Chapter Text
The bar was just across the street from that night’s shit motel.
Randy had noticed Benson noticing it, eyes flicking over as they pulled in, seeming to fixate on the half-dead neon sign, the thing flickering and fighting for its life. He isn't overly surprised that Benson stares at it, clearly considering the possibilities it suggests for a second.
It had been an exhausting, long week, and as much as slogging across the street to be trapped in a room surrounded by a bunch of strangers drinking ungodly expensive, watered-down beer sounded like hell to Randy, he could understand why Benson might see the appeal of drinking enough to let off some steam.
And then Benson looks away, and Randy hopes whatever thought Benson just had doesn't resurface.
His hope dies later, when, as Randy is poking halfheartedly at his mostly untouched takeout, the plastic fork supplied with dinner bending too much to really be of use for the task it had been set, Benson makes it clear the thought of a drink hadn’t left his mind.
Benson sets his meal aside for a moment, gaze flicking over to Randy for a quiet second before he asks, “You drink at all?”
Randy lets out a deep sigh at the question, eyes flicking up to meet Benson’s. Benson already knew the answer. They had done this before. Hell, they had shared a truly terrible bottle of stolen whiskey just a week back, car pulled over at an outcrop, staring out into the darkness, the bottle slowly passed back and forth between them. Randy choked down the brown liquid, fighting through the burn to get the numbing comfort it brought with it. Trying not to think about how the bottle he was drinking from had just seconds before been pressed to Benson’s lips. Trying not to taste Benson on the mouth of the whiskey bottle.
“It- I’ve already said, yeah, sometimes.” The words come out with a hint of annoyance that Randy couldn’t be bothered to fully swallow down and smother.
Benson, thankfully, either doesn’t notice or, at the very least, doesn't react to the annoyance.
“You ever go drinking? Ever gone to a bar?” The addendum is made as though it should have been obvious, and Randy is the one who was foolish for not understanding it from the start.
Randy can see the glowing neon sign in his mind’s eye. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, what he answers here. If he says no, Benson will say something like, ‘Well, we can’t have that, now can we?’ and drag him across the road to ‘experience life,’ and if he says yes, Benson will say something like, ‘Good, then you should have no issues with going to one tonight.’ All roads truly lead to Rome. Or in this case, the piece of shit dive bar across the street.
“... yeah, sometimes. Not, not a lot.” It’s the truth, he had been out, on his 21st, and once after, with an old school friend, but nothing beyond that. Bars weren’t exactly what Randy would consider his scene, as it were.
Benson nods and gives the inevitable response Randy knew was coming, “Yeah? Good, great, there’s a spot across the street.” Randy is aware, “We're going tonight. I need a drink.” Randy just nods and offers a quiet, “Okay,” in answer, knowing any argument against the plan would be in vain. Benson’s mind had likely been made up from the moment he had spotted that sign.
Benson nods back and says, “Finish your fuckin’ noodles.”
Randy stabs at a sad-looking carrot and wonders just how disastrously this evening is going to end. He does at least make something of effort to comply, even having cold noodles and grease in his stomach sounds better than nothing, if they were about to add booze to the equation.
He is surprised when Benson showers before they head out, taking the time to comb his fingers through his hair and tidy up his facial hair.
Randy doesn't like it.
He doesn't know why, but it sets his teeth on edge, watching the man he was accustomed to somehow always having at least a day's worth of grime stuck to his skin, make himself look at least mildly presentable for some small town bar.
Benson notices the tension, shooting Randy a look as he nudges them out of the room, saying, “Would you relax, Randy, it’ll just be a few drinks.”
Randy does not relax.
He stands on the stoop, watching as Benson checks the door is locked before sliding the room key into his back pocket, allowing Randy to get a glimpse of the handgun, tucked in the back of his waistband, before the sight is quickly covered back up by the brown leather jacket the man had lifted from a rest stop the first week of their travels, and taken to wearing ever since.
The flash of the gun does little to quell Randy’s already tense nerves.
