Chapter Text
Two weeks.
Randy Bradley had been missing in the state of Louisiana for two weeks. Four people, people that Randy had seen on their last day on Earth, had been dead for two weeks. Two weeks without a phone, without a call to his family, without a kitchen to make meals in or a proper bed to sleep in. For the first week he had been maddeningly sleep deprived, but after six days the exhaustion had won. Now, he slept consistently, but his dreams were plagued with bodies and the sound of a shotgun. In his dreams, Randy never saw his face, but he heard his voice. Sometimes he felt his hands on him, depending on the day he was dreaming about. The man that had put him in this position, the man who had uprooted his entire life and changed everything. The man he had been trapped with for two weeks.
Benson.
Randy was sure he had every facial expression, every speech pattern, every line of Benson's hands put to memory after spending so many hours on the road. They had worked together for a year before this, but clearly Randy had never really known him. He'd never known he was capable of it all. Benson had been quiet, but polite. A nice guy to work with. He had even stuck up for Randy a couple of times predating the incident. Randy had seen him as an ally, and while Benson still viewed himself as such, still insisted that he was helping him, Randy didn't know what to think anymore. He kind of hated him, kind of smiled with him more than he was comfortable with. Kind of stopped looking for ways to run.
It wasn't that Randy had given up on seeing his family again. It wasn't that he was completely unafraid of Benson. Benson terrified him. The anger and the violence, yes, but more so the kindness. When Benson was kind to him, when he comforted him, when he touched him, that was when Randy was at his most afraid. He wanted to lean into it. All of Randy's relationships, outside of his familial ones, had been skin deep. No one had ever broken him open the way Benson had, and it made Randy's skin crawl. He had needed it for so long and was terrified that this was the way he'd finally gotten it. All of the blood and the pain and Randy had exited on the other side with someone who, for the first time, truly saw him. Why now? Why him?
So it wasn't that Randy had given up, but he'd grown...complacent.
Being on the road with Benson was not always unbearable. Sometimes, on the days that Benson was in a good mood, on the days that Randy avoided prodding at him until he bit, Randy could close his eyes and forget why they were on the road in the first place. Those were the days when Randy would imagine how they'd be if he had grown closer to Benson before all of this. If, on one of the many days they had closed together, he'd have been brave enough to spark up a real conversation with the man. Would they have been friends? Could Randy have avoided this? Could he have saved them? Could he have saved Benson?
That was a dangerous road to venture down. The closer Randy was to caring about Benson, the closer he was to needing him. The closer he was to needing him, the closer he was to losing his old life forever. Maybe Randy had already crossed that line, maybe he had crossed it a while ago.
Maybe he had crossed it as soon as he began looking at Benson like this. He dared a glance at the drivers seat where the other man was sitting, one hand on the wheel, the other hand out the window, a cigarette trapped between his fingers. Randy liked to watch him smoke, tracked his inhales and the amount of seconds he took before pushing the smoke from his lungs. He hoped it was the boredom that left him studying Benson this way, as opposed to something deeper. Something Randy would never be able to justify within himself.
Benson had caught him staring.
When their eyes met, Randy had to force himself to hold the contact. He wanted to crumble underneath the weight of it, to push himself against the door of the car until he was physically as far away from the other man as possible. "What? You want a drag or somethin'?"
Did he? Randy had never smoked before, he'd probably inhaled enough second-hand smoke in the past two weeks to infect his lungs forever. "No....sorry. I was just thinking."
"Nothin' to apologize for." It hadn't been that kind of a thing to say, but Randy latched on to the reassurance anyway.
"Benson." He'd only said his name to watch the way his eyebrows pressed up in response. "Where are we going?"
Benson smiled, cruel and condescending. "C'mon, you know I'm not gonna tell you that."
"No, no...I know. I mean, where are we stopping?"
They had been driving for hours at this point, and Randy could tell in the sag of his shoulders and the three cigarettes within the hour that Benson was tired. It was a toss up for where they'd wind up. Sometimes, when he was feeling generous, Benson would snag them a motel room. Having a real bed to sleep in and a warm shower made all the difference, and Randy savored those nights. Other times, when things were tight, they found a secluded spot on the side of the road to sleep. Those nights were harder. Randy usually lay awake, watching the headlights of the other cars pass and wondering if any of them would stop. If they did- wondering what they would think. Two men stretched out in the backseat, Benson's arms around him like a cage, to ensure he wouldn't make a run for it in the middle of the night. Benson was a light sleeper. Randy knew better.
"Why? You wanna put in a request?" Benson took another drag of his cigarette and tossed it out the window.
"You're tired."
Benson frowned. He wasn't as difficult to read as he tried to be. Not to Randy. Randy had been studying him. "So what?"
"So...you should sleep." He wasn't sure why he was pushing it, perhaps it was solely to break the silence. "It's not good for you to go so long without it."
"Your mommy tell you that?"
The comment stung, but Randy wasn't going to let it get to him. Benson was getting defensive because Randy was right, they had played this game a thousand times before. Half of their conversations on the road had been the two of them going in circles. Benson was impossible sometimes.
"Everybody knows that, Benson."
Randy's exasperation had seeped into his voice. "Jesus. Are you tired? Sound pretty cranky over there."
If Randy took the blame, Benson would stop. As cruel as he was, as many times as he'd put his hands on him, he always took care of Randy in the end. It was disorienting to have the man who'd driven a fist into his stomach turn around and scold him for not eating or sleeping enough. To have the same hands that had pressed bruises into the side of his neck softly wipe the tears from his face. Benson cared in his own twisted way. Either that, or he wanted Randy to be the healthiest punching bag he could be.
"Yeah, Benson. I'm tired."
Benson's expression softened. Randy had made the right call. "Should've just said that."
