplussed. "And what's that got to do with" – me, us, this – "anything."
Robert turns his scowl down onto the bottle in his hand, scratching at the damp label with the side of his thumbnail until it tatters. "That's one of the functions of the Arching relationships," he says with a loose shrug. "Working out your... frustrations in a controlled way."
Aaron can understand that, the odd punch-up to release a bit of steam, but he very much doubts that a shared beer and whinge was what the Guild had in mind.
"But we don't have a 'relationship', Arching or otherwise," he says firmly, because he really doesn't want to leave any doubt in Robert's mind that this can ever happen again. "I promised I'd help you with Lawrence, and I will, but that's it. I don't care about the supervillain stuff, or what the Guild says you're allowed to do, and I really don't give a shit about your family problems. Talk to your fiancée about it, or your mates - if you've got any – but leave me out of it.
"Something like this happens again, then the deal's off, okay?"
Robert scowls some more, and moans and grumbles, but does eventually offer his own resentful-sounding, "Okay," in return.
Aaron can only hope he means it this time.