Wow, here we are. It's been a while, I know! Thanks for being so patient with me everyone and I hope that this rather long chapter will make up for my absence. Next chapter will not be nearly as long (EDIT - as in take as much time to publish, not word count wise), I can promise you that with 100% certainty.
Word Count ~ 8400
ALABAMA
"In 1902, Dr. Luther Leonidas Hill performed the first open heart surgery in the Western Hemisphere by suturing a stab wound in a young boy's heart."
Brendan aims. "Nice."
Crack.
"Between 1817 and 1819, Old Saint Stephens was the first terrorist capital of Alabama."
Crack.
" - what?"
"Oh - shit, sorry, territorial, not terrorist. Did you know that Hitler's typewriter's at the Hall of History in Bessemer?"
"I didn't know that, Steven, no."
Crack.
"You do now."
"Come here."
"In a minute, listen to this," and Steven actually clears his fucking throat and everything. "Alabama is the only state with all major natural resources needed to make iron and steel."
"Well then, that's our day sorted; got a shovel?"
"You know we do," Steven says through a grin. He's sprawled across a blanket on the grass next to the river, right where he can catch the faint mist of splashing water over glittering, wet slate; he's wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips, Brendan's silver chain and the Alabama tourist leaflet casting shadows over his face. And the small, circular scar. Always the scar. "Thought you liked a bit of culture, anyway."
"You call that culture, Steven?"
"Well," he scoffs. "What do you call it, then?"
"I call it tacky tourism." Crack. "Now," Brendan drawls, low and steady, "come here."
It's the tone of voice that brokers no argument, the one that gets heat pooling in Steven's belly and his eyes turning liquid-black like hot tarmac. He can rarely refuse Brendan when he makes a demand like that and Brendan's made many, enough to test that theory anyway; enough to know it gets him swallowing down all that spit gathering in his mouth like a Pavlovian response even if that's not what Brendan's going for right now. Steven stands and stalks in one fluid motion like he doesn't possess joints, like he's some sort of winding creature, a snake, smooth and graceful. When he's a foot away, Brendan holds out the gun, Steven's gun, actually, and Steven takes it.
There's the air of the bored about him but Brendan doesn't give a shit; he's calmed down some over the last week since Nashville but he's healing at Steven-pace, knitting back together slowly like his boy's broken skin, and Steven's physical scar's like a messy reflection of the working insides of Brendan's head.
"You know I don't need target practice," Steven sighs but he sidles up close anyway, right into the mould of Brendan's body where he's sat, splay-legged, on a thick, bowed-up tree root.
"Be cocky all you want but you weren't quick enough to put down sergeant trigger happy before he put a hole in you," Brendan says, rough and quick and cutting, and it's a low blow, one Steven visibly baulks at, entire body tensing up into stubborn indignity which is kinda what he wanted, for Steven to get pissed off and show Brendan what he's capable of. Truth be told and unreasonable, he knows, but he just wants Steven to calm his constant thrumming heart with something, some promise it's not fair for Brendan to demandbecause living on his nerves like this is fucking exhausting.
Steven's eyes slant over his shoulder into Brendan for long seconds that feel heavy with a tired, old argument he's sick and fed up of and then he brings up the gun, fingers around the handle, one on the trigger, other hand cupping his wrist steady, and he cracks off three quick shots into the picture Brendan's pinned to a tree 100 yards away.
He spreads his hands over Steven's hips, briefly presses his thumbs into the two sweet little dips at the base of his back, then shifts him out of the way so he can hop off the root and go check the target. Two good shots, one wide and bedded in the bark a couple of inches next to Gary Neville's already pretty shot-up face. Steven's got an eyebrow cocked when he walks back over, gun presumably clicked safe and hanging by his thigh loosely.
"Got a couple in his mouth," he calls from half-way back.
"S'where I was aiming," Steven grins and Brendan chuckles. "Can I go lie back down now or d'you need me to do a few push ups as well?" Steven's being facetious, he's gonna lie down again no matter what Brendan says. "It's too hot to be standin' up."
It's true, the farther south they go, naturally, the hotter it gets. It's not just the heat, it's the cloying humidity, the sensation of being coated, constantly, in slick. Brendan's wearing a black t-shirt that feels damp across his back and Steven's chest and stomach shine when the sun catches him through the leafy green-yellow canopy latticed over their little oasis.
It makes his body feel like a hum, a low, resonating sound of sensation, and the damp amplifies it, makes him vibrate until he can't sit still. They've been on the beaten track for days 'cause he's got that irrational, crawling feeling of the police breathing down his neck but he's contrary, too, got that itch to move, swagger into some open air where everyone can see his face and make a few good guys suffer for this slight on their freedom. It's duplicity at its worst, he wants to fuck someone's shit, wants to watch Steven bleed a a million bodies like some twisted Fleet Street barber, but he wants to hide, too, wants to wrap Steven in a blanket and lock him in the car and never let another soul set eyes on him ever again.
He can't bridge the gap and he's watching Steven carefully watch him unravel with increasingly erratic temper. It both scares the shit out of him and makes his blood pulse in anticipation for the moment Steven snaps and fucking does something to try and either fix it or fuck it up further and both would be a welcome reprieve from this weird, too-taut, twilight inbetween.