They drove for another thirty minutes, until Benson spotted a dirty, yellowed sign for a motel. Randy let out a quiet sigh of relief at the thought of a shower and a mattress to sleep on. They both needed it. The building they pulled into was old, the doors for the rooms were rusted and the paint chipped away from the vinyl paneling. The older the motel the cheaper, and the cheaper the better. Randy wasn't sure what the plan was for when they ran out of money. He was better off not knowing. Instinctually, Randy scanned the outside of the building for any signs of the state they were in. He was never allowed inside motel offices or gas stations, wasn't allowed to see brochures or newspapers alluding to their location. Benson might as well have blindfolded him.
Benson parked the car and put a hand on Randy's shoulder. "Stay."
He tracked him with his eyes as he exited the vehicle, striding confidently towards the check-in. Benson's walk was naturally masculine and intimidating, something Randy felt incapable of. Everything about his physical demeanor contrasted Randy's own, down to the way they sat. Benson, with his legs spread wide and his back pressed against the driver's seat. Randy, curled in on himself, knees pushed together to make himself as small as physically possible. He had to get stronger. He needed to make himself bigger. Then he could put a stop to all of this.
For now, he stayed small, watching the door Benson had disappeared through with crossed arms. He didn't even bother to come out and check on him. He didn't think Randy would run. Randy hated himself for making him believe that. Hated himself more because he knew it was true. If he ran, someone got hurt. Even if that someone was Benson, Randy didn't want it.
When he returned, Benson was tossing a room key between his hands. He opened the passenger's side door, grabbing Randy by the arm and pulling him out of the car with more force than necessary. "Alright, c'mon sleepyhead."
Randy stood next to the car, motionless. "Shouldn't I grab something?"
"Don't worry about it." Benson turned to open the back door, going to grab the duffel bag they had been keeping their belongings in. He tossed the room key at Randy, who fumbled to catch it. That wasn't something he was usually allowed to have. "We're in 504."
Again, Randy stood there, waiting for some kind of direction. He'd never been the first to walk into the motel room before, and the sudden independence had frozen him in place. What was it that had changed? Was it Benson's exhaustion, or Randy's? He wondered, briefly, if Benson was beginning to trust him more, but Randy had decided a while ago that 'trust' was not in Benson's vocabulary. Was not a word that could be applied to their situation, anyway. Benson had retrieved the bag by now and turned back to Randy, waving both hands in frustration.
I said fucking go.
Randy decided it didn't matter why Benson had given him the keys, he'd done it, and it was safest to do as he was told. He moved towards the building self-consciously. It felt unnatural to walk anywhere without a hand on his back or an arm slung over his shoulders. The constant physical touch had been unnerving at first, but Randy had gotten used to it.
Still, Randy could feel exactly where Benson was behind him, even if he couldn't see him. His eyes burned holes into the back of his neck and Randy could sense his body behind him like a physical weight he'd been chained to. He pushed the key into the door, turning it over a few times before the door unlocked. Immediately, his eyes scanned the room, taking mental notes of everything inside. One bed, one nightstand, a television, a radiator, an old phone. The phone Benson was bound to unplug and hide somewhere, like he always did. The television remote would be hidden the same way, only being used when Benson was able to monitor what was on. The single bed was another constant, Benson needed to be able to feel him, to ensure Randy had no way out. Benson's arms were a prison in their own right.
He shoved passed Randy, dropping the bag onto the floor and moving towards the phone. "Go ahead and shower while I fix this shit."
"Okay." Randy threw the keys onto the bed, assuming that Benson would pocket them, and crouched down to sort through their clothes. Everything they owned fit him loosely, to ensure every item could be traded between the two of them. Boxers and jeans that hung low on his hips, t-shirts that slipped from his shoulders, sweatpants that had to be tied as tight as they'd allow. He settled on something comfortable and moved towards the bathroom.
Benson stopped him, hand grabbing at his shoulder and turning him harshly to face him. "Door stays open."
Randy nodded. "I know."
"Okay." He gave his shoulder one last squeeze before letting him go. "Be good."
What Benson had meant by that, Randy wasn't sure. There were only so many things he could get up to during a shower. Still, he gave a brief nod of agreement before opening the door. Randy hated this part, undressing with the door wide open. He'd never caught Benson staring at him, had never felt it either, but the fear was always there. Benson had already stripped him down emotionally, Randy desperately held on to any part of himself he'd been able to keep away from Benson's prying eyes. He got it over with quickly, relaxing into the safety of the shower curtain. The warm water against his skin always felt like a fresh start, after days on the road with access to nothing but truck stop restrooms.
Randy counted his bruises and resisted the urge to press into them. He scrubbed gently at the scabs on his palms, the small wounds he continuously broke open with his finger nails. His body had always been imperfect, scabs along his legs from digging into bug bites, broken cuticles from biting at his nails, red marks along his arms from his anxious, repetitive scratching. Randy had never been so broken as this, though. Every dark, ugly oval on his skin a reminder of where he was and who he was with. The wounds he'd inflicted himself, a reminder of his fear. He sometimes wondered if, after everything, he'd even be able to recognize himself.
He let the water run over him for as long as his legs would hold him, scrubbing until it was senseless to continue. He'd never be truly clean again, not after what he'd seen. Randy quickly dressed himself, not bothering to dry his hair fully, eager to be back within Benson's line of sight and absolved of all suspicion.
He looked up at Randy as he exited the bathroom. Benson was standing with his back against the wall. The phone, room keys, and television remote were all gone as Randy knew they would be. "Feel good?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Benson moved towards him, placing a hand on the side of his face. Randy fought the urge to flinch away from it, from the thumb that dragged across his cheek. He was searching his expression for something, disdain or discomfort, most likely. Benson did that often. Often tried to gauge where Randy stood with him.
So, we square? Everything's cool, right?
