WOW! I am ecstatic about the positive feedback this fic has received! Definitely gave me the passion and drive to keep it going. Here's the next chapter, where you learn a bit more about Roman, and a secret about Dean is slightly uncovered. Enjoy!
Randy's time with the girls was already in full swing when Roman got home.
He didn't want to be there, but this late at night, he didn't have anywhere else to go, unless he wanted to bum around the Walmart open twenty-four seven. He'd have to crank some music up and shut Randy out. It wasn't like he wasn't used to this routine by now.
Randy had one of the girls screaming pretty loud. Listening closer—like he had a choice in the world as he moved from the kitchen to his bedroom—he heard two separate female voices. He was really with both of them at once? How was that possible?
Roman didn't want to know. He pressed his bedroom door closed and stripped of his stained work shirt, lazily flinging it towards a growing pile of laundry by his closet. He didn't work tomorrow after his classes. Maybe he'd catch up on laundry then.
He snatched his headphones from the desk. Instead of reaching for his iPod, though, he had another idea. Roman brought his laptop from the desk to his bed and pulled up Google. What were the words to the song Dean had sung tonight? Something something something, if you only knew, how easy it would be to…something something something…you love me…I already know…
It turned out those words were enough to find him the song. "More Than Words" by the rock band Extreme. He punched the song into Youtube's search bar, plugged his headphones into his laptop, and clicked the first result.
This was it, alright, though he had to admit, Dean's voice was much nicer than this singer's. It wasn't quite loud enough to drown out Randy's triumph with the Bella twins, but if Roman closed his eyes and focused hard on the lyrics, he could pretend he was back at the coffeehouse, serving as a one-man audience for Dean. Dean sweeping his pick over the thick guitar strings, his honeyed voice resonating into the microphone, his oceanic eyes focused in on Roman, lyrics for him and him alone.
"Now that I've tried to talk to you and make you understand
All you have to do is close your eyes
And just reach out your hands and touch me
Hold me close don't ever let me go…"
Roman fell asleep smiling.
Snowflakes sprinkled from the swirling gray heavens like salt out of a shaker as Roman stepped out of Adams Hall late that afternoon. His Microbiology exam had been a cakewalk. He'd nearly laughed aloud at half the questions. Which of the following do prokaryotes not contain? A nucleus, obviously. How about a challenge next time, Professor? But he hadn't wanted his obviously struggling classmates to feel inferior, so he answered the questions at his own pace—much quicker than that of his peers—and turned the exam in with forty-five minutes to spare. Too easy.
He zipped up his black jacket and shuffled towards the parking lot as the ice crystals tumbled in whipping winds, smacking him in the face. Winter was due early this year. Thanksgiving was still weeks away. Colorado had a complicated weather system.
In spite of the weather, Roman wasn't ready to go home quite yet. He jumped onto the highway and took the next exit to downtown Colorado Springs. Escape Velocity was his favorite shop in the city. It was a clean, friendly comic book store with helpful staff who knew him by name at this point. Roman couldn't even hate how lame that made him sound. So he liked comics. So what? They were a great way to pass the time while he was riding the exercise bike at the gym. It wasn't like he had a workout partner, anyone to talk to whenever he went.
Parking was free on the narrow streets of downtown after five PM; even so, it was difficult to find conveniently open spots near his destination. Roman parallel parked behind a Corvette, in front of a giant Ford truck, two blocks away from Escape Velocity. The sun had stooped behind the distant mountains, and the temperature was dropping by the minute. Roman didn't mind the walk or the cold. That's what jackets were for.
Roma pushed past men leaving work, dressed in suits and clutching briefcases, and women in pencil skirts and low-cut blouses and leopard-print scarves. He awkwardly strolled past homeless citizens with shopping carts and overflowing torn backpacks. Downtown was an interesting scene. Diverse and dangerous. You never knew what to expect on these streets, especially at night.
Roman pushed the glass door open to Escape Velocity. A short, scrawny man with long black hair similar to his—though Roman's was thicker and not nearly as curly—looked up at him from the counter and gave Roman a welcoming smile.
"Hey there, Roman. How's it going?"
"Pretty good, Neville, how 'bout yourself?"
"Living the dream, dude. What brings you in tonight? Cable out?"
"I was wondering if you had the next edition of The Walking Dead in yet."
Neville clicked his tongue. "I might. Lemme check in the back right quick." His thin figure swooped over the counter, and he darted towards a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. "Yo, Cody. Roman's in looking for the next Walking Dead. We have that in?"
"Uh…" an unsure voice came back. "Maybe."
Roman browsed the aisles in his wait, his fingers brushing over issues of Doctor Strange and Paper Girls and—oh, ew, don't touch that one—Identity Crisis. One of the worst he'd ever read. He found it amusing how the comic from 2004 was still available for purchase, and marked down 60% off the original price. That was surely a bad sign.
Neville and his coworker Cody Rhodes surfaced from the back room together. Neville was upholding a delicate comic book swathed in shrink-wrap. "Technically this won't be released until tomorrow, but for our favorite customer, I think we can make an exception."
Thrill swelled in Roman like a balloon. "Really?"
Neville handed Roman the comic over, which he held as delicately as an infant. "Sure thing, Reigns. You're pretty much the reason we're still in business."
"Thanks, guys. That's really cool of you."
"Don't even worry about it," Cody said, waving his hand.