Steven holds the gun back out to him and Brendan goes like he's aiming to grab it but instead he extends quickly, grips Steven's wrist and pulls him, completely off-guard, in a skid to his knees.
"Better?" Brendan growls and Steven smirks up at him just the right side of dangerous.
Then, he throws himself back into his hands in the grass and kicks one of Brendan's legs right out from under him. He goes down to one knee and flat palm against the solid ground between Steven's ankles and a little breathless but he recovers quickly, grips the waistband of Steven's jeans with his hooked fingers and drags him close roughly, thighs tightening over Brendan's hips and half-hard line of his dick pressed up against Brendan's own.
Steven's not going down, though, and he grips Brendan's t-shirt, hauls himself up and into his folded lap. He claws at Brendan savagely so he grabs both Steven's wrists, pulls them outwards to arch his body close, spots the flash of silver, gun still closed in Steven's fingers and that's good, Steven never drops his weapon.
Brendan cocks his head back to look into Steven's face then pushes his hips up enough to get his attention. "Shoot now, you cocky little fucker."
Steven laughs low in his throat, narrows his eyes and grinds down hard. "Piece of piss." Brendan loosens the hold on the hand with the gun and feels Steven stretch an arm over him shoulder, watches him tip his cheek against the top of it to aim and the cool focus on his face. One loud crack, the scattering of whatever birds have settled since the last shots went off, and Steven's bright, smug grin. "Right in Gary's eye."
Brendan palms at the slick base of Steven's spine, drags him closer to rub denim against denim, friction and rushing blood until Steven's biting his lip to muffle a moan. "Again."
He's less cocky this time, shakier, eyelashes fluttering when he aims and Brendan doesn't let up with his hands over hot skin, feels the shock of the second shot ringing out of the barrel, right through Steven's body and into his own rattling bones 'cause Steven's not bracing it like he should.
He whispers a soft, "fuck," into Brendan's hairline.
Brendan presses his lips to Steven's collarbone, licks up the pooling sweat and growls, "again," against his skin.
Steven breathes and goes tense and Brendan feels him lining it up, trying not to fuck up again, and as well as that, he's feeling pretty fucking smug about the whole affair if he's perfectly honest. He'd quite like to fuck Steven over the tree root above them and see how much practice it'd take to get Steven shooting bullseyes with Brendan's dick in him. They'd probably never use that particular skill but it never hurts to be prepared and their lives are - unpredictable, to say the least.
"Wait, wait," Steven murmurs and taps at his shoulder urgently.
It cuts through Brendan's pleasure-haze and he pulls back with a jolt of adrenaline. "What is it?"
"There's a car, listen."
When he strains, he catches the low rumble of an engine. "Tell me it's not fuckin' police, please."
There's a few heart-seizing seconds where he calculates with fucking scientific precision, every single fucking escape route out of these woods. Then Steven relaxes in his grip and tips back to look at him. "Nah, just a couple of kids, I think." Brendan exhales a shaky sigh and Steven's expression goes soft and kind of worry-sweet, another thing Brendan's had turned on him more than a handful of times over the past few days and one that up until now he's kind of wilfully ignored. "Brendan - "
"What?" he asks, defensive as hell already.
"Don't what me," Steven snaps - oh, good, the tempers back - and shuffles off him, stands up and cracks his spine. Brendan rolls his eyes and yeah, maybe he's acting like a moody teenager right now 'cause he, stubbornly, really doesn't wanna get off the floor so instead he leans back on his hands and looks out to the stream like he's deep in thought or some rockstar shit. "You're gonna give yourself an heart attack if you don't calm down."
"Thanks, Doctor Hay."
"I mean it."
Brendan says nothing else and there's a ten second reprieve that stretches out forever, a place where Brendan can stare at the cool, running water and breathe because he's carefully blank and crystal clear in that way only the dread of imminent confrontation can make a man.
He expects Steven to push him some more and he braces for it. What he doesn'texpect is the ringing crack of the gun going off right near his head and there it is, his subconscious helpfully supplies, the snap he's been waiting for in full, typical Steven over-doing-it.
"The fuck!?" he yells, gets straight to his feet like someone's shoved a lit up cattle prod into his spine.
Steven's off, though, dipping down to grab his t-shirt from the blanket and trotting through the tall grass and trees towards the sound of freaked-out teenagers. Brendan vaguely hears him shouting, "sorry guys, sorry, didn't mean to scare you," and his buzzing head clears enough for him to wish he had a fucking butterfly net or something.
He jogs to catch up, sees the kids looking their way over the sides of a shiny black, top-down convertible, one wide-dark-eyed and pretty young girl and one shit-scared, blotchy-skinned boy in a gaudy yellow cap, screwing his face up and trying out different expressions until he finds the most defiant. It takes Brendan until he's caught up in step at his boy's side to reckon he's onto Steven's game and it gets Brendan frustrated but not at Steven, more at how wound up he is; it's not him, he used to revel in this shit, thrill at all their chaos.
When he'd set out to kill Frank in Nashville with nothing more than his fists, it'd ended a messy, insanity-fuelled fucking horrorshow that still makes him feel edgy and weird. Fighting for survival - it doesn't sit well, puts him too out of control and reminds him too much of being helpless.