He hadn't found what he was looking for. Benson dropped his hand. "Get some sleep, Randy."
Randy had really tried. He'd gotten under the covers as soon as Benson had ordered him to, intending to submit to his exhaustion. He wanted to sleep. Sleep was Randy's only escape from the constant stress and aching, the violent roller-coaster of emotions Benson put him through on an hourly basis. Whenever he shut his eyes, however, he was hyper aware of Benson's movements around the room. Randy listened intently as he sorted through their clothes, heard the unzipping of his jeans and the turning of the shower valve. He could imagine Benson running his hands through his hair, scrubbing away the grime of the past few days. He heard him cough a couple of times, the drag of the shower curtain as Benson stepped out. If Randy strained, he could probably steal a glance at him through the door. He didn't know why the thought had crossed his mind.
When Benson left the bathroom, Randy shut his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. He felt the bend in the mattress as he silently crawled in next to him. It was only a few, short seconds before one of Benson's arms draped across Randy's waist. His breath was warm against the back of his neck, the familiarity of it comforting Randy in a way that disturbed him. Benson's arms weren't safety. He had only ever held him to trap him. Still, Randy pondered shifting away so that he could feel Benson pull him in closer.
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The police sirens were deafening.
Randy was unsure of where he was, outside of some nondescript building in the middle of the night. Blue and red lights flooding an otherwise dark strip of road. There had to be at least a dozen cop cars, surrounding Randy and his mystery building. He could hear voices echo from the radios inside the vehicles, but the words were nonsense to his ears. Whatever they were saying, it sounded urgent and unsettling. The whole scene left a pit in Randy's stomach. Why were they here? Why was he here?
Where was Benson?
There were no physical bodies to accompany the voices. Only empty cars, the empty street, and the empty building. Despite this, Randy didn't feel alone. Someone was there. The presence was suffocating him. Something felt wrong, but he was unable to locate the source of his panic. He tried to call out into the night, but his voice refused to surface. He pressed his nails into his palms, expecting to break open the thinly veiled wounds and draw blood, but he couldn't feel the pressure. He pushed a hand beneath his shirt, searching for the ugly, sprawling bruise across his abdomen. The place where Benson had driven his fist into him, unforgiving. He felt nothing. Randy had no way to ground himself within the disturbing scene. He felt like he was floating, but not through water. Something thicker, like sticky, black tar.
Suddenly, somewhere to the left of him, three gunshots rang out. Randy rushed to brace his hands against his ears, a desperate attempt to block out the noise. The sounds brought visceral memories back to him, the iron-heavy smell of blood, the feeling of it against his skin. He felt his insides threaten to spill over as his ears continued to ring. Randy didn't want to know where they had come from or why they'd been fired. He wanted to run away, but some invisible weight was bearing down on him, too heavy for him to sprint. As he lowered his arms, something caught his eye. A pale shape extended from the left side of the building.
A hand.
A hand, splayed out against the ground. Unmoving.
Randy wasn't breathing, he was sure of it. He was sure that, even if he'd tried to take a breath, his body would betray him. He moved towards the hand against his will, unable to prevent himself from stepping forwards. He tried to close his eyes against the sight of it, but none of the nerves in his body were reacting to his brain. The closer he got the sicker he felt, details coming into view. Short nails attached to callous fingers and slight scarring over the knuckles. Randy knew who it was without seeing the rest of him. He'd been studying those hands for days, had felt them braced against the side of his face and pressed into the small of his back. Still, he was wholly unprepared for the sight of him as he turned the corner.
Benson's body was still against the cement, dull and lifeless. A red, sticky pool beneath him. Three gaping holes through his chest and rib cage. His eyes, the ones Randy had known to be so wild and expressive, bore no life behind them. It was a disgusting, empty shell of the man he'd spent the past two weeks of his life with. The body without the soul.
Randy dropped to his knees and felt the blood seep through his jeans. He pressed his hands to the wounds, but felt no warmth beneath them. Everything about the man was distorted and wrong. This was wrong. Benson had to pay for what he'd done. Randy had to see his family again. The fragile life they'd built with each other on the road had to come to an end. Randy knew that, and yet...he didn't want Benson to die.
Randy didn't want Benson to die.
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Randy woke up dazed, panicked, and sweaty. Benson, who he'd fallen asleep next to, was no longer with him in the bed. His brain immediately conjured images from his dream, and Randy went cold. A sick feeling washed over him as he frantically searched the room for any sign of the other man. What he saw hadn't been real, Randy knew it wasn't real. He'd been having nightmares since the second grade and knew that no matter how they made him feel, his mind had no bearings over the physical world. Still, this nightmare had been new.
Growing up, Randy often dreamed of Mrs. Beard. At first, they were exactly as the event had happened, but as he grew older his mind began to warp the memory into something more sinister. Those dreams had been like a promise, a promise never to forgive himself for what he had done. They had dissipated after his reunion with her that day, and had been replaced by the scene at Burgers Burgers Burgers. Randy standing still, feet glued to the floor, unable to prevent Benson from doing what he'd done. Unable to refuse when he'd told Randy to help him, to go with him. Those events were still fresh in his mind, and his dreams were able to reconstruct them perfectly. Precise and real enough for Randy to wake up nauseated.
This nightmare had been something else entirely. Not a memory, not something he had seen in reality and had been cursed to relive over and over again. Those things had never happened. Randy had never been to that place, the cops had never made contact with them, and Benson hadn't died. So...was it a fear? Benson was stubborn and irrational. Randy had yet to consider the possibility that he'd refuse to go to jail. It seemed his subconscious was ten steps ahead of him.
Randy needed to see him.
He pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. "Benson?"
Randy heard a shuffling sound from inside the bathroom, and a moment later Benson appeared, toothbrush in hand. "Morning."