Benson, booze and bullets. This evening had the makings of a disaster written all over it.
His annoyed stare must successfully communicate that sentiment to Benson, the older man sighing, glancing across the street at the bar for a moment before looking back at Randy and saying, “It’s one night, okay? Don’t look at me like that, nothing's gonna happen.”
Randy bristles at the claim. They were about to add drinks and strangers to the powder keg that was their lives- both tired from the weeks on the road, the constant tension of being on the run- Randy felt like he was more frayed edges and exposed nerve endings than flesh some days, and Benson didn’t seem to be faring much better. They were both wound up tight and liable to snap. Something was most certainly going to happen. “This is a bad idea, Benson.”
Benson drags a hand down his face, eyes flicking up in annoyance for half a second, before he responded, “Look, I am going out drinking tonight, alright? And you are coming with me, no questions asked. So you can spend the evening sitting in the corner looking like someone kicked your puppy, or you can loosen up and have some fun. You got that?”
Randy stares back at Benson. Sometimes talking with the man truly felt like trying to argue with a brick wall. “...Yeah… yeah, got it.”
Benson flashes him a smile which didn’t quite reach the man’s eyes and says, “Great, alright- c’me on then. And don’t look so fucken depressing, I’ll buy you a beer and then you can slink back to the room and… jerk off in the bathroom or something, Jesus.”
Randy stutters, flushing at the statement. Surprised at it. Sure, he knew how pent up he was, knew how long it had been- hell, he had almost gotten used to waking up with a stiffy every other day or such, lying there in the dim grey morning light and willing it to go down, knowing he had no way of taking care of it, not without his companion noticing, but- but he didn’t need Benson noticing. And he certainly didn’t need Benson commenting on it.
He had assumed they had both silently agreed by now to leave the growing pent-up sexual energy they both must feel unsaid and unacknowledged.
Apparently, he was wrong.
Benson chuckles at Randy’s shocked face, “I’m just fucking with you, Randy, Christ-” the older man shakes his head, turning away to start heading towards the bar, although not before patting Randy on the back, shoving him forward slightly, making sure the younger man started moving as well. Randy hurries to comply. As he does so, he swears he hears Benson mutter something under his breath to the tune of, “Could do you some fucken’ good though, fucken celibate.”
Randy bites his tongue and says nothing.
The bar is exactly what Randy thought it would be.
Which is to say, unpleasant.
There are steps leading down into the building, taking them off street level, down into what almost feels like a basement. The air is stale and musty and warm, and the room is altogether too dark and too bright; the harsh exposed bulb lights hanging from the ceiling hurt Randy’s eyes, but fail to extend the reach of their light to the corners of the room, leaving half the space in heavy shadows. Randy wants to turn around and leave the moment they push through the heavy wooden door.
Benson, however, pushes forward, so Randy, with little other choice free to make, trails on behind him.
The wooden floor is worryingly tacky under Randy’s shoes, clinging to him with each step he takes forward, as though trying to warn him away from the journey towards the bar. Randy wishes he could listen to the warning.
The bar isn’t exactly full, but it isn’t empty either. There is a healthy smattering of patrons for a Thursday night, a few tables filled with a mixture of friend groups and couples, and a few single stragglers seated at the bar.
Benson snags them two barstools off to the side of the bar, letting Randy slot in next to the wall before disappearing round the front of the bar to get them something to drink.
A few moments later, Randy is handed a glass of something which he can only assume is the cheapest beer the establishment has to offer.
He takes a sip and is mildly surprised by how passable it seems. It was… drinkable, he supposes.
Randy sips at the beer, sliding down in his seat, curled against the wall, wondering how long exactly he was going to have to endure this.
Benson in turn, downs his own drink in a matter of minutes and goes back for another.
It takes Randy a slow glass and a half to start to feel something other than tense.
Another glass down, and he finally starts to feel the warmth settling in his stomach, loosening him up.