So he breathes himself calm and picks up his swagger twenty feet away from the dirt path where the two kids are parked up in one real fucking nice car.
"Just doin' a bit of hunting, didn't even realise cars were allowed down 'ere," Steven says and he's all loose demeaner and blinding-bright smile that puts pretty-girl and blotchy-boy at ease. "I just had to come over, though," and then he hesitates all sweet and shy, wrings his hands a bit in his now thankfully on t-shirt. "Your car - "
It's just the kind of car that would have caught Brendan's attention and he gives Steven a sly look and gets something sweet in return. "Sorry about this," Brendan adds warmly, falling into their rhythm, easy as breathing, perfect symbiosis. It slots something back into place that he didn't even realise had broken loose, a cog in the machine that just needs a bit of oiling. "This one here, he's a bit of a car geek."
The boy smirks and finally speaks and when he does it's with that superior, rich-boy drag and drawl that gets Brendan's blood rushing with an easy, satisfying hum of instant dislike. "It's a Cadillac," he says nasally. "Eldorado, 1967."
It's a 1972 actually but Brendan's not gonna correct him; it's obvious it's just a toy to the kid.
"Wow," Steven parts his mouth like he's a little awestruck. It gets rich-boy smirking wider, pleased someone's admiring his merchandise. "Must 'ave cost a fortune."
It's the perfect thing to say and rich-boy's hauling himself up and over the driver door and into the grass to better brag, a good, lanky few inches taller than Steven and enthusiastically running his giant hands over the border of the windshield. All Brendan can think is that he looks like a twat in his green polo shirt with the collar turned up and his oversized A. Lange & Sohne watch that Brendan only recognises 'cause Steven once stole him one much nicer but similar. It probably costs more than the car. "My parents bought it from a real specialist dealer at our country club. Do you even know how hard it is to get your hands on one of these, anymore?" Steven shakes his head. "You've gotta have pretty good connections. It's not just about money, you have to know people."
The kid looks over his shoulder at his girlfriend, or, at least, the girl he's trying to fuck, and she startles like that's her cue to nod and look adoring before chiming in, "Ollie's family's got tons of both."
The kid, Oliver, smirks some more. "You couldn't just walk into a dealership and buy one, y'know?"
"Sounds glamorous, country clubs and that," Steven says inquisitively. "Different from back home, innit, Bren?"
Brendan hums and the girl speaks up again, "where are you guys from?"
"Britain but he's Irish."
"I love your accents - "
"Maddie!" Oliver snaps, twists an ugly look at her that gets her narrowing her eyes and, grudgingly, shutting up. "I hear Britain's all poverty these days, anyway."
Brendan scoffs a laugh he nearly chokes on, has to smack his fist into his chest to dislodge the spit he inhaled. Oliver's dead serious, severe, expectant look on his face and Steven's apparently waiting for Brendan to handle this one, lip bit and eyes sparkling.
"Yeah, thats uh - that's Britain," he replies with an earnest nod. "It's like Oli - " Shit. There's a laugh trying to burst through his lungs like fucking Alien. "Oliver. Y'know - the musical, please sir can I have some more. All those orphans, it's terrible."
"It's why they all wanna live in America, Maddie," Oliver preens with smug certainty and he clearly hasn't found Oliver funny in the slightest. "Probably why these guys are here, right?"
"Yeah, we just couldn't stand anymore orphans, could we, Bren?" Steven asks quickly with one raised eyebrow and an obvious quirk to the corner of his mouth.
"Well, that and the weather."
"And the people."
"Oh, yeah, British people are awful. All alcoholics and thugs, ain't that right, Steven?"
Oliver's watching their back and forth with a slack, irritated expression but Brendan sees Maddie out the corner of his eye. Her head's tipped down and she's frowning, murmuring Steven then Bren and her eyes start to flick here and there like she's figuring out a puzzle.
Brendan elbows Steven roughly, quickly, jerks his head and Steven inhales a harsh breath through his nose.
"Don't forget the nice cars, Brendan," and Oliver's fast back in the game with his nod and smirk but the girl knows. "It's obviously our lucky day, innit, Ollie," Steven says good-naturedly and pats the kid on the shoulder. Brendan presses close to Steven and gets his fingers around the gun down the back of his jeans before Steven's got one hand gripped white-knuckle tight around Oliver'sarm and a knife pressed up against his windpipe.
Brendan turns the gun on the girl before she gets out a scream and it crawls back up inside her body with a low, grating choke.
"What the - "
"Shut up," Steven says sharply and Oliver does, what choice does he have? The smug's vanished as quick as it took the knife to appear and underneath it all he's just a scared kid talking a big game.
Brendan fingers the trigger, gestures to Maddie and demands, "out the car, driver's side," and Steven drags Oliver away from the door enough for her to shift over and climb out. Her lips are pressed tight together, she's blinking fast.
"My family has money - "
"So you keep sayin'," Steven half laughs.
"We've got money, kid. Certainly ain't after yours," Brendan drawls, bored, as he pulls the girl away from the car and spins, throws her out towards the trees behind them. She's shaking, now, arms wrapping around her body like she's trying to hide herself. "Ain't after that either, sweetheart; you ain't my type. Now, phones on the ground, quick." The girl's quick to obey but Oliver's trying to get a glimpse of the knife against his throat and he can't seem to do more than that. Brendan raises his voice, impatient and every word very clear; he's already about 100% done with these idiots. "If you don't put your phone on the ground I am going to shoot. You. In. The. Head."