The sight of him affected Randy in a way he was still too groggy to dissect. Something about the light in his eyes, his uninjured torso, the casual way in which he'd greeted him, made Randy's head spin. There was still time. Benson was okay and they still had time to figure out what they were going to do. Randy corrected himself- what he was going to do. None of this was on Randy. Benson was the one running, he'd just so happened to pick Randy up along the way, and Randy had no intention of being tethered to him for the rest of his life. It didn't matter that the dream had hurt so terribly, or that Randy had felt panicked by Benson's absence when he woke. It hadn't changed anything at all. It didn't matter.
Benson's eyebrows furrowed. "You okay?"
The soft tone of Benson's voice didn't matter, either. "Yeah, just...thought you'd gone somewhere."
"And leave you here by yourself?" The sides of his mouth quirked up, like Randy had said something ridiculous. It was ridiculous. "Fat fuckin' chance."
It wasn't kindness that kept Benson at his side, Randy was a liability. He was a telephone away from ending Benson's freedom forever. Still, he took some twisted sense of comfort in the fact that Benson had found the idea of leaving him funny. Benson retreated back into the bathroom, presumably to brush his teeth, and Randy's feet moved before he had time to think about it. He hovered by the door, watching him as he ran the faucet without understanding why he was doing it. He knew that Benson could see him, but if it bothered him he didn't say anything. He eyed Benson's hands, muscular and alive and so unlike the ones from his dream. He watched Benson watch himself in the mirror, until he had to duck his head down to spit.
Eventually, the 'amount of time you can stare at someone without it being weird' had passed, and Benson gave him an odd look back. "I know you're too chickenshit to leave, Randy. You don't need to stand there."
He tried to defend himself. "I was just-" Randy was cut short by the realization that he didn't know why he was standing there. That response wouldn't be enough for Benson, he'd ask questions, the kind of questions Randy really didn't want to answer at the moment. If he admitted it, said that he'd had a nightmare and that, against every logical voice in his head, was worried about Benson, he'd never hear the end of it. Benson would use it as leverage, would hold it over his head to keep Randy wherever he wanted him. "I have a question."
Benson seemed unimpressed. "Well, go on."
The floor was his. If he couldn't express his concern openly, he could at least try to steer them in the safest direction possible. "What are we doing?"
"Now?"
Randy sighed. "No, Benson what...what's the plan?" Truthfully, he wasn't confident that Benson had ever had one to begin with. "How long are we going to keep doing this?"
For a moment, it looked as though Benson was going to get angry with him. He usually did when Randy asked too many questions or pushed too hard. Whatever had been simmering beneath the surface, Benson forced it down, turning to face Randy "Well..."
He grabbed his face with one hand, tilting it upwards and pressing a thumb into his cheek. It hurt a little, but the warmth of his hand was so distracting that Randy didn't mind. "I'm not quite done with you yet. Still too soft."
That wasn't enough. "After that?"
Benson sighed and dropped his hand. "Don't cross bridges till' you get to them, Randy."
What bridges did they have? When Benson was done with him, would he let him go? If he did, it would have to be under the assumption that Randy would turn him in. Letting go of Randy was Benson letting go of himself- of his freedom. If they got caught, would Benson drag Randy down with him? Randy thought back to his dream, of Benson's lifeless hand, and decided that getting caught was worse. If Benson pushed him away Randy didn't have to watch, even if he knew what would happen, even if he'd realized that Benson wasn't the type to go down without a fight.
He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why do you wanna know anyway? Sick of me?"
Randy answered before he had time to think, strikingly honest. "No." It made him a little sick that the answer had come so easily. "We've just been lucky that no one has caught-" You. "Us." Then, quieter; "Can't last forever."
"Who said forever?"
He had a point. Forever had never been an option. They'd been living on borrowed time to begin with. Still, the longer they had together the longer Randy had to dissect whatever was wrong with him and figure out why the image of a dead Benson, the man who had killed four people, left a bottomless pit in his stomach. "Maybe we should change some things."
Benson rolled his eyes and slung an arm over his shoulder, jostling him a bit. "Randy, you think too much about the small-picture stuff. I've told you this." Randy bit his lip to avoid talking back. As if anything about their situation was 'small-picture.' "Eight in the morning and you're bitching in my ear about tomorrow. You don't need to worry about that. Worry about today."
"Right."
Satisfied, Benson turned away to stroll out of the bathroom. It still wasn't enough. Benson was in charge, but he had never been rational. No rational person did the things that he'd done. Randy couldn't trust him to make the safest decisions, the decisions that kept him alive and gave Randy more time to find a way out without losing him forever. "But Benson-"
He groaned, but still turned around to face him.
"Have you thought about only traveling at night? Or getting a new car, or-"
Benson threw one of his hands up, a clear sign that he was done with the conversation. "Come on, Randy, we're in fuckin..." Randy froze. He'd almost slipped, had almost told him exactly where they were. Benson caught himself. "Nobody here is worried about us, alright?"
Maybe not, but I'm worried about you.
"How do you know that?"
Benson shoved Randy in the shoulder, towards the bathroom, and pointedly walked away. His opportunity had slipped through his fingertips. Benson was done listening. "Brush your teeth, we're leaving soon."
It would never be enough. Randy wanted a plan, a goal, some kind of end point. Benson said he wanted to fix him, sure, but after that? Would they ever make it there? Would Randy ever be able to prove himself? He dug his nails into his palms and kept himself from reaching out for Benson, knowing that his hand would be knocked away in return. Talking to him was like running at a brick wall full speed, foolishly believing that his atoms might shift just enough to let him through. "You're not listening to me."
Benson turned too quickly. He'd pushed too far. "I don't have to listen to you!" His expression was pure disbelief. "Last I checked, you weren't the one making the decisions here."