Randy stares at the side of Benson’s face. The older man had been quiet, focused mostly on drinking and making sure Randy was drinking. In this moment, Benson was staring out over the room at the moment, eyes scanning across the other patrons, sipping at the beer in his hand. He looked almost like he was looking for something. Benson’s eyes linger, for a moment, on a couple sitting in the corner. Some small-town dickhead dressed in a grimy black singlet and well-worn plaid shirt sat next to his girl, a conventionally attractive blonde woman dressed in a tight red dress. Blondie is nursing a drink, looking uninterested in whatever her boyfriend appears to be ranting on about. The boyfriend's hands were waving sporadically through the air as he raved, almost threatening to knock over his own drink at times.
Randy’s eyes flick back to Benson. Benson was staring.
Randy’s mind jumps back to Benson’s off-handed joke about jerking off, his murmured comment about celibacy. It had been a long few weeks; they were both feeling it. Perhaps, Randy thinks suddenly, there had been some other reason Benson had dragged him out tonight. Why Benson had tidied up for tonight. Perhaps the man was looking to… get lucky.
Randy sees it in his mind for a moment, Benson and the blonde, pressed up against each other in one of the bars' bathroom stalls- he pushes her up against the wall, holding her there against it with ease, hand pulling up her dress, fingers slipping between her legs-
Randy feels his stomach curdle slightly at the thought. A cold ball is forming in his chest, wrapped around his heart.
He tells himself the feeling is simply too much cheap beer on top of several weeks of crappy takeout.
Randy looks back at the pair Benson is staring at. The man throws his arm around his partner's shoulders, and Randy decides he is pretty confident that if Benson is in fact looking to get his dick wet, he was barking up the wrong tree with that one. Benson might not be a… bad-looking man, but he likely wasn’t going to convince Blondie to abandon her boyfriend.
Benson looks away from the couple, and Randy feels the ball in his chest loosen somewhat.
Randy chugs down the rest of his beer, chasing the comfortable, numbing warmth of the drink.
He wants more.
As though thinking the same, the next drinks Benson delivers are a step up from watered-down beer.
He slides a gin and tonic across to Randy, the younger man taking a moment to eye the glass before accepting it, “Beer before liquor…” Randy murmurs out, more to himself than anyone else.
When Benson snorts and moves as though to take it back, Randy wraps a protective hand around the G&T. Perhaps some sickness would do him well tonight.
A drink later, and Benson was properly drunk and no longer what Randy would consider quiet.
At some point before Randy had finished his G&T, the other man had struck up a conversation with some drunk at a bar, a woman some 10 years Benson’s senior, not that Benson or the woman seemed to care, based on his smile and how she was all but leering at him in return.
Randy wasn’t following the conversation; he thinks it had started vaguely under the pretense of the woman asking if they were new in town, but had shortly devolved into the middle-aged lady droning on about her dead-end life, and how hard work was, and how she just needed to relax.
The ball is back in Randy’s chest.
And then she leans in and runs her fingers along Benson’s shoulder, and down his arm-
And Randy feels the gin turn over in his stomach. He slides off the barstool, muttering something about going to the bathroom, Benson barely sparing him more than a passing glance and the lightest of acknowledging nods.
Randy realizes, in the time it takes him to make it from the bar to the bathroom, just how intoxicated he really is.
And how much he does, in truth, need to piss.
The bathroom is about as clean and as charming as the rest of the bar, which is to say, not at all. It is welcomingly empty, at least.
Randy empties his bladder, taking the moment to stare at the window at the side of the room. It was high in the wall, had to be, to be at ground level. And small.
But Randy thought, if he really tried, he would be able to get through it. Get outside onto the street.
He had no intention of doing it, no intention of leaving, but it annoyed him how easy it would be in this moment to do so.
Benson was supposed to notice things like that, supposed to check before he lets him slink off to the restroom alone, or give him some warning, tell Randy he’ll shoot the bartender if Randy isn’t back in five.
Benson had let him leave with barely even a backward glance.
No, ‘sit down and wait till I finish my drink,’ not even a hint of, ‘don’t take too long and don’t try anything.’