It gets him moving, quick and clumsy into his pocket and then Steven says softly, "right, walk, come on, both of you," before pushing Oliver towards the woods.
They always go; another pure human instinct, to survive those scant, pointless three minutes longer even though the outcome is exactly the same. Isn't gonna make 'em any less dead when the time comes. Still. Brendan's not itchy anymore, he's more focused, less jittery. His blood runs smooth, swelling up slow with the tanging adrenaline rush of promise like a finely tuned musical instrument, one piece of a confident orchestra. It's relative - relative because everything here is relative - calm after the past weeks of slap bass and off-key pianos jarring away inside his skull like jazz fusion and bad night after bad night on the moonshine him and Pete used to make when they were sixteen in his the cellar of his dad's pub.
Relentless hangover from fucking hell that to this day has him keeping away from clear liqueur.
But they go and Steven presses the knife against Oliver's back, one hand at the scruff of his neck, tosses Brendan a sweet and private little smile and Brendan's mind's all pine smell and sunshine and rust-iron splash of death.
After minutes the girl asks in a shaking voice, "how much further?" but what she means is, what are you going to do to us? even though deep down, denial's the only thing keeping her walking so he'd better be damn sure he won't have to carry her when he shatters it; thanks to Steven he can kneed dough with Delia Smith and get a gold star when he feels like it but there's no such rulebook for removing blood stains from his jeans.
They're a ways off the dirt road, at least two miles off the tarmac one, nice and enclosed in thick bushes, so he slants Steven a look and gets a matching one in return.
Crack.
"Maddie!"
She goes down with an elegant grace that's frankly beautiful, black hair shiny and fanned around her head and shoulders like a dark halo. He vaguely hears Steven struggling with a frantic Oliver and when he turns to aid, Steven's tripped him to his knees, gives him one brutal kick to the diaphragm that sends him lurching forward into horrible, wheezing spasms.
Brendan watches Steven light up like a beacon out on a foggy shore. Brendan could pinpoint his exact location within a thousand miles just from the familiar energy rolling off him in waves. It's like some cleansing blast, balled up organs untangling and coagulated blood free-flowing again. Oliver rich-boy on the ground like a frightened animal and Steven standing over him with a that knife, the knife that cut Brendan free, in his hand.
All of a sudden he wants to steal the day, gather it close and wring it for all it's worth.
"Hey," he barks out. Oliver shakes his head and Steven grabs him by the scruff of his neck, forces him up, eyes on Brendan. "Where's your wallet?"
"Wh - what?"
Steven's looking at him curiously but he stays silent and patient. "Wallet? The thing you put money and credit cards in? Come on, Oliver, I'd have thought your wallet would've been your showcase."
"You said - " Oliver starts but thinks better of it. "B - back pocket. Is that i- it? I can give you anything, please, please just let me go - "
"Steven," Brendan says softly, watches him bend down and rummage in Oliver's pockets.
He comes up with the thick, black leather wallet and tosses it to Brendan. He opens it to half spilling out hundred dollar bills and platinum cards and one single photograph of the kid, younger than he kneels now, with two people Brendan assumes are his parents and holding a little girl close, probably a little sister. It's still a bitter thing in Brendan's memory but it's hazy, nothing corporeal enough to take hold and drag him under, not when he finds what he's looking for and fucking then some and peers up into Steven's perfectly eager face.
"Oliver Melville?"
The kid's eyes go wide.
Brendan wraps up the wallet and slides it into his back pocket and can't help a dark smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, anticipation of what comes next. Oliver's shaking and breathing like nails on a chalkboard but Brendan's only got eyes for his boy, now. He starts to step close and Steven tenses, tendons in his forearm flexing unconsciously where he grips Oliver tighter like he can sense exactly what Brendan's about to say - symbiosis again.
"What're'doin'noplease - "
Oliver's words melt together but Brendan doesn't answer him, just continues his forward motion until he's six feet away and breathing hard like exertion. Steven's lips press together, barely there tremble through his body. It's like sex, the buildup of pressure, Steven's pupils dilating in the thickening heat.
Brendan licks his suddenly dry lips, swallows to lubricate his throat, opens his mouth and his words come out like a hand stroking over flesh, "bleed him."
Steven exhales once, roughly, holds Oliver through his weak wailing, pulling, struggling, bends low and sinks the knife in over his jugular. Brendan watches Steven's hands turn red, fingers an elegant curl around the handle, rough, grating tug through Oliver's parting skin. He gurgles and chokes on the tide of his blood and Steven pulls back his head for Brendan to see, puts Oliver on display for Brendan like the gift he is.
Oliver sags and Steven goes down with him, hunches with his knees bracketing the folding body, a body all that's left 'cause the light's gone of of Oliver's eyes now, he's gone. Steven drops him with a half-smile and red reflected in his eyes like bloodlust when he peers up at Brendan and he's never seen anything more beautiful than when Steven kills without mercy, kills the way he does everything, unapologetic and without hesitation or second guesses.