He needed to stop. He'd soured Benson's mood and it was pointless to argue. Still, Randy's dream had made him desperate. "I thought you wanted me to make my own decisions."
Benson rushed towards him, face too close, his tone on the tipping point of violence. Randy knew that voice. "Jesus Christ. That was not a fucking call to action, Randy!" He threw his hand up again, making Randy flinch. "I'm not talking about now, I'm talking about later!"
Randy said nothing. He looked up at Benson with frantic eyes, waiting for it. He'd brought it upon himself, and was prepared for it to hurt. He waited for Benson to hit him, push him too hard, to grab his throat and shove him against the wall until he apologized. When Benson moved his hand closer to Randy's face, he screwed his eyes shut. He could already taste the blood in his mouth, could imagine where his lip would split, could imagine himself biting into the wound later on.
Benson didn't hit him.
The hand that made contact with his cheek was soft, fingers lightly digging into the pressure point beneath his ear. "Look." He tilted Randy's head up until he was forced to look at him. "You don't need to worry about this shit, because I'm worrying about it for us." Us. "It's not your job to be freakin' out about where we're going or what we're doing. I've gotten us this far, yeah?"
Randy wasn't sure how to take that. Benson was the one who'd put them in this position, and he hadn't really gotten them out of it. There was something in the way that he'd said it, like he was doing Randy a favor, like somehow this was better for Randy than the normal life he'd had back at home.
"Sure, Benson."
The hand tightened around his jaw. "Try again."
"I trust you, Benson." Randy would try again, but not now. He'd catch Benson in a better mood, on a better day. "I'm sorry."
"Good boy."
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They didn't speak much for the rest of that morning. Randy didn't have much to say, other than what Benson didn't want to hear, and he was done prodding him. Had gotten him too close to his tipping point, he'd been lucky earlier, but probably wouldn't be so lucky if he continued to push. Randy mourned the loss of the shower and bed as they left the motel, knowing that it would be a while until he got those luxuries again. As soon as he reclaimed his place in the passenger's seat, his bones ached at the familiar position. Two more weeks of endless driving and he wasn't sure his legs would be able to carry him anymore. He considered asking Benson if he could stretch out in the back for a few miles, but hadn't gotten the words out. If Randy was in the back, he wouldn't be able to keep a proper eye on things. He liked to count the cars as they passed, kept track of the license plates in case they were from Louisiana, liked to search road signs for clues of where they were.
Today, he kept a closer eye than usual. When they passed a cop car next to the highway, Randy held his breath, waiting for his nightmare to become a reality. Twenty minutes after they'd seen it he was still jittery, biting at his thumb to keep himself quiet. To keep himself from asking stupid, frantic questions that would make Benson angry. He had the music up too loud, like he always did, and Randy would convince himself every few miles that he heard sirens approaching them from behind.
Eventually, Benson had to stop for gas. They pulled into an empty station off of the backroads, the lot abandoned with the exception of the clerk. Low-risk and high-reward. Still, Randy's mind played out all kind of scenarios. The clerk would recognize Benson from the news, would dial 911 as he turned to get his cigarettes. Perhaps the cop from earlier would arrive at the same gas station and take note of their license plate, matching it to a search sent out from Louisiana. He could imagine the clerk saying something offensive and, with the gun tucked away into his jeans, Benson shooting him without a second thought. The noise would draw too much attention, and they'd be done for. Benson would be done for, because Randy had nothing to do with it.
Nothing at all.
He watched as Benson reached for the door handle, speaking up for the first time since the motel. "Maybe I should go in."
Benson laughed at him, jarring and hurtful. "No. You're gonna stand out here and pump the gas."
"Please?" Randy's voice came out strained.
Benson's expression hardened. He didn't find it funny anymore. "Are you gonna make me repeat myself?"
He shook his head, reflexively reacting to Benson's frustrated tone.
"Thought so." Benson didn't look back as he exited the vehicle. "Pump the damn gas, Randy."
He did as he was told, but his eyes followed Benson through the window as he scanned the shelves. Randy's hand tightened around the gas pump as Benson chatted with the clerk, his customer service smile plastered to his face. It was a little comforting to see. Benson as he presented himself to the outside world. Randy had spent nearly a year wondering what was underneath that smile, and now that he knew he wasn't confident he'd take it back. He hadn't wanted things to go down the way they had, he would always regret that day, but to have someone around who presented himself so fully to Randy was a new experience. It drew him in and left him wanting to ask more. To know more.
When Benson came back, incident free, he dropped a bag onto Randy's lap.
"What is this?"
Benson scrubbed a hand over his face. "All day you've been staring out the window like somebody's chasin' us. I want you to stop."
Randy tentatively opened the bag, unsure of what to expect. Inside were protein bars and gas station pastries, what Benson usually fed him, but also a magazine. That was new. Randy couldn't remember the last time he'd read something that wasn't a road sign. It was a nature magazine. Benson knew him well enough not to grab something pop culture related. Randy wouldn't have understood it. Although, he would have read anything if it meant a distraction from the endless paranoia. It was almost...nice.
Benson reached into his own bag to pull out something else, the sharp sound of glass against glass meeting his ears. "Here."
It was a beer bottle. The outside was foggy and slick with condensation. He stared at it blankly. "What is this for?"
Benson nudged it towards him. "You, dumbass."
Randy couldn't imagine alcohol would help the situation, although he'd never been drunk before. He considered accepting it blindly, purely because Benson was offering him something, and it was difficult to say no. He thought better of it. "I don't really drink."
He placed it onto Randy's lap, exasperated. "Well what do you want then, a cigarette? A fuckin' joint? Tryna help you out here."
