Word Count ~ 2300
IOWA
It's two days, two state lines later, and it's midday, or something - Brendan has a watch but time really is meaningless to him usually. His neck is prickling, heavy pressure of awareness skittering over him and making him alert.
They're sat in a pokey, out of the way diner in a little place near Ceder Rapids called Marion. The kind of place that Steven loves, the kind that serve thick, fluffy pancakes with every topping imaginable, and Brendan loves it too because he gets to sit and drink free-flowing coffee and watch Steven lick syrup and fresh cream from his cutlery and then from his lips and sometimes, when Brendan thinks someone's looking at them, when he spots a real red-neck trucker type and makes him for what he really is, he likes to watch Steven lick syrup and fresh cream off Brendan's fingers.
He likes to watch those guys flush red, first with arousal, buried deep but it's there, Brendan can always see the ones that hide, and then with defiant rage.
Someone's looking now and his neck is prickling. Brendan just needs to know what he's dealing with.
"Steven - " he says quietly and Steven looks up from the paper he's reading. Two men, armed, extremely dangerous, do not approach - Steven had caught sight of it earlier in a rack outside a 7-Eleven and he'd swiped it with quick hands, rolled it and had it tucked up under his clothes before Brendan had even realised what he was about to do. He'd called Steven a dirty bloody thief and Steven had laughed and called him a pyromaniac psycho and it had gone on for a while, back and forth quips that got increasingly more ridiculous until Brendan had called Steven a peachy-arsed syrup-coated-spoon, "like the one's off the old Lyle's adverts, stick it on your muffin," and Steven had laughed himself stupid and claimed Brendan the winner.
Brendan flicks his head to the left and Steven gets it, instantly, gaze shifting over Brendan's shoulder and flitting, unobtrusively studying. He's as good as, if not better than, Brendan at this - uncanny gift of assessing people and seeing scum. He's knows scum, knows trouble when he sees it; all survival instinct and a lifetime learning how to recognise people who're out to hurt him. Brendan had made a point of hunting down every single one of those fuckers, all of them seared into Steven's memories and nightmares vividly, and making them apologise through their own bubbling blood.
He leans across the table, casual and close, eyes shifting back and forth from Brendan out into the room. Then he scoffs. "Yeah, they're not 'appy."
"They?"
"Two of 'em, both pretty big," he says, hardly moving his mouth. "Lookin' over but I don't think they're the closet types. They look pretty disgusted."
"Good."
Brendan signals for the cheque and the waitress hands it over. He hands her the cash, a little bit extra for yourself, darlin', and she dips low and obvious, smiles at him like she's got this one in the bag, hooked him good and she's reeling that line already.
"I love your accent, what is that?"
"Emerald Isles, sweetheart," he says in a low drawl and she touches him, just his shoulder but he doesn't like it and neither does Steven and she's suddenly wearing half a cup of tepid coffee all down her uniform.
"Oops. Think we've 'ad a bit of a spill," Steven states in a cold, sarcasm-dripped voice and Brendan looks at him, sees ice in his eyes and presumes that she does too because she splutters around her next words and backs away.
"I-I'll just get a cloth - "
"You do that, sweetheart." He watches her retreat and arches an eyebrow at Brendan.
"What? I didn't say a thing."
"They're lucky they do good pancakes," Steven says and stands up, rolls his shoulders and clenches his visibly trembling hands, touches the colt Brendan knows is hidden at his hip like he's twitchy and it tells him exactly what Steven means by that statement.
"Hey. Bigger things, Steven." Brendan gets up and crowds close to him, speaks softly like he's soothing a skittish horse. He watches Steven visibly relax, loosen up. He goes from sharp edges to guileless and vulnerable right before Brendan's eyes and he thinks, good boy, that's it, and brushes his lips ever so softly against Steven's own in a ghost of a whisper-kiss.