Brendan whispers, "come here," for the second time that afternoon and this time that low-pooling heat is shared.
Steven stands smoothly, takes the several steps between them and then he's on Brendan like a second skin, Brendan's arms tight around his waist, pulling him up and close until he's got his legs around Brendan's waist, hands clawed into his hair, lips pressed over his own and devouring every inch of Brendan's composure.
Brendan slams him back into a thick tree trunk, grinds forwards, push of his hard dick grinding against the space he creates between Steven's thighs, Steven's rolling hips nearly forcing them back off the wood he's that desperate, that lost to it, blood and death and Brendan, and he's so fucking close already, knows they're gonna come undone right here out in the open. He ruts against Steven roughly, hard cracks back into the solid surface that must be hurting his back, must be pulling on the still-sore muscles but he just doesn't care, just moans into Brendan's mouth while he sucks obscenely on his tongue, Oliver Melville's corpse blank eyed and vacant somewhere on the ground nearby.
"D'you think we should bury him or we too far out for it to matter?" Brendan gasps out and Steven smirks, not exactly the time but when is it, y'know?
"We could hang him from a tree, locals might think it's a cult thing."
"Yeah, sure, that's not creepy or completely insane."
"Depends who you ask," Steven replies, rolls his head back, mouth parted, stuttering breaths as Brendan grinds against him.
"Wanna know what I think?" he asks, low and rumbling and Steven half-smiles, eyes falling half shut, and nods, course he wants to know what Brendan thinks. "I think you're certifiable - " He kisses Steven's bottom lip, feels him grin and open up. "I think there's not a jury in the world that wouldn't put you away for the things you've done."
"Yeah?"
"The people you've killed." Brendan kisses him again, licks inside his mouth, deep and slick. "Shit you've stolen. Lives you've destroyed. What you do to me alone s'gotta be worth time."
"Tell me, Brendan, please."
"Kill any damn thing on God's earth for you, Steven." Steven inhales a sob, starts to shake against the seizing of his stomach muscles, ripple of pain/pleasure. "Not a fuckin' thing I wouldn't say or do for you."
"Brendan," Steven breathes against him.
"What? What d'you want, Steven? Anything."
"You, just you, I can't - " He's whimpering, gripping at Brendan's shoulders, pulling him close, heart pounding so fierce Brendan can feel the rattle of it through his own body and his pounding heart in return. "Just you, just you, please - "
He slides a hand around Steven's neck, fingers over his windpipe, vibration of his words and Brendan gets it, gets the things Steven can't put a voice to because he can't either; he wants Brendan and it's not, will never be, enough. There could be a million miles of Steven and it wouldn't be enough and he can't beg for something so huge, can't ask for something that he can't comprehend the weight of, trying to understand it like trying to imagine the size of the Universe, no scale large enough to quantify it and all Brendan can do is tell him, "yeah, I'm here, always here, Steven, never gonna be alone, never," and it's mindless words but Steven takes them, breathes, Brendan, fuck, and Brendan just tangles his fingers into Steven's hair and pulls to bare his throat, gets his teeth into the fragile skin there and bites down hard.
Steven cries out, almost a scream, cracked and high and shuddering and he's coming, Brendan can feel his hips stutter and jerk forward, can feel his legs around Brendan's body shake and tighten. He sucks on Steven's skin, tastes the prick of blood on his tongue, grinds forward a couple more times and follows him over the edge, coming in his jeans like a horny teenage boy behind the bike shed and he's half laughing, half moaning, never ceases to amaze him what they do to each other.
When he puts Steven down he collapses into a heap against the tree and Brendan flops down with him, sprawls back in the bright grass with his arms spread out while Steven complains, "you bloody bit me."
He lifts his head up for a second, sees the bright purple-red bruise over Steven's jugular and whoops a laugh, "Christ, looks like you've been gnawed on by a wild animal," and flops back down again, pretty damn satisfied.
"It's gonna be fun showin' that off at the country club."
"Mmm," Steven mumbles distractedly and it takes a a good twenty seconds to sink in. "Wait, wait, what?"
Brendan's ready for him, arches of the ground and fishes about in his pocket, gets his fingers around the Terri Pines Country Club membership card and the folded up leaflet - home of Eric Bell's prized Gibson Songwriter - and tosses them in Steven's direction. He gets up on his elbows and watches Steven read with a slow smile curving across his lips and says slowly, "I want it, Steven."
Them's right there are the magic words and Steven lights up like a firework. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that by the end of this day, he's gonna be the shiny new owner of a piece of musical legend.
Brendan hadn't known about the guitar, he'd planned on going anyway, but fucking hell if Lady Luck wasn't rolling out jackpot after jackpot for them today. If Brendan was still a religious man, he might think God was trying to tell him something in the form of divine neon arrows.
"Fancy a night out?"
"It's all or nowt with you, innit?" Steven says, warmth and hunger and just plain old fucking happy to be alive, to be them, and that right there is worth the world. "Either you've got us locked down in an hotel room with the blinds on and the door welded shut or you're wavin' your weapon about in front of a million people and askin' for trouble."
Brendan kicks him in the ankle with the lazy sort of weight reserved for this heavy sort of heat and satisfaction. "Oi. I've never waved my weapon about in front of a million people, thank you very much."