He wanted Benson to tell him it was going to be okay, even if he'd never believe him. Even if Randy knew Benson was as clueless as he was. He wanted Benson to convince him that they had time to work all of this out. He wanted to get a motel room for longer than a single night, to stay somewhere and really give his body a rest. He wanted to go back. He wanted to talk to Benson before all of this started, to drive away with him on a normal day, to be friends. He wanted to see his family again without sacrificing the first person who had truly understood him. He wanted to fix everything. He wanted to cry. He couldn't say any of that aloud, so he settled on saying nothing at all.
When Randy felt the familiar pressure of a hand on the back of his neck, he didn't move away. "Hey, look at me."
He hadn't noticed his eyes were wet until Benson's thumb swiped beneath them. Randy held his breath again, just like he had in the mall parking lot. It was too tender of a touch for Benson, left Randy conflicted. He was tired of trying to figure him out, he wanted to settle on something and run with it, even if that something was wrong. Even if that something painted Benson as more human than he was. Then he would ever be.
The hand slipped lower, from the back of his neck to his shoulder, and Benson rubbed small circles into his collarbone. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into you today, but you gotta relax."
Randy zeroed in on the contact without much thought. It was easy. Benson touched him in places nobody else had and it broke Randy open. He almost wished Benson would give him more, could imagine how he'd melt into his arms if Benson hugged him. God, he could use a hug. Randy had never been big on physical contact, but the idea of letting someone else support his body, with the weight of everything he carried with him now, was enticing.
Benson continued to press into him, hand extended across his shoulder blade, like he was trying to draw something out. "Stressin' me out, Randy."
It worked. Randy's mind felt warm and pliable. He wanted to let it all out, all the stress of last night and earlier that morning. He wanted to get everything out of his head and let Benson hang onto it for him, like he said he would. It wasn't Randy's job to worry about where they were or what they were doing. That was Benson's job. Always had been. "I had a nightmare."
The smile that spread across Benson's face was filled with ridicule, but the touching didn't stop. "Gettin' psyched out by a dream, Randy? Really? Thought something serious happened."
That wasn't fair. It had been serious. Everything that had happened since the shooting had been serious. Benson giving him the keys to the motel had been serious. Benson buying him a magazine, even more so. Something about their dynamic was changing. Randy being afraid for Benson was as serious as it could've possibly been. "It was about you."
Benson's hand paused, but he didn't move it away. His expression shifted, and Randy realized he needed to clarify before things got out of hand.
"I want you to be safe."
Benson rolled his eyes. "Come on." He moved his arm to drape over the steering wheel and Randy mourned the loss of the contact. "Not up to you to worry about me, Randy."
That made him angry. He'd known that Benson wouldn't respond well to it, had been prepared to be met with mockery, but dismissal? He was always checking to ensure he and Randy had a leg to stand on, but didn't seem to care that Randy was trying to keep them from toppling over. "Well you don't seem very worried about yourself."
It was a bold comment coming from Randy, but to his surprise, Benson wasn't angry. Something unreadable passed over his face for a moment, then it twisted into annoyance. He held up a hand. "I apologize." It wasn't genuine, the words were dripping with sarcasm. "Kinda hard to think about myself when you're fuckin...vibrating with fear over there."
He took a deep breath, holding steady eye contact with the man. His jeering didn't phase Randy anymore. "Then let's both worry about each other." It would have always turned out that way, regardless. "Now we're even."
Benson smiled again, the soft one he put on when Randy did something that impressed him. "Sure. We're even, Randy."
About thirty minutes into the drive, Randy put down his inhibitions and opened the beer. Benson patted him roughly on the shoulder.
"Attaboy!"
------------
The nightmare had made Randy's sleep the previous night unsatisfying. That combined with the two beers he'd been sipping on and Benson's subdued mood lulled him into a sense of calm he hadn't felt in a while. He'd pressed his head against the car door, concentrating on the vibrations of the engine, and let his eyes close. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but he had been in a perpetual state of exhaustion since the day they'd left Louisiana, and the repetitive scenery of the backroads was unable to stimulate him enough to fight it off. For the first time in years, Randy didn't dream. If he had, it wasn't significant enough for his brain to hold onto the memory. He only woke up when Benson stopped the car, sensing the sudden stop in motion.
Randy kept his eyes shut, assuming that they were stopping there for the night. He wondered what Benson would do if he pretended to sleep. If he would pull Randy into his arms and lay him in the backseat, or if he would just leave him there. Sometimes Benson talked to himself, if Randy stayed quiet maybe he'd get a new piece of him to commit to memory. A new piece of the unending puzzle that was Benson.
He didn't say anything. Instead, Benson sighed, and Randy felt the brief brush of fingers against his hair. The motion tied his stomach up in knots. Had he done that before? How often was Benson soft with him in his sleep? He considered stirring, but decided against it. If there was more, Randy wanted it.
There wasn't. He heard Benson groan, stretching his arms up above his head. Then, the car door opened, and he was gone. Benson never bothered to leave the car to smoke, the only explanation was that he'd had to relieve himself, or he was scoping out the area to see if it was a suitable place to rest. Randy risked opening his eyes. It was too dark for him to spot Benson through the windows. He let his gaze wander, but nothing about the car had changed. The two empty beer bottles were at Randy's feet where he'd left them, the magazine in his lap, his seat belt still on and tight against his chest. The silence left a hollow feeling within him, and when Randy's eyes drifted to the driver's side, he nearly lost what little food was inside his stomach.
Benson had left the gun.
It sat heavy and metallic against the dashboard. He felt like it was staring at him, urging him to do something. Benson had never been so careless, even if he thought Randy was asleep, even if he would only be outside the vehicle for a couple of minutes. What if he was testing him? What if Benson just wanted to see what Randy would do when given the opportunity to grab the gun? That didn't seem like something he would do. It was too risky, even for him. It was likely Benson just hadn't noticed, still didn't know, outside doing whatever it was he was doing.