Randy spends a long time at the sink, mostly just… staring blankly at himself in the mirror.
He doesn’t want to go back out there, and slide back onto the bar seat in the corner, sit there as Benson continues to let that woman throw herself at him. Wait until one of them finally suggests they take their conversation a touch more private. He would have to watch as Benson and that woman slip away to the bathroom, or some half-secluded spot out behind the bar, Benson finally noticing Randy just long enough to tell him not to go anywhere until Benson gets back-
Randy runs his hands through his scruffy mop of hair. It was getting long, unwieldy.
He wonders how long he would have to stay here, staring at his tired and sunken eyes in the mirror, before Benson would come looking for him.
Part of him wants it to happen, wants Benson to burst in, expression mostly angry, with just a touch of panic. Benson would shove him up against the wall, gun waving in Randy’s face, and Randy would hiss out, ‘Not here, not here, Benson, someone might see.’ and Benson would drag him back to the motel room and zip-tie him to the radiator for the night-
For fucking up, and testing the limits and not coming back when he was supposed to. He can almost feel the phantom bite of the plastic against his flesh, god does he want it to be real.
It would be so easy then, so easy to be sat there, in the dark, Benson snoring some handful of feet in front of him, able to tug on his binds and know Benson wants to keep him there bad enough to do something like that to ensure he couldn’t leave.
He hates himself for how badly he wants that. How badly he wants to see the door thrown open and Benson’s enraged face staring back at him.
The door does swing open, Randy jumps, head snapping up in a panic, heart beating out a frantic pattern against his chest- the drunken stranger barely offers Randy a passing glance, ambling past him to reach the urinals.
This was stupid, Randy decides.
He can’t just stay hiding in the bathroom forever.
Randy shoves open the bathroom door, and begrudgingly makes his way back across the bar. The space is slightly fuller now, later in the evening. Not overly crowded, but busy enough that he has to slide past a person or two on his way back.
He winds up so focused on walking straight and not smashing into anyone that he doesn’t really bother to look up until he is almost there.
At which point he finally lifts his gaze to the end of the bar, where he had left Benson and the drunken woman, and finds to his horror that the barstools are both empty.
Randy stares at them for a moment, feeling a phantom fist wrap itself around his heart and squeeze.
Benson was gone- Benson had left him- the woman was gone-
They left together, Benson left with some drunk- Benson had the room key, what if he took her back, fucked her in their shit motel room- door locked behind them, Randy left standing outside, perched on the doormat like a dog, waiting for its owner to open the door and let it back in again. The worst part is Randy would wait, standing outside with nowhere else to go.
Randy stares blankly forward at the space where Benson had been.
He wants to crawl back into the bathroom, climb out that shitty tiny window just to prove he could and lie curled in a ball on the cold asphalt outside until either his heart stopped beating or someone found him and forced him to move.
He considers doing just that, for a long, long moment. Perhaps he would have, if the shouting from across the bar hadn't distracted him.
Randy looks over, following the noise.
His relief at seeing Benson lasts the millisecond it takes him to register that Benson appeared to be engaged in a heated argument with the wonder couple, Plaid Shirt and Blondie from before.
Mostly Plaid Shirt, to be fair, the man up in Benson's face, screaming something about respect, and Benson being a rude fucking asshole, a summary Randy can't say he disagrees with. Blondie is a little way behind him, arms crossed and watching.
Benson, for the most part, seems to currently just be standing there and taking it. But Randy can see the tension in Benson’s shoulders. The stress that had been there all week, growing as Benson struggled to find a release.
Randy had a sinking suspicion Plaid Shirt's face was about to provide the perfect sounding board for Benson’s stress.
Staring at Benson’s back, Randy’s mind goes to the gun, tucked into Benson’s waistband, and the indescribably bad consequences likely to emerge if Benson also remembers the presence of the firearm. He doesn't think Benson would shoot someone in a crowded bar. He is… about 60% certain of that fact.
40% felt like a worryingly large margin.