Steven tuts. "Y'know what I - oh, shut up." He shuffles, groans, sweat and drying blood and spunk. "Errr, I feel disgusting."
"Well, we've gotta stop off at the hotel and get our shit together so - " he starts but Steven interrupts him with a smack to the stomach. He uses Brendan's knee to haul himself off the ground, plants his feet into the grass at his hips and bend to grip both of Brendan's wrists tightly.
"No, come on; I've got a better idea."
Steven pulls until Brendan's half upright before tearing off into the forest like some kind of fucking gazelle. He considers shouting, what about the dead bodies? but decides against it. Instead he stands, feels pretty disgusting himself, and heads after Steven's noise until he's close to where they started this little adventure to see Steven take a fully-clothed, leaping plunge into the deepest part of the river.
Brendan watches for half a minute, watches until Steven wades up the water flow onto the rocks to slip off his soaked t-shirt. He gets to work on his jeans and then Brendan's stripping off his sticky clothes, tossing them somewhere near the bag they brought and jumping in himself.
The water's like glass, smooth, clear, cool. The surface breaks apart and swallows him down, muffles the world until his feet dig in the soft peat at the bottom. He's weightless, weighed-in at all sides by gentle pressure, weight of the world some million miles away and insubstantial like a fading malevolent spirit. The need to breathe tugs low in his ribs and he pushes up into the lowering sunlight and warm, no longer stifling air.
Steven's like scenery, perched on a half-submerged rock with his face turned up against the sky. Brendan swims then wades close, presses in between his thighs and touches, thighs and hips and sides, then the curve of Steven smile with his fingertips. He remembers the days when Steven was untouchable, required patience and careful planning, and then suddenly he wasn't, bruises and black eyes Brendan paid for with the crippling sting of guilt and then, later, bruises and blood of his own, torn out of his body by Steven's hands because nobody deserved it more.
Now there's just one scar, small and perfectly round. Black against the gold of Steven's skin.
When Brendan presses his fingertips to it Steven hisses and tenses but he doesn't ask Brendan to stop; he knows Brendan's not gonna hurt him, he trusts with such a single-mindedness it leaves Brendan dizzy and breathless even now. He slips two fingers under the silver cross and brings it up to catch the low sun.
They came out here at three and he's not good enough at orienteering to be able to look into the position of the sun and tell the time by the cloud formations or what-the-fuck-ever. His perception's been skewed for ages, now, anyway; there are more important things.
"You know we've gotta ditch the Impala," he says softly like he's breaking the news Steven's got some horrible terminal disease.
"Yeah, I know."
"We'd better get moving."
"Bren, I don't want anyone else to have her." Steven's like a sulky, possessive kid and it makes Brendan chuckle and then it's like a cartoon lightbulb goes off in his head. Steven slaps him on the chest and says,"I know that look. What?"
"Baby, you're gonna love this," and he's right, course he's right, this is his boy, he's always right - Steven does love it
They dry off, change, gather up their stuff and split up and even though it makes Brendan's skin itch to be more than ten feet apart, it's only until Brendan parks up the El Dorado on a backstreet close to the hotel and walks the short distance back.
Steven's already half packed up when he gets there, every gun spread out on the bed.
Brendan loads up the Lee Enfield, solid, old, British army classic, another thing Brendan had wanted the second he'd seen it so obviously, Steven had shot up an entire store in Redstone, Pitkin County, Colorado with, ironically, a slightly less appealing rifle, just because Brendan had done a double take when they'd passed the window.
Obviously.
He loads ten rounds into the semi-automatic glock as an afterthought; it's useful in a tight spot, small enough to conceal even though Brendan tends towards the flash but he's gotta be sensible, too.
Steven's colt lays amongst the weapons and he picks it up, lovingly fingers the smooth ivory handle and pretty curves carved into the steel muzzle, loads her up to and traps Steven frontways up against the dressing table to slip it safely into the back of jeans. He murmurs, "don't forget this," against the back of Steven's neck and follows it with a lingering kiss and he means both.
He slips the rifle into the bag with spare ammo for both guns, checks the room over one last time for any traces of them and then he and Steven load up the Impala for the last time just as the sky starts to turn blood-orange burnt. They don't talk the short drive to where Brendan parked the El Dorado out of some kind of weird respect for the girl but Brendan flicks the radio to life 'cause this is the last time he's gonna get to hear it.
~ give me absolute control, over every living soul and lie beside me, baby, that's an order.
He parks up and rubs his thumbs into the wheel's leather like he's trying to gouge permanent dents.
~ and now the wheels of heaven stop, you feel the devil's riding crop, get ready for the future: it is murder.
Steven helps him move the bags from one trunk to the other and they quickly take stock, Brendan slipping the bag with the rifle over his shoulder and rolling the map out over the Impala hood to check the routes.
He's got the tight, nervy sensation of mounting anticipation, excitement and something else, a dark sort of fear he loves and loathes in equal measure. It's not exactly like before the shooting but it's almost as good and he'll take it, knows he's changed in some fundamental and permanent way but that's okay, he can see it now; he's adaptive, he can evolve.
Steven turns to him, surges up on his toes and kisses Brendan like violence 'cause he's running high on adrenaline now, too, and every movement's got purpose. Brendan tears into his mouth with everything he's got, pushes thank you and love you and don't fucking die please into him because the words would only ruin the momentum.
