Chapter Text
Ryland cursed himself with G-rated terms as he rode his bike home, trudging through the thick rain that was slickening the sidewalk. The sky was prematurely dark from the thick clouds blanketed across it, and the sparse streetlights did little to help guide him forward. His glasses were far down his nose as they were covered in raindrops and useless. He knew the storm had been on its way, but he lost track of time grading papers. Which, yes, he could’ve done at home, but once he got into it, he lost track of time. He always seemed to stay late on days he specifically shouldn’t, like when he knows of impending afternoon thunderstorms. Whatever.
He was focusing on not hydroplaning and wondering if goggles with mechanical wipers have been invented yet when something hard and fast hit him on his side, causing him to careen onto the muddy shoulder and for his unclipped helmet to fly away from him.
Ryland cried out as he fell sideways, interrupted by the ground, and his head landed on something hard and sharp and bad and ow. He immediately curled up, his arms not quite sure which part of him to grab for comfort as everything suddenly hurt, a lot. Shock took over as he groaned in the mud.
He then heard a voice through the loud shush of the rain.
“GIMME YOUR SHIT!”
Ryland’s eyes shot open as panic set in. Before he could even react, he felt the bookbag he was wearing be tugged harshly, yanking him backwards.
“FUCKER! said give me your SHIT!”
“Okay!! Okay!!” Ryland shrieked, trying his best to wriggle out of his backpack’s straps while his assailant was pulling at it. It finally came loose and he crawled forward a few paces before turning himself around. He probably should’ve just kept crawling and eventually ran away, but he couldn't just abandon his stuff. His attacker—a medium sized man in a hoodie, not much he could see in this weather—was rummaging through his bag roughly, surely wrinkling everything and getting it all wet and dirty.
“Please, I got–I think I have some cash–” Ryland started to reach into his pocket for his wallet. He’d much rather just appease this guy with money and maybe some cards he’d immediately cancel. Ideally. Hopefully he’d accept the payment so Ryland wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of getting a new ID and having reset his Coldstone punch card.
“What the fuck is all this?!” The man pulled his arm out of his bag, and Ryland saw a glint of metal in it. A knife? Did he cut up anything in there as he looked? Wait, that wasn’t what he should be worried about. There was a knife pointed at him now, held by a pissed off guy who only found middle school worksheets and tomorrow’s lesson plans instead of… whatever he thought a guy riding a bike in the rain would have.
“I’m–sorry, I’m a teacher–” Why am I apologizing to him?! “Here, look, I got–you want money?” Ryland finally had his wallet out. While keeping his eyes on the shrouded figure, he reached into the cash pocket with shaky hands, pulling out the bills. He took a glance down at what he was holding. Eight dollars.
Fudge.
“This some fucking bullshit! No laptop?! No nothin?!" the man complained as he threw Ryland’s bag roughly onto the mud. He turned his focus to the bike and marched over to it. Oh, good, Ryland thought. He'll take the bike as collateral! That sucks, but a new bike is better than dying—
The guy grabbed at the tipped bike and looked back at Ryland.
“You fucking owe me, bitch!"
He raised his knife and crashed it down, slashing the back tire.
What.
“What d’you think of that shit, huh?!” He stepped forward and gave the front tire a nice stab as well. Both tires hissed, harmonizing with the rainfall. "That's what you get when I don't get what I want!”
Ryland blinked. "Um… you could've just taken the bike?"
Ryland swore he heard the man growl as he stood up and started to march towards him. Ryland threw the cash in front of him with a pathetic squeal as he tried to back himself away from his aggressor, who seemed unfortunately uninterested in the four bills that now lay in the mud. His hand slipped around on the ground as he held the other one up in defense, little that would do, and his heels tried to find purchase in the slick mud to push him backwards. Rain and what was probably blood was running down his face and into his eyes, clouding his already subpar vision.
“Hey, man, w-wait, why don’t we–I’m sorry I don’t have more, I could–What do you wa—”
His attacker raised his knife into the air threateningly. Ryland’s breath caught in his throat.