He places a hand low on Steven's back and guides them through the diner and he watches how the two guys size up in his boy in a split second, his oh-so-sweet and docile boy, doe eyes and delicate smile, and then they're closer and it's instant eye contact with one of the two, the biggest, because that's who Brendan's looking at, avid and with as much heat as he can convincingly fake. He lets his eyes slip away, fall to ground, oops, you caught me looking, now what? and he gets a good idea because Big-boy nudges his friend and it's pretty much on.
They're twenty metres from the door when he hears the footsteps and he ducks his head, tosses Steven a smirk and sees him lit up and breathing hard, mouth parted and he whirls around, lightning quick, gun cocked and safety off.
"Hiya," he says, broad and so, so foreign in this place and they don't know what to do with him, not at all. Big-boy's wary but he's still the cocky type, eyebrow raised in a taunt. His friend's smarter, can read Steven a little better, and he puts a hand on Big-boy's arm in warning. It looks like a familiar gesture, he's used to holding him back. Seems like Big-boy gets himself into trouble often.
"And what are you gonna do with that, huh, boy?" the guy asks sceptically.
"Well - I'm not gonna shoot you, don't worry," Steven replies evenly and Big-boy actually frowns, caught surprised, and Brendan can tell these guys don't like to go off book much. Their usual victims don't give them much of a challenge, then.
"Hey, look buddy, we're just walking to our car, that's all - " the friend says placatingly, hands up in front of him now, show them how harmless he is, and Steven laughs.
"Oh - oh, well then, why didn't you just say that - " he scoffs, all amused, drawling sarcasm, and lowers his weapon and flings his arms out and Brendan thinks, for fucks sake, boy's off his fucking head he's so reckless sometimes, and that's all it takes to get them rushed. It's okay, though. It's uncoordinated, panic rushing and Steven's got the gun held on Big-boy again as quick as he had it flailing off into the horizon like a lunatic.
Friend is sloppy and it's a good job Brendan does like going off book because he dodges easily, gets one arm around his middle, presses him over it and knees him in the face hard, once, twice, satisfying crack of bone, then lets him fall to the floor, doubled over and making this high, keening noise like a dying animal. It's not enough and now there's adrenaline singing through his veins, the lust for pain and blood like a physical itch, and he shoves at the guy with his boot until he topples over onto his side.
"Get up. Fuckin' pathetic," he spits and and it works, the guy rolls over onto all fours and staggers upright. He spares a look for his Big-boy friend but Brendan doesn't worry, never does until he hears shots go off and then only because it means unwanted attention.
The guy comes at him again and Brendan lets him get a punch in, hurts like a mother-fucker, right to his jaw, but he's gotta make it look like Friend has a fighting chance and he doesn't mind pain, not at all. He focuses, listens to the hum of his body, lets it spread down his limbs and into his fingers, curled, now, into fists, and then he moves. He's a flurry of pure motion, hit after hit connecting, lets the guy get in a couple more of his own, fucking weak ones, he's too uncoordinated now, until he's staggering and actually backing up, confused and whimpering and Brendan stands, looks at him, considers him.
"We're leaving, we're leaving - now! Look, we didn't mean any trouble - " He's begging, bleeding, woozy and swaying on his feet, and Brendan barks a laugh.
"I know exactly what you meant," he growls, low and rough and furious, and the guy's eyes go wide with despair before Brendan shoves the heel of his hand up into his nose and he falls back, right over and to the ground where he gurgles and chokes on his own blood. He doesn't look away until the sickly, inhuman noise stops and the light flickers from his eyes and he thinks, idly, to himself, never lasts long enough.
It's so fucking good, though. So much electricity sparking through him, pleasure effervescent through his blood, and he turns, eyes locking on Steven, still and deadly with six-foot-three-inches facing down his pretty, silver and ivory-handled barrel.
"Looking a bit nervous there, honey-bunch," Brendan calls out to Big-boy brightly, strides over, loose and swaggering and fuck, he feels fucking good and Steven looks at him like he's hungry, like he wants to mount Brendan right here in the car park, dead body - bodies - be damned.