Randy could take it and run. He could shoot Benson somewhere that wouldn't kill, take the car, and speed to the nearest police station. He wasn't sure he could do it, though. Not with Benson looking at him, betrayed and wild-eyed. If he couldn't shoot the gun, he could use it as leverage. Randy imagined himself pressing the gun to Benson's head as he drove, begging him to turn himself in. That would never work. Benson would rather die, would tell Randy to shoot him and when he couldn't, he'd wrestle the gun from his hands and take them back to square one. Randy couldn't hang onto the gun for long, couldn't use it properly, but maybe he could handle it just long enough to get through to him.
The idea was risky and borderline psychotic. It had been a pretty good day, Benson had even gotten him a gift. If Randy picked up the gun, any steps forward he'd taken with Benson would be entirely reversed. No more magazines, no more motel keys, and definitely no more beer. For a moment, he pictured Benson leaving him all together, realizing that Randy wasn't worth the risk and abandoning him on the side of the road. He could see the infuriated look on his face, could feel the physical manifestation of his anger smashing cold and cruel against his ribcage. Grabbing the gun was an awful idea.
It was also bold, the kind of bold Randy had never allowed himself to be. Bold was impressive. If there was any chance Benson would see Randy, gun in hand, and take him seriously, really listen to him, then he could live with the consequences. Benson could be as angry as he wanted to be, could express it in whatever way he needed, as long as it meant he was safe. Randy had to convince him to think things through. It was worth it. It had to be worth it.
When he reached over to grab the weapon, the metal felt as if it was burning him. The shape of it was foreign, even after seeing Benson handle it over and over again. He wrapped his fingers around the grip. It was too heavy, weighed down by the implications of Randy wielding it. He'd never held a gun before. He thought about putting it back, of backing down, but that would be just like him. Complacent, useless, and afraid. Randy wanted to change. Benson had changed him. He didn't want to be cowardly any longer.
He opened the car door, stepping out with the gun swinging at his side. Went around the car to look for Benson, who spotted him quickly, seemingly startled. He had been walking back. Randy had almost missed his chance.
"Randy? Thought you were asleep." His eyes dropped to Randy's hand, expression shifting immediately. Panic. Benson patted himself down, the realization that he had left the gun hitting him hard. A sick sense of satisfaction flooded Randy's head. "Fuck."
"Benson, listen-"
Then, there was the anger, quiet and seething. "Put the fucking gun down, Randy."
He couldn't run away now, not from this. "No." His voice was shaking, but he tried to stand tall. "I need you to listen to me."
"You don't know what the fuck you're doing with that!" Benson was yelling now, his voice sharp and grading to Randy's ears. He flinched against the sound of it. "Drop it!"
"I won't." He squeezed the gun so tightly he thought it might break.
A manic smile spread across Benson's face. "So what are you gonna do, huh? Gonna fuckin' shoot me? Go on!" That wasn't the reaction he'd be expecting. Benson didn't even seem scared. Angry and shocked, yes, but not afraid. He spread his arms out, morphing himself into an open target. "Take your best shot, Randy."
He stood there, frozen. Unprepared.
"Fucking do it!"
Benson knew Randy wouldn't shoot him, even if he had the chance of hitting his shoulder instead of his chest, even if Benson had killed people, even if Benson had hurt him, Randy would never have been able to pull the trigger. It was written all over his face. He needed a way to make Benson unsure, something that was crazy enough for Randy to be heard. Benson knew that Randy wouldn't shoot him, but...
Randy turned the gun over in his hands, settling on his right. He lifted it up and pressed the barrel against his temple, ignoring the way the motion made his insides want to spill out.
The look on Benson's face was harder to swallow than his sick. "The fuck are you doin'?"
The shattered tone of his voice was one he'd heard only once before, after their encounter at the elementary school. Back then, it had felt like Randy was watching Benson break apart. He saw it happening to Benson all over again. "Randy, what are you doing?"
His entire body felt numb, but he forced himself to stay upright. "Im going to talk, and you're going to listen to me."
"Stop."
"You stop!" Stop, stop, stop. If Benson kept looking at him like that, Randy was going to lose his nerve. The gun was going to slip from his sweaty palms and everything would have been for nothing. "Listen to me, please, or..." He dug the barrel further into his skin, making a point.
"Okay, fuck." Benson put his hands up, a white flag of surrender. "Im listening."
Randy's breaths came quick and shallow. He couldn't allow his emotions to blur the thoughts in his mind. He had Benson's full attention, may never have it again, it was the only time he'd be able to get through to him. All of this was serious. The way Randy felt about Benson was serious. There were no perfect solutions to the mess he'd gotten them both in, but there had to be something better than aimlessly driving towards the end.
"You...we need to figure something out. A plan. A real plan."
Benson raised his eyebrows. "Who said I didn't have a plan?"
"I know you don't!" Randy's frustration bubbled over. Gun in his hand, and Benson was still being impossible. "We're going to run out of money and places to go and- where are we going? Why are we going there?" Their traveling had felt as nonsensical as it had on the first day. Benson wandering the backroads of the town they'd both grown up in, the town Benson would never see again.
"There has to be a place where we-" We? The word had just slipped out. "Where you can go. I want you to get us there."
"Okay. We'll talk about it." Benson nodded at him, expression soft, like he was trying to calm him down. Randy couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. "Anything else?"
Was it working? It had to be working. "I don't want to drive around during the day anymore."
"Okay."
"And I want a new car." It was a big ask, but not unreasonable. Much, much safer. "We can...steal it, if you want, I don't care, but we can't keep using this one."
Benson nodded again, his hands still raised, as if any sudden movement would set Randy off. "That it?"