Roman paid full price for the new comic, as well as a black and red Deadpool shirt from the wall and a new Marvel comic, Star Wars #5. He knew Neville had hooked him up with a discount when the total was far cheaper than he expected. He made up for the price difference by throwing in something from the discount basket on the counter, a Ronan the Accuser action figure. I am such a fucking nerd. The only person who knew this, besides the kind gentlemen at this store—the only person who really knew Roman, really—was his not-exactly-a-friend Randy. Even so, Roman kept to himself with all things nerd and geek. Randy wasn't all about it like he was.
Neville handed Roman a great white bag bearing his purchases. The name of the store was printed in bold atop an image of a purple rocket ship.
"Thanks for coming by, Roman," Neville said.
"And hey, let us know if you're ever looking for work. You'd fit in pretty well here."
"I would," Roman agreed. Working here would be the perfect job. Getting paid to hang with Neville and Cody and talk nerdy all day. Wasn't that the dream. It would make his college career more bearable, that was for certain. But he had no plans on leaving the coffeehouse just yet. He liked it there. For one reason and one alone, he loved it. "I'll be back soon enough, anyway."
"Looking forward to it," Neville said.
Roman held his bag tight against his side and pushed into the brisk winter evening. He had to wait amongst a group of people for the light to turn green so he could cross and continue forward.
But something on the other side of the street apprehended his attention first. He wasn't going back to his car quite yet.
Even in the dark of evening, the hinderance of vision and movement in the freezing air, he'd recognize that guitar-playing cutie anywhere.
And it looked like he was in trouble.
A plump, bearded man towered over Dean, who sat on a snow-laced wooden bench outside Kali's Etiquette clothing store. His guitar case rested on the bench beside him. He sat rather casually for someone who was getting barked at, a foot up on one knee and his arms stretched out over the back of the bench. Dean said something in an easygoing manner. Whatever he said provoked the stout man to squat down so his face was in Dean's, bits of saliva casting from his mouth to Dean's face. Dean wiped the slobber away, his unconcerned manner unaltered.
Roman had to intervene. As calm and collected as Dean looked, Roman wasn't about to allow the situation to escalate. He jogged across the street in front of an oncoming Honda, who honked at him. Roman ignored the irate driver. The blast was enough to disrupt Dean and this nut job's conversation.
Dean's face seemed to light up when he spotted Roman approaching. "Hey, I know you!" he said. "What's good?"
"Hey. What's going on?" Roman asked.
"Who the hell is this?" the bearded rogue demanded. He regarded Roman with two soulless gray eyes.
"Hey, relax, Bray," Dean droned. "He's a friend."
"You okay?" Roman asked, looking down at Dean.
"Me? I'm swell."
"No, he's not okay," the beast—Bray, evidently—countered. "Mind your own fucking business."
Roman wasn't afraid of this guy. He'd been challenged before by scarier men. But Bray shifted his condescending glare back to Dean. "You're lucky you're even getting a warning from me, Ambrose. My boys aren't as nice as I am."
"They aren't quite as pretty, either. That's a nice shirt, Wyatt. You get that at the airport on your way home from Hawaii?"
"You're walking a fine line, kid. You think your little jokes and wits are gonna save your ass? We own you, Dean. We own your soul." He pressed a stubby finger into Dean's shoulder on the emphasized words.
"Tell your 'boys' that there's no trouble. No problemo. I'll get 'em their money, and you all can go home sweet home back to Alabama or wherever you and Luke are allowed to get married."
Bray seized Dean by his shirt and lifted him off the bench, pulling Dean's face close to his own. Dean still didn't look afraid. "Best not be talking that kinda shit around me, Ambrose. I know you. Everyone you've ever loved is a perverted fuck. You useless piece of shit."
Roman had had enough. He dropped his bag onto the ice-bound sidewalk. "Let him go," he said darkly.
Bray looked at Roman, not letting go of Dean, instead baring his disgusting reddish-brown teeth in a maniacal smile. "If you have half a brain, boy, you'd know to just walk away."
"Won't ask you again," Roman growled. "Let. Him. Go."
Bray chuckled softly. Then he swung a mighty fist into Dean's jaw. Dean's ribcage collided with the bench, then he slumped to the ground, groaning in pain.
That did it.
Roman struck Bray in the face with a hook of his own. Bray tottered backwards, dazed by the blow. Roman grabbed hold of his flower, touristy shirt and slammed him face-first into the brick exterior of Kali's. His pillowy figure collapsed to the ground. Roman set his foot on Bray's chest and rolled the man onto his back. He had a nasty gash on his forehead from the wall. Still crushing Bray's upper chest with a firm leg, Roman knelt down, snatched the neck of Bray's shirt, and hoisted him up. Now Roman was the one in Bray's face.
"If you ever hurt him again, I will find you and finish you off my fucking self. That understood?"
Bray's only answer was croaking exhales and rolling eyes.
Roman moved off him. He walked back to Dean, still on the ground, cradling his jaw and recovering from the hit. He stuck his strapping arms beneath Dean's and lifted him to his feet.
"Are you alright?" Roman asked.
Dean shook his head, not to respond with a no, but as though he was shaking off the entire situation. "I'm fine. But shit, man. You must be acing Badass 204. That was sick!"
"Let's get out of here." Roman reclaimed his bag from Escape Velocity, and he and Dean stalked off down the street, leaving Bray Wyatt behind.