Some part of Randy’s booze-addled mind decides he should probably get over there and at least try to save Plaid Shirt’s life. For his and Benson’s sake, at least if nothing else, they really, really didn’t need the cops called on them.
Randy is just starting to head towards the arguing pair when he is pretty sure he actually hears the words, “Do you wanna fucking go, asshole?” come out of Plaid Shirt’s mouth.
Benson offers a dangerously cold grin in response, looking like that was exactly what he wanted.
Randy speeds up.
Plaid Shirt is looking ready to start swinging by the time Randy slides up beside Benson, the move earning him a glare seemingly from all parties involved, even Blondie. Randy ignores them, hissing out a quiet and panicked, “Benson,” hoping to distract the man, and drag his attention off Plaid Shirt, back onto Randy. Where it belonged.
Desperately hoping to end any bar fight before it has the chance to begin and get them out of here all in one piece, ideally without the authorities being called.
Benson apparently has other ideas, shooting him a side-eyed glare and snapping out, “Fuck off, Randy.”
“Yeah,” Plaid Shirt adds, “Fuck off.”
Benson offers Plaid Shirt a hard glare for the addition, and Randy does not fuck off.
Instead, he tries again. “Benson-” it comes out as a hissed whisper, Randy stumbling out the words, “don’t- whatever this is- don’t, just leave it, Benson, please.”
Benson returns his stare to Randy, “Fucking- Stay out of this kid,” he snaps, trying to shove the younger man aside.
Randy resists the action, trying in turn to inch in front of Benson, put himself between Plaid Shirt and the man, earning him an irritated, “Move, Randy-”
“No, Benson, Benson, you can’t-”
That, as it always was with Benson, was the wrong thing to say. Randy realizes it the moment the words leave his mouth, watches Benson’s eyes tighten, mouth drawn into a thin line. Benson reaches forward, balling his hand around a fistful of Randy’s shirt, yanking Randy forward as he leans in close. The older man gets near enough to Randy’s face that Randy can smell the drink in his breath as he says, “You don’t tell me what I can do.” The words are spat out, sharp, painful, as though they hurt Benson to say, Randy flinching back at them in turn.
Randy opens his mouth to stumble out an apology, say he knows, he wasn't telling Benson what to do, he really wasn't- he just doesn't want anyone to get hurt. He doesn’t want the powder keg to blow. Not here, in some bullshit backstreet bar, with shitty country music playing in the background and a fucking roomful of witnesses ready to ID them.
Before Randy manages to find the way to put that into words, make Benson realize what a bad idea this is and stop, Plaid Shirt decides, in all his wisdom, to make the incredibly stupid decision to escalate the situation. The man loudly and with an unearned sense of bravado leans over to interrupt Randy and Benson’s silent stare down and slurs out the words “You should probably listen to your little boyfriend, get the fuck out of here before someone gets hurt, faggot.”
Both Randy and Benson freeze for a few seconds, absorbing the words, before turning almost in tandem to look at the intervening man. Randy gives Plaid Shirt an incredulous look, as though to say, I’m trying really hard to save your life over here, and instead of accepting the help, you want to be homophobic about it?
And then Benson is pushing Randy to the side and swings.
Plaid Shirt goes down hard and fast. Blondie starts screaming before he even hits the ground. The noise is shrill, cutting through Randy. It reminds him, for half a second, of Jess, screaming after Benson reduced her boyfriend to no more than a bloody corpse.
Benson towers over Plaid Shirt on the floor, the man shakingly starting to get up, peel himself off the sticky wood, a dumb and dazed look on his face. As he does, Benson pulls back, ready to swing again. Randy can see the set, cold rage on Benson’s face. Expression dangerously blank, the man now focused on the task at hand.
As Randy stares at Benson's face, his brain flicks back, and suddenly he can see the teacher from the school in the image of his mind, can see the man’s face, cracked open against the asphalt, the blood on Benson’s hands, knuckles split open and bleeding.