“I'M GONNA TEACH THAT SMART MOUTH A FUCKING LESS—"
A dark shadow swooped in from the street, cracking into the man, sending him flying to the ground with a grunt. Ryland gasped. The man fell hard, just like Ryland had, but he stayed down, still and silent.
Ryland’s chest heaved as he stared at the lump on the ground until he had the wherewithal to look back up. In place of where the man had been standing was someone else. It was still hard to see without his glasses and in the dark with rain and blood in his eyes, but he saw that they were simply standing there, tall, poised, backlit by the streetlamp, breathing heavily. Looked like they were staring down at the assailer, like they were waiting, like they were making sure the man was staying down.
Ryland used his cleaner hand to try to clear his eyes as best he could. It was futile, but when he looked back up, the man was looking at him, making Ryland’s blood run a bit cold. It was a little easier to see him, though, and he looked… familiar?
“Uh… thanks for that.”
“You okay?”
The man’s voice was so quiet Ryland could barely hear him over the rain.
“Oh–” Ryland did a quick self assessment. “Just some bumps and bruises, I think–”
He started to try to get up but hissed when his entire body protested the motion. A hand appeared in front of him. His savior–ah!–the stranger was holding it out to help him up. Ryland graciously took it and he was hoisted up with ease. He hobbled off his right knee, the one he landed on and his bike had crushed, but at least it didn’t feel broken.
“Hey, uh, thanks, again, that was… what a start to the week, huh?”
Ryland was finally face to face with the man, and he could finally get a good look at him.
“Oh, hey! It’s you!”
This man was his neighbor from down the hall. Ryland had moved in a couple months ago and he’d run into this guy in the building and a few times at the grocery around the corner. He was much more soaked in rain than he’s seen him before, hair mopped on his forehead, bomber jacket drenched at the shoulders. His eyes were in the shade away from the not-so-nearby streetlamp. He just stared at Ryland with an unreadable yet still intense expression.
“You’re hurt,” he said, glancing up to Ryland’s forehead.
“Oh.” Ryland reached up and touched lightly at the gash, wincing. “Yeah, I uh… I must’ve landed on a rock. Of course. Gosh, what a mess. That’ll teach me to properly secure my helmet”
He surveyed the ground, glancing at the man who continued to not be awake, and moved slowly to pick up his discarded bag. He zipped it closed, deciding to assess the damage once he got home. His glasses were next to the rock that unsuccessfully cushioned his fall, miraculously unbroken but dirty as heck. He folded them and slipped them into his shirt pocket before also collecting his useless helmet.
“Man, crazy huh?” Ryland mused as he wobbled back over to his bike. “What did this guy think he was doing? As if I’d have anything he wanted. Riding a bike in the rain, obviously someone with wads of cash on them.” He straightened the bike up from the ground. “It’s lucky you were around, I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t–”
Ryland looked back at his neighbor and saw the back of his head, having gone back to staring down at the man. He saw that his hands (are those… gloves?) were in tight fists at his sides.
Without turning, the neighbor spoke. “Let me take you home.” So quiet, so soft.
“Ah, no, that’s– I mean, you’ve done enough, it’s just a couple blocks, I can–” Rolling his bike forward reminded Ryland of what else the guy did. “Oh, that’s right… son of a biscuit…”
He sighed and hung his head a moment before he looked to the neighbor, who’d finally turned to look at him back. He was more illuminated from this angle so his blue eyes were on full display, and Ryland could almost read concern or pity in that otherwise stony expression.
“I think I’ll take you up on that ride,” Ryland relented.
The corners of the neighbor’s mouth actually curled upward into a small smile, something Ryland previously thought impossible, and he couldn’t help but smile back.
—
The Driver wanted nothing more to turn back around and kick this guy’s teeth in.
Well, not nothing. He wanted 306 to be home safe. To be cleaned up and comfortable and happy. For him to not have just gone through what just happened.
