oh and i know saturdays, they are busted

[stuntguy]

[ even out here, a little closer to the coast, it gets hot when the sun is out. but as dusk settles into night, the air cools and whips through the open windows of the car.

driver makes a smooth turn and pulls into the parking garage of the apartment. this is the car he keeps for them—him, irene, benicio—one that isn't of the many that have been linked to robberies around this city. he kills the engine but sits there for a while, starting out at the concrete wall.

he unlocks the apartment door and leans in through the doorway, looking around. it's a nice night out. ]

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[ex_laundering808]

[It would be romantic, to say her life has gotten better. Ever since her neighbor down the hall stole a kiss in the elevator, and then appeared at her door several nights later, his jacket splattered with gore and holding a bag of stolen bills, her life has regained a pale imitation of the color it once held. It can never be completely the same as before, she has seen too much to pretend she can think of him as just the handsome mechanic anymore. She could say, it might even be an improvement over her life.

It would also be a lie.

The city is too dangerous to stay in anymore, so they have to move. There is no choice but to run away, no matter what her fist against his cheek may have protested otherwise. Her life is no honeymoon: there was no shotgun wedding, no surprise whirlwind of affection, nothing but a plea in the dead of night and his hand holding out the car keys to her, asking, "Can you come?"

She can't get a job anymore: moving from place to place makes her employment history appear spotty, and fast food or waitressing jobs don't scrape together enough money to risk settling down in one city. Benicio gets a sitter when she can't take care of him, looking taller by the day, no longer so precocious but dark-eyed and silent, nothing like his father.

She and Driver don't have sex, never have. The closest thing to a consummation is an impulsive kiss or two, her fingers curling around the white stained, tattered edges of her jacket, congealed with blood. It's hard to find privacy, and she even thought about suggesting a hotel, but there's more than that to their relationship.

What she has traded her life for instead are long, sleepless hours of the nights, holding her breath, waiting for the police to appear at her doorstep. She watches the TV and listens to every report about the string of recent robberies, dreading the day she hears of his arrest.

This is her life now, yet she feels more like additional baggage in Driver's car, taken along for the ride. She wants more than that, she wants to be a part of his life.

When the door swings open, Irene smiles thinly, stepping away from the kitchen table, where she had just been opening fresh boxes of take-out food.]

Benicio's at the sitter's.

[She steps close to him, not stealing a kiss, simply wrapping her hand around his in affectionate silence.]

Welcome home.

[stuntguy]

[ driver has long since shed his satin scorpion jacket. it was too dirty, too old to wear around anymore. now the closest he has is something else quilted and embroidered, not quite identical, but a shell all the same.

but irene is there, and he smiles back at her, starting to shrug his jacket off of one shoulder. he doesn't say a word, doesn't ask questions, but he leans a little closer to her as he steps through the doorway. ]

What's for dinner?

[ even though he can see it laid out on the table. ]

[ex_laundering808]

Chinese.

[She doesn't love it: in fact, neither of them are overly fond of it, but her son likes the fortune cookies and it's cheap, easy enough to slide onto a plate after a long day. A sit-down restaurant has never been their style, nor can she imagine fitting in amongst the cocktail dresses and tuxedos, him with his leather gloves and her with the same rotation of dresses, wrinkled and sun-bleached from last summer.

To hear him ask is comforting, familiar, normal, the way a husband would ask his wife after hard hours of work. Even though they weren't spouses, probably never could be, even the barest imitation of domestic bliss is something she cherishes.

She closes the door behind him, taking his discarded jacket in one hand to drape it across a chair, not taking her gaze away from him, as if searching for bruises or bloodstains. She has learned not to ask where he's been, but her concern weighs heavily all the same.

She wants him to wrap her up in his arms, to kiss her, but as with everything between them, the most meaningful moments go unsaid.]

You want anything?

[stuntguy]

[ it smells good, as much as any chinese takeout smells good. he could eat. he lets his hand trail over the side of irene's wrist gently. ]

Whatever's good.

[ a dinner with just the two of them is rare, and he'll take advantage of it for what it is. ]

[ex_laundering808]

[She pulls away from him with a lingering glance, taking a plate and serving him a little of everything: noodles, rice, thin slices of meat, sliding it in front of his place at the table. She takes a seat opposite of him, although she claims nothing to eat for herself.

She has more to think about than her appetite. No matter how short their time is together, the uncharacteristic quiet moments, are the ones she loves the most.]

Did you go driving?

[From the slight strain in her tone, she means more than just circles in the parking lot. The time for carefree joyrides and night-time trips has long gone,]

[stuntguy]

Just around the block.

[ he doesn't eat yet, watching her with a half-smile. after a moment he pushes a carton towards her across the table. ]