Benson takes another swing at the man on the floor, and Blondie is still screaming, and Randy can see the future spiraling out in front of them. He sees Benson, driving his fists into Plaid Shirt, over and over again, until the man stops breathing. Until his skull cracks and his brains drip out and mix with the stale beer splashed across the floorboards. Until someone grabs Benson and drags him off the man, pins him down and holds him there, Benson’s face pressed against the ground, staring blankly forward as they all wait for the police to arrive.
Randy and Blondie would both watch it happen, standing there, shaking, as Benson beat Plaid Shirt to a pulp and ruined all their lives.
Randy can’t let that happen. Benson pulls back to swing for a third time, and with a sudden, and panicked jolt, Randy throws himself forward, into the path of Benson’s fist.
The fist makes contact with Randy with a wet and sickening crunch.
Randy discovers in that moment that he could take a punch to the face like a fucking champ.
He stumbles back, face exploding with a wave of pain, but manages to catch himself on the side of a nearby table, manages to remain standing.
He, he can’t help but note, didn’t hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
It’s not a competition.
But if it was, he is pretty sure he had just come out on top.
There is something wet pouring down his face; he can feel it, gushing out of his nose and spilling across his lips, dripping down his chin. Randy lifts a dazed hand to his lips, staring in fascination when it comes away shockingly bright red and wet with blood.
The sight, Randy thinks, probably shouldn’t be as breathlessly surprising as it feels at that moment.
There is movement before him, Randy glancing up in a sharp, startled move, to find Benson pressed into Randy’s personal space, all but bearing down on him, “Fuck-”.
Randy swallows and feels the ache in his face. One hand still on the table, holding him up, he slurs out the words, “Don’t- don’t hurt them, Benson.”
Hurt me. Like you just did.
“Jesus, Randy.”
Benson looks almost hurt by Randy's plea. The cold rage was gone, replaced with worried panic. “Fuck, okay, okay, you're alright Randy, Jesus, what the fuck did you do that for?”
Randy doesn’t bother attempting to answer.
Blondie is still screaming, Randy can hear her, distantly in the back of his mind- part of him aware of their steadily growing audience, the strangers starting to circle round and look on with a mixture of excitement and concern.
Benson glances around, aware of the gathering crowd as well.
Benson curses, taking the time to offer a final, venom-filled glare at the man on the floor before grabbing hold of Randy.
Benson yanks him forward roughly, away from the salvation that was the table, biting out a rough and low, “Fuck. Come on, we’re leaving.”
Randy is tugged in close, Benson wrapping an arm around Randy’s shoulders, almost pulling Randy to Benson’s chest as the man hurries them through the crowd, towards the door. In this moment, Randy can’t decide if he finds the touch comforting or stifling. Part of him wanted to rip himself away and refuse the touch, while another part yearned to lean in further. Wrap his arms around Benson, press his aching face to Benson’s chest and turn away from the world, let Benson take care of everything and guide them back to safety.
He does neither, mostly focusing on staring at his feet on the ground, watching the way the blood from his nose drips down and splatters on the wooden floorboards as he walks.
The crowd offers a thankful lack of resistance to their speedy exit, letting them through. Benson is shortly half-dragging him out the door and up the steps, hurriedly retreating from the bar. They stumble across the street, Randy clinging onto Benson, letting himself be led. Leaving little more than a trail of red droplets scattered across the asphalt in his wake.
Benson fumbles with getting the key in the lock, having to detangle Randy long enough to get the door open, the younger man staying pressed to his side as Benson curses and swears, biting out insults until they both hear the lock click.
Then Benson is shoving him inside, still quietly cursing, grumbling, more to himself than anyone else, Randy thinks.
Randy stands, for a moment, in the quiet motel room, unsure what to do, before Benson drags them both into the bathroom.
The room is tiny, barely big enough for two people, housing little more than a toilet and a shower and an already cracked sink.
Benson manhandles him around until Randy is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Benson’s firm hands on his shoulders, holding him there.