No. Randy knew Benson, knew how unpredictable he could be. He looked like he was taking Randy seriously, sounded like he was taking him seriously, but there was no guarantee. Randy shook with the possibility that, after he dropped the gun, everything would return to the way it was. Might even get worse. "Promise me."
Benson gave him an incredulous look. "What?"
"Promise me. Tell me you'll do it." Randy wouldn't believe it, wouldn't believe in anything until the words fell from Benson's mouth. "I need to hear you say it."
"Randy-"
"Benson." He shifted the gun.
"Jesus Christ!" Benson took a step towards him. Randy took a step back. "I promise, Randy. Whatever you want. Now, will you put the gun down?"
He hesitated. Randy had gotten what he wanted, or at least, he'd gotten the promise of what he wanted. When he put down the gun, he was going to lose everything he had on Benson. Any ounce of control would be stripped from him. To put the gun down was to trust Benson. An impossible act. Still, he was out of options. It wasn't as if he could press the gun to his head for days at a time, only putting it down when Benson fulfilled Randy's ask. The conversation was over. Randy was putting his life back into Benson's hands, this time, willingly.
The gun clattered to the ground. Benson was on him in an instant.
The first thing he registered was the pain blossoming across his back. Then, he felt the restriction of his throat. It took him a moment to realize Benson had shoved him up against the car, holding him up by his neck, his toes being the only part of his body to make contact with the ground. The reassurance had been a facade, then. Benson's eyes were bright with rage, breathing heavy, fingers digging into Randy's skin. He tried to grab at him, but his arms flailed uselessly. Benson's other hand flew to his wrist, twisting it painfully against the vehicle. There was no way out. He was at his mercy. The gun, forgotten somewhere on the muddy ground.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Gun to your head so you can fuckin- what? Talk to me?"
Benson slammed Randy's head against the car window. It was a miracle that the glass didn't shatter. "Thats crazy. That's mental institution levels of insane, Randy. Fuck."
For a moment, something broke through the anger. Randy saw it, the split second that Benson's expression faltered. Something fearful and immature. His next words came out shaky. "Scared the hell out of me."
It was pathetic, but Randy wanted to fix it. Hated himself for making Benson feel that way. Even as Benson pressed bruises into his neck and had possibly given him a concussion, even as Randy pondered the idea that Benson might kill him. It took everything in him to choke out the words, pushing past Benson's hand on his windpipe. "I'm...I'm sorry." He took a gross, gasping inhale. "I was worried about you."
"Im not the one holding a fuckin' gun to my head, am I?"
Randy felt involuntary tears wet his cheeks. The mixture of fear, pain, and desperation flooding every inch of his body. Benson could be as furious as he wanted to be, as he had a right to be, but he had still made a promise. Randy had realized some time ago that, despite all of the awful things he'd done, Benson had never lied to him. Hidden things, sure. He hid the motel phones, tv remotes, things about their location, things about himself- but he'd never lied. Randy still wanted to trust him. The last two weeks couldn't be for nothing. Randy wouldn't survive it if they had. "Benson.."
The grip around his throat loosened, and Randy drank in the air. Benson's hand remained, moving from his neck to grab at his jaw, forcing Randy to lock eyes with him. He was doing it again. Searching Randy's expression, his watery eyes and quivering lips, for whatever it was he wanted to see. This time, he must have found it. "God dammit."
Then, Benson's mouth was on his. The sensation was warm and surprising. It took Randy away from everything else, all of the fear and the pain, even if it didn't make any sense. Benson had no reason to be kissing him, wasn't he angry with him? Was it an apology? The emotions on his face weren't the ones Randy was used to dealing with, maybe it had overwhelmed him. It was possible that the kiss was a last resort, and Randy had left him with nothing else to say. He focused on the odd sensation of it, but wasn't physically able to kiss him back. Wouldn't have known how to, even if he could.
He pulled away, unreadable. "I'm sorry, Randy. But you can't fuckin' do that to me."
When Benson let him go, he stumbled, falling between his body and the car. Benson grabbed both of his forearms to steady him. Randy couldn't speak, could only look up at him in a way he hoped wasn't completely pathetic. The lack of oxygen combined with his conflicted feelings towards Benson's actions had left him dizzy.
The grip on his arms was still uncomfortably tight, but not aggressive. Possessive. As if Randy would run if he let him go. "Don't you ever pull that shit again. You wanna talk to me, just talk to me."
Randy nodded, even though Benson was lying to his face. He doubted anything would change. Randy would talk and Benson would listen but he'd only hear what he wanted to hear. Still, Randy wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that the kiss meant they'd reached some kind of understanding. That kind of thing was special, wasn't it? Was it sick to believe that the man who had killed four people in cold blood put any kind of value on a kiss? Did he put any kind of value on Randy?
He must have, because the look on Benson's face when he'd turned the gun on himself made him want to cry. Benson hadn't killed him that day because he saw something in him, since that day he hadn't let Randy go. He felt like a bird chained to a golden cage. Benson held onto him because he was something precious. That had to be special.
Randy had liked the way it felt, too. He didn't really care what that said about him, because no one else was around to chastise him for it. Just Benson. The kiss was reassurance. Benson's fear of losing him was reassurance, too. Randy meant something to him, and that gave him power. It gave him some kind of influence over this terrifying, daunting dream Benson had dragged them both into. Unlike his nightmares, it was tangible. Randy had time to change things, to press and mold until something like a happy end was possible for them both.
Benson's eyes scanned him up and down. "You good?"
Randy was only able to say one thing. "Kiss me again?"
Then, Benson laughed. It was genuine, not laced with panic or mania. Randy reveled in the sound of it, even if it stung a little. He hadn't meant to say anything funny.
"You are something else, Randy Bradley. Fuckin' crazy."
So are you. Maybe they could cancel each other out.
Maybe, just maybe, Randy would be enough.