But he really wanted to kick this guy’s teeth in.
If it hadn’t have been for that stupid fucking red light a few blocks back, this wouldn’t have happened. He would’ve seen the guy coming, would’ve stopped him from assaulting 306, would’ve made sure he was home safe just like he had been for the last few weeks.
But now he was standing there with a gash in his forehead covered in rain and mud, smiling at Driver, holding his broken bike. Fuck secrecy. Driver was taking care of him now.
The attacker groaned and shifted on the ground, and 306’s smile fell as he looked down with wide eyes.
“Over here,” Driver said, gesturing to his car that was parked basically in the road just a few yards away.
“Yeah, yes, right, mhm, good idea. Let’s get out of here.”
So many words. Driver could listen to him talk all day.
They got to the car and Driver took the bike from 306 to put it in the trunk, against his protests. Driver went over to the passenger seat and opened it for his neighbor, who smiled sheepishly at the gesture. He started to lean to get in, but then stopped and backed up.
“Oh, wait! I’m filthy! I can’t get your nice seats all muddy!?”
“It’s okay. I’ll clean them. It’s leather.”
306 was distressed as he looked around, thinking. Driver didn’t give a shit about his car compared to him; he would let him crash it if he asked.
Then he exclaimed an “Aha!” and started taking off his raincoat, holding the sleeves so that they’d end up inside-out. Driver stared at him; he was wearing his usual business casual suit, though his tie had been removed and his shirt was unbuttoned several down. In the light of the dim streetlamp, Driver could see the shine of rain water and blood caressing his neck and collarbone as he folded the dirty coat in on itself so the mud was encased inside.
“There! That should help. The rest of me is cleaner… I think.”
All Driver could do was smile. 306 nodded and slipped in, and Driver closed the door. He clenched his fists a few times as he went around the front, glancing back at the guy still laying on the ground, though it looked like he’d shifted to his side. Maybe he punched him a little too hard. Maybe he didn’t punch him hard enough.
He hopped in the driver’s seat and subtly took a breath, grabbing the wheel tightly, the leather of his wet gloves squeaking. He could hear a buzzing in his ears, a growing drone overtaking the sound of the rain hitting the roof. He stared at the writhing lump over in the mud.
He’d touched him. He’d hurt him. Ambushed him. Threatened him. Soiled him. Driver should’ve been there, should’ve cut him off before he’d have had the chance to slam into him. Driver should’ve taken the attacker’s knife out from his pocket and used it on him, right in the throat to quell his screams, all without 306 ever knowing.
“Thanks again,” his neighbor said, breaking the silence. He fiddled with the folds of his balled up, inside out raincoat sitting in his lap. “For… well, all of these things. That you’re doing. And have done. Heh.”
Driver looked over at 306. He looked pathetic, absolutely soaked in rain and covered with dirt and blood, smile weak and apologetic. He was beautiful.
“It’s no problem,” Driver said, smiling again.
306’s smile fell and his eyes grew once again. “Oh, heck!” He looked back at the man still lying in the dirt. “Should we, like… call the police?”
“No,” Driver said, a little too fast and a little too loud. 306 glanced back at him, eyebrows up. “We can if you want,” Driver corrected after a moment. “But… Don’t know what they’d do to help.”
Driver was nervous. Maybe 306 would be the type to want to call the cops. He probably was. So naive of the world, probably still trusted the systems. He was considering peeling out of there before he could decide, but 306 spoke up before he had to.
“Yaknow… you’re probably right. And I mean, no reason to potentially ruin this guy’s life. He’s just…” He looked back at him. “He already got what’s coming to him. Hopefully this taught him a lesson, at least.”
What the fuck.
This stranger assaulted him, made him bleed, hurt him, ruined his bike, and 306 is empathetic about his situation. God. Fuck. He really doesn’t know anything. I’m never letting him out of my sight again.
All Driver could do was smile. He started the car.