the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #4

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OOM: Room 6620, #4

He hadn't dozed for long yesterday. And it had been another restless night, although not as bad as before - he still gave up in the end though, and slipped out of bed before Alex woke up. He thought she'd be awake by the time he got out of the shower, but no.

He went downstairs for a pint. Ridiculous really, at that time of morning, but he always recommended the pub after long operations that finished in the morning, so why should now be any different?

Of course, he got a bit more than he bargained for.

Which is why he's not trying to be quiet when he comes back into the room. If she wakes up, good. She needs to hear this.

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'Yeah.'

Of course he would. No hesitation. He spins on his heel, and yanks open the driver's side door. Keys are in the ashtray. He takes a deep breath, inhaling leather and years-old smoke, softened to something comforting and familiar.

'Mind the paintwork,' he says to her. He's something of an obsessive about paintwork and this car.

'As if,' she mutters, crossing around the bonnet, trailing her fingers across the hood as she goes.

She sinks into the seat, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. Something's off, and she knows what it is, but she doesn't want to mention it. Instead, she watches him go through the motions, and then glances up at his profile.

Something takes her, and she leans across into his space, one hand on his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss just in front of his ear.

He turns his head and smiles, just a little. Then the engine roars into life, full-throated and alive.

'Hold on to something.'

His foot hits the accelerator; the wheels scream as they spin in place. And then they're moving, leaving black marks painted on the garage floor, and the smell of rubber in the air.

She keeps one hand on his arm, bracing and laughing under her breath, letting the forces of acceleration push her back into the seat. It feels good. Better than that, it feels right, to be here at his side.

She lets her head loll back against the headrest, watching the garage lights flicker overhead.

'Try not to flatten any of our fellow patrons, love.'

She doubts he'll even hear her over the roar of the engine.

He doesn't hear her, and there's no one around anyway. He just goes for it, because the garage seems to stretch forever and he's curious as to how fast he can go before he has to turn. He's not bothered about checking out the other cars, he can do that some other time.

Of course, things get a bit hairy when what looked like a car in the distance turns out to actually be a wall. Still, he just laughs and grabs the handbrake, skidding sideways to round the corner into the next aisle.

Nothing she hasn't seen before, really.

It's crazy, how much she loves this. She remembers the first time she sat here, beside him, nails dug into the hand holds or the dash, gritting her teeth as he muscled the car through the streets of his kingdom. She was terrified that he'd kill them both before she ever had a chance to get home. And he always brought them home safe, always, without fall.

It became a part of her daily routine, strapping in despite his scoffed admonitions that it was unnecessary; letting the roar of the engine quiet her racing mind, letting the centrifugal forces push her out of herself. The Cortina feels different to the Quattro, not as powerful, certainly. But he seems to know it just as well.

She leans into the turn unconsciously, feeling the weight lift from her body and her mind as the scenery around them blurs. There's a rhythm to his movements that's comforting. Familiar. She sits back, elbow on the window sill, hand in her hair, smiling to beat the band.

Turns out she needed this.

'Love it,' he mutters under his breath, as he holds the wheel locked out. It might not be as good as doing it at home, where there is - occasionally - the danger of other cars, or pedestrians, to add spice, but it's not bad.

He pulls the Cortina level, and hits the accelerator again, flooring it and shooting back up the next row. Here and there, the spaces for the cars seem a bit bigger, like there's unnecessary room around them. He registers it somewhere, but thinks nothing of it...right up until he hits the brakes and the car screams to an abrupt halt.

He doesn't move though, for a long few moments. He just stares forward, as if trying to decide what he should do.

One hand braces against the dash as he brakes, and her gaze flicks around the car. Instantly, she's on high alert again.

'What? What's the matter?'

He frowns, like he's puzzled. Like maybe he didn't see what he thought he saw.

Then he slings his arm 'round the back of her seat, turns, and reverses back at speed.

She'll get it when they stop. He did see what he thought he saw. The reason some cars have extra space around them is because they're broken. There are bits hanging off.

He kills the engine on the Cortina, and gets out. And just looks at the remains of his Quattro.

She sees it the moment they pull level with it, and her jaw drops. The door handle is in the wrong place, and she fumbles to get it open.