"You got everything you need?" Brendan asks breathlessly and Steven nods.
"You?"
"Yeah."
"See you at the other side, yeah?"
A pulse of energy zaps through him like an electric charge and he pushes his fingers into the base of Steven's back and drags him flush, chest ragging breath against his ribs, growls low and rough, "damn right you will," and steals one last searing kiss.
He's heavy with purpose and doesn't look back when he climbs behind the wheel of the El Dorado to the shadow of the setting sun and sound of Leonard Cohen echoing in his ears. The Impala tears out of the street, because Steven's never been able to get behind the wheel of a car without driving like a complete lunatic, and Brendan follows but only 'til the turnoff; he's going in the front way.
The driveway of Terri Pines is ridiculous and he already hates this place so much he's cringing with it, long and surrounded on each side by tall, creepy stepford-uniform trees and hundreds of yards of grass. The club looms over the purple horizon like a mirage, cream brick building, high, grey pointed roof and white wood window frames and pillars, quaint but grand like an overgrown cottage.
There's a parking attendant, stocky and pushing fourty, a well trained fucker who clearly recognises the car immediately. Brendan parks up in the shadows, away from the glow spilling out the glass double doors, and he's got that first pleasure-jolt of fuck yes when the guy walks over.
His badge says hello my name is Walter and Walter says, "you're not - " then coughs obviously and does an not-so-subtle swerve. "Can I help you sir?"
Brendan can see his hand inching up to his headset so he hits out, knocks it to the pavement and points the glock between Walter's shock-wide eyes. "Not really, Walter, sorry." Brendan whips him in the temple with the butt of his pistol and catches the body going down.
He stashes Walter behind the low wall surrounding the front drive. There's nothing beyond the walls but grass as far as he can see in the faded light, miles of golf courses, bowling greens and picnic areas, pretty and picturesque and fucking homogeneous but not for much longer.
There's CCTV above the doors so he's quick, edges around the wall to keep out of sight but it only gets him as far as the lit-up porch and then he slings out the rifle, clicks the safety off and tells Reuben at the front desk to put his fucking hands in the air, if he touches the alarm Brendan's gonna shoot him in the fucking face.
Reuben does as he's told, comes out from behind the counter when Brendan jerks his head, all crisp white shirt and pale blue waistcoat, gangly-tall and thin but strangely graceful all the same.
He's calm and pretty steady when he asks Brendan, "is this a robbery?" and Brendan supposes he's had training for this or something, rich place like this, lobby's all expensive, plush, navy carpet and cream walls, dark, polished wood and pricey looking art.
Brendan tells him, "yeah," 'cause it's technically true - to an extent, anyway. "Take me through to the bar. Try a damn thing and I'll kill you."
They make quick progress through the lobby, the back hall and up to the wide open doorway of the bar.
Brendan counts at least thirty people sat and stood around chatting in various shades of fucking pastel and beige and enough pearls to make his Ma' turn criminal. There's some confusion to exactly what-the-fuck is happening when Brendan shoves Reuben to his knees in the middle of the floor but they get it pretty quickly when he points the rifle into the vague middle of Mr and Mrs matching-lemon-outfits and tells everyone to shut their noise and group over to the right side of the room.
The bar's a dark-wood semi circle against the back wall, entire space behind it just shelves upon shelves of expensive liqueur and sparkling glasses all backlit by soft, white light. The guitar's in a glass case at the very centre with a silver, engraved plaque underneath. The glass double doors he'd seen in the leaflet stand on the left wall and lead out onto the "barbecue patio" and further, the eighteen hole golf course.
He's staying well away from those doors.
Reuben, infuriatingly calm and well-trained Reuben, is telling him, "there's money in the front desk and in the registers behind the bar, a - a safe in the storage room in the umm, in the lobby, the key's on a chain in my pocket and I - I can tell you the combination," but Brendan's only pretending to pay attention to him to keep up the illusion.
It shatters when a woman screams like blue murder. Her husband grips her round the middle to hold her back but she wriggles like an eel out of his arms, crashes to the floor but scrambles back up half on all fours and makes a desperate rush for the patio doors. Her panic grates up his nerves like a nail up a chalkboard and he grips her by the hair and yanks her back with a strangled yelp.
"Calm. The. Fuck. Down," he enunciates, shakes her with the hand buried in her dark curls and shoves her back towards her husband. "Everyone get on your knees, now; I don't want a repeat of that, d'you hear me?"
There's a murmur of some kind of ascent and the rippling motion of a crowd obeying him, a fucking power trip enough to get him biting his lip around a grin. He can't resist it breaking through when he sees some tough guy in a powder-pink, Fred Perry polo shirt scuffling with the guy next to him and muttering, all indignant rage and offence, just the kind that Brendan loves best.
"Hey," Brendan snaps. "Buddy, you and me gonna have a problem?"
"Max - "
"Fuck you, get off me," he grunts, shakes off his sensible friend and peers up at Brendan through a floppy blond fringe and beady dark eyes. "Do you even know who I am?"
"Enlighten me."
"I am Maxwell Datcher, of the Lamoure County Datchers, and trust me, you fuck, there'll be a reckoning for this."