"We didn't - I don't - " Big-boy babbles desperately because his friend's dead in a pool of his own blood yards away and things are looking pretty grim. Brendan slides around him, presses close, just off-side enough for Steven to still get a clean shot if he needs to, and touches him gently, two fingers against his throat, a hand brushing his shoulder.
"This what you thought I wanted?" he asks softly and Big-boy shakes his head, mouth curled, unmistakeable disgust even through his fear. Deeply ingrained, that.
"Don't - fuckin' hands off me - faggot - " and the word is barely there, stuttered and frantic but Brendan hears it, lets it soak into him and mix and flow with the rest of his tightly reigned rage.
"You see that guy over there, the one with the gun aimed between your eyes?" he asks slowly and Big-boy does see, it's practically all he can see, and Brendan turns because he wants to see, too, just for a second and fuck he shouldn't have. Sight like that can make a man lose focus. "Fuckin' beautiful, ain't he? Man like you couldn't even deny it; be straight-up lying if he did - pun intended."
He chuckles at his own little joke and hears Steven tut behind him, knows without looking that he's rolling his eyes, fond and sarcastic. Big-boy really seems to have nothing to say to that so he goes on.
"Now - let's be logical here. I get to fuck him whenever I feel like it, and I mean whenever I feel like it. Boy's horny as Hell all the time. So fucking sweet, too, like ripe fruit, and the way he opens up for me, greedy, like he can't get enough." He glances back, just turns and slants his eyes over his shoulder and Steven's eyes are dark, liquid intensity. Boy's eating up Brendan's words like they're the damn word of God. He lowers his voice, rough now, lets some of that anger bleed. "And you? You think I'd dare? Wouldn't fuck you to save my life, mate. Not even if you offered to pay me."
"Then let me go, what the Hell are you doing?"
"I'm gonna just - " he says and stops, slips behind Big-boy and pulls his arms behind his back, holds him firm before panic pushes through confusion and he starts to struggle. " - hold onto you here for a little bit."
Steven tosses him the gun and Brendan catches it quickly, movement completely, effortlessly executed, and pushes it up against Big-boy's temple, buries one hand in his hair to yank his head back, and by the time both pairs of eyes land back on Steven, he has a hand full of sharp, glinting steel and a smile to match. He comes close, slow controlled grace, predatory and completely, utterly engaged. Beautiful - so easy with a blade in his hand. His Steven likes to worm his way close with flutter-framed, doe eyes and soft smiles before he bleeds them, near enough to see the very moment they realise just how wrong they had him.
He holds up the knife, draws it across Big-boy's throat and Brendan can see how dark his eyes are from this close, ink black, all pupil, and has to hold on tight because Big-boy's squirming, struggling furiously in his arms. He knows he's going to die, be it from the knife or the gun, so he has nothing to lose now. He's a desperate man on the very precipice of death and Brendan can taste the thick, cloying tang of it in the air, licks his lips and inhales because he can never get enough.
"Look at me," Steven commands, low and smooth, and it seems that neither of them can resist.
His eyes meet Brendan's across the dead-man's trembling shoulder and he blinks, once, slow, and slices deep.
*/*/*
The paper hasn't named them, doesn't even have a decent picture just grainy CCTV footage. They're obviously not aware of their UK records then, not holding any kind of international investigation. Yet.
"Twenty-three year old male, five-eight, slim build, dark-blond hair, blue eyes, blah blah blah, sounds like a men seeking men adve - wait, what - Bonnie and Clyde? And I suppose I'm Bonnie, then?"
"Very bonny," Brendan says with a smirk over the rim of his coffee and Steven shakes his head, corners of his mouth turned up.
He snuffles a laugh through his nose. "Too charmin' for your own good, you."
"And who'd keep your arse out of trouble if I wasn't?"
"You get my arse into plenty of trouble, thanks."