Sure enough, the car she remembers they left on the flight line is parked here, riddled with bullets, shattered windscreen, looking like a battered warrior brought home on her shield.

'Bloody hell...'

He leans back against the Cortina, and automatically pulls a fag out. He's assessing the damage too, catalouging ever bullet hole and dent, every piece of twisted metal, because it takes his mind off how it feels to see it like this. He really loved that car. It's all part of the change, of course. Just like Luigi packing up and moving on. No loose ends. But the difference is, he'd got rid of the Cortina willingly after Sam. He wasn't ready to lose the Quattro, and everything that went with it.

So he can't help the sadness that washes through him when he sees it like this. He had thought, just maybe, he might find it here again - but he thought it'd be whole. Not like this.

Alex walks towards it, reaching out one hand to touch the roof on the passenger side, running her fingers over the damage like she's touching an old friend.

It does feel like she's looking at the devastation they're both feeling.

She bends to glance inside, careful of the broken glass and jagged edges of metal. There's shards of glass everywhere, reminding her of the state of his bath when she arrived. Everything is covered in it. It takes her a few minutes to make a full circuit, at least as long as it takes him to finish that cigarette.

Eventually, she arrives back where she started, and she unconsciously mimics his pose, leaning against the passenger door, looking at him, wondering if he's thinking what she's thinking.

He watches her touching it, and walking around, and he doesn't move. He has no desire to see the ruin up close.

She leans next to him, and he drops the dead fag butt to his feet, and grinds it under his foot even though it doesn't need it.

'Come on.'

He turns to open the driver's door.

Puzzled, she eyes the parking slot again, marking down what aisle they're in, and if there's a number, she notes that as well.

'Ever worked on your own car before?'

It's a gentle question, because she doesn't know where he's at right now. He may just want to walk away from it all, and forget it, too.

He pauses, and glances over to her.

'Not with anythin' like that. Wouldn't know where to start.'

He gets back in the car that works, and waits for her to join him.

'If it's stopped raining, we can go out for that walk, if you want.'

'Yeah, okay.'

She settles in again, glancing back at the Quattro again before they pull away.

Her lips pull thin, her mind racing.

'If they have garage bays here, maybe they have other facilities for mechanics? A body shop, maybe? The rest is just parts and tools, hmm? Maybe there's even a mechanic-on-duty or somesuch?'

'Don't know.'

He's completely non-commital. What's the point of fixing it? He can't take it home, and it'll cost a fortune.

He drives sedately this time, just cruising along and counting the vehicles they pass in an idle sort of way. He parks up without further comment, and waits for her to get out before wandering back to the lift.

She follows in his wake, glancing back over her shoulder once before stepping into the lift with him. 'Well, you can't just leave her like that.'

Did she just use a feminine pronoun when referring to a car? Yes, yes she did.

'Why not?'

He leans against the back wall, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

'That's how it's supposed to be. It wouldn' have happened if it weren't.'

Edited 2012-08-08 21:17 (UTC)

She doesn't like where this is leading, and steps right up into his personal space, resting one hand at his waist, her gaze focused somewhere in the middle of his chest.

'Yes, but that doesn't mean it has to stay that way. Looks like we're not the only ones that get a second chance.'

He looks at her steadily, implacable.

'It's just a car, Bols. An' you never liked it that much anyway. Leave it.'

'You're wrong about that.'

She looks up into his face, just as steady.

'I may have resented the attention you paid it, but I never said I didn't like it. It represented a kind of freedom you had, that I didn't.'

His eyebrows lift. She's getting poetic about the motor now?

'Well, now neither of us have a car. You should be happy.'

There's no bite in that, or meanness, or resentment. It's just a statement that points out their equilibrium, as she's just defined it.

'Well, I'm not,' she says, pouting as she smooths his lapels. She was jealous of more than the freedom it represented. She still wishes he would look at her with that much affection.

'I don't like the idea of you without a car. Something with a big, growly motor to run down the scum of Fenchurch East. There's something deeply wrong about the idea of you having to use a pool car every day.'

'I don't. There'll be a Merc waiting the morning after.'

He doesn't look at her with the same affection because she's not an inanimate object, and his feelings towards real people are quite a lot more complicated than towards a car. Blind adulation is not something that'll ever be written on his face, but that doesn't mean feeling doesn't run deep.

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