Maxwell Datcher's got spit on his chin in his fervour to tell Brendan what's what, give him the lay of the land. Brendan drawls slowly, "I see," then, "stand up, Mr Datcher," and he does, tall and broad and superior in the set of his shoulders, the sneer of his mouth; he thinks he's somebody too valuable to put down and Brendan's always loved proving people wrong; there's less than a handful of people in the world Brendan considers too worthy for an execution.
He pulls the rifle up to brace against his chest and Datcher's face falls into shock, denial, outrage, he can't fix on one emotion or another and his mouth starts to flap, high and whining and music to Brendan's ears, "n - no, what - do you even - you'll pay for this - "
Brendan puts a bullet through Datcher with a deep, resonating crack and a spray of blood and bone that covers his friend and a few others close by. They titter and scream and throw themselves away and Brendan sends another shot into the ceiling to shut them up.
"Anyone else think they're too important to be here?"
Silence and shock, wide eyes and complete stillness, that rabbit-headlight instinct, like not moving makes you invisible.
He's been there, done that, thanks very much.
The ornate clock on the wall says one minute to eight and Brendan's vibrating with action, muscles tense and grip on the rifle white-knuckled, now. It's like the millennium countdown, waiting for the big bang with his heart pounding out the seconds to zero hour.
Ten - nine -
He hears the rumble-growl of a distant engine.
Eight - seven - six -
The country club regulars are shifting, something's happening, they can feel it.
Five - four - three -
It's close, crack and bump of tires on rough, uneven ground, mounting the pavement.
Two - one -
Smash.
Screams and swirling clouds and eddies of dust and fine plaster, glass shattering inwards and ploughing across the room like machine gun spray, scattering over carpet and tables, bleeding bodies flung every which way to escape the Impala's battering-ram hood; it's chaos, pure and simple, and Brendan's head swims with it, heat and hysteria through his veins.
Steven flings open the driver door and he's got the colt held up in front of him already, puts a bullet through the brain of some guy who's coming at him on adrenaline survival instinct and little sense.
He tosses Brendan a bright, fucking stunning look of wild zeal and Brendan shouts over the commotion, "behind the bar."
Everything's trashed, everyone's confused. He's pretty sure some folk are dead, unconscious, laid unresponsive in shock. Some are getting to their feet, staggering and shell shocked. Brendan holds up the rifle, shoots the floor and tells them to get the fuck back down and Steven's hauling arse over the bar, wrapping a towel around one elbow and smashing the guitar case, dragging it out and slinging the strap over his shoulder with a pleased grin.
"Ready?" he calls over the car and the dust and Brendan grins in return.
Steven flings himself over the Impala hood and Brendan flicks open his lighter and holds it to the fuel-soaked rag Steven's stuffed in the petrol tank hole until it catches. Steven surges into him with one quick and wet kiss then Brendan grabs his wrist and pulls them frantic into the hall, through the lobby and out into the warm, honey-sweet smelling night air with pounding adrenaline that borders on painful.
They're in the El Dorado, Gibson stashed in the back, top down and tearing out down the drive, fifty yards, one hundred yards, then it cries out, the cracking, wailing, earth-shattering noise of an explosion and Brendan breaks harsh, skids and spins the car driver side on to catch sight of the club going up in a hail of fire and smoke against the navy sky.
"Fuck," Steven breathes behind him, ragged and catching, lungs still squeezed from the mad dash outside.
"Fuck," he agrees, mouth wide open and throat dry and heart banging, hands shaking, he can't fucking blink even, the sight is that beautiful, a towering inferno of red and orange and yellow rising up and up through the dark, brick sagging and crumbling like wet biscuit, roof collapsing in on itself under the heat.
Seconds, minutes, hours, fuck knows, pass and Brendan turns, catches Steven's eyes, sees himself reflected against a backdrop of fire and destruction in them like an unholy baptism.
He's not gonna fucking hide them away again, he's not. Whatever happens, whatever comes at them, Brendan's gonna handle it and if he can't, Steven will. They don't belong in the shadows, they belong here, under a sky lit up with flames in a flashy as all fuck car and side by side where everyone knows their names.
They belong on the open highway, even if it does lead them straight to hell.
Steven grips his wrist where Brendan grips the steering wheel and they hold on for dear life.
*/*/*
It shouldn't be as funny as it is.
But it is, it's fucking hilarious.
- Suspect number one, Brendan Brady, wanted for multiple homicide, arson -
Their faces are all over the little corner telly in a cafe in downtown Cullman, Alabama.
"That's two strawberry milkshakes." Jamie, by her name-tag, puts down two glasses on the counter. "That'll be umm, three fifty, umm, please,"
She's got attention firmly focused on Brendan's boy in something like love-at-first-sight and it takes her attention off their news spot at least but fucking still - s'not the point.
"Can you put these in two to-go cups, sweetheart?" Brendan drawls with an edge of sharp dislike that gets her eyes widening. "We've got somewhere a little more classy to be."
Brendan slips one hand around Steven's hip, pulls him close and nuzzles his hair and she stares, gormless.
- suspect number two, twenty-three year old Steven Hay, wanted for armed robbery -
"You wanna hurry the fuck up, darlin'? We ain't got all day."