Benson raises his hand, snapping his fingers to draw Randy’s attention to him, fixing the younger man with a heavy glare and an annoyed-sounding, “Stay here.” Randy nods, and watches as Benson briefly disappears, retreating back into the other room, just to reappear moments later, carrying a handful of rags that Randy can only hope are something at least close to clean.
The man crouches down in front of him. There isn't much space, Benson slotting in between the toilet and the shower, leaning forward to wipe at the blood staining Randy’s face.
Randy can see the frown, knitted across Benson's brow. “God Randy… what the fuck did you do that for?” Benson asks, wiping at Randy’s chin, “Huh? What were you doing, getting involved?”
Randy pauses for a moment, before he just shrugs in answer, licking his lips, mouth open slightly as he searches for an answer.
The slap catches him off guard. It isn’t overly hard, no more than a firm tap on the cheek- Benson putting no real heat behind it, but it is enough to make his already injured face ache even more, his eyes watering up, tears welling in their corners, threatening to overflow.
Benson leans in close, one hand curled around Randy's shoulder, fingers digging into Randy's skin. His voice comes out dangerously low, “Don’t- lie to me. I asked you a question, which means you answer.”
Randy’s eyes flick nervously to Benson’s, holding the man’s gaze for as many seconds as he can handle before looking away, “I- i just didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Benson snorts, tension momentarily gone, the flicker of a smile appearing on Benson’s lips as he wipes away more of the blood, “Yeah? And how’d that work out for ya?” the man says, clearly in reference to Randy’s bloody and aching nose.
Randy bristles at the jab. Yes, his face aches, pain radiating out, around his eye sockets, down his cheeks.
But no one had been seriously injured. Benson hadn’t torn his fists open, beating a man to a bloody pulp. The police hadn’t been called. No irreparable damage had been done. Randy’s face would heal with time. So if that was the worst of it, then Randy was glad he had intervened. “You…” he pauses, huffs out a quiet breath, “you could have killed him, the man at the bar.”
Benson frowns slightly, focusing on catching the last remaining whispers of blood still smeared on Randy’s face as he answers. “I wasn’t going to kill him.”
Randy gives him a doubtful and unimpressed look, Benson raising an eyebrow in return.
“Crowded bar like that- wouldn’t have got that far.” Benson presses the rag to Randy’s nose in an effort to stop the still trickling blood flow. Randy tries to yank back at the motion, pain shooting through his face, Benson’s other hand gripping his shoulder stops him from getting away. “Someone woulda yanked me off him before that happened.”
Randy doesn’t like how certain Benson sounds about this. As though he had thought about it, planned it out.
His eyes flick over to Benson’s once more, trying to read the man’s intent in them. As so often is the case, he finds his efforts come up blank.
“Besides,” Benson mutters out quietly, soft enough that Randy almost misses it, “he was supposed to swing first.”
Randy chooses not to comment on the words.
Benson sighs, then maneuvers the rag into Randy’s hand, before standing up with a groan that reminds Randy of the other man’s age.
Benson stares at him for a moment, as though studying him, and says, “Keep the pressure on it till it stops bleeding.”
Randy nods at the instruction, regretting the movement when it makes his head throb. Benson offers one sharp nod in answer, before turning and ambling out of the tiny bathroom. Conversation apparently finished.
He swings the door half shut behind him as he goes.
Randy sits alone on the toilet for a long time.
Possibly longer than he should.
Possibly longer than he needed.
He presses the rag against his nose, head tipped forward, letting the blood drain out of him, feeling the buzz of the drinks in his blood, and thinks.
He thinks about the bar, and he thinks about Benson.
About the fight and the asshole, and Blondie’s panicked, high-pitched scream.
He thinks about the woman at the bar, dragging her nails down Benson’s arm while she laughed- a fake and forced sound, not the noise of someone who found true humor in Benson’s words.
He thinks about how Benson had spent most of the night ignoring him, beyond making sure he always had a drink in his hand.
Randy squeezes his eyes closed. There is a dull ache starting to develop behind them, a growing pressure in his skull, pressing against the front of his head.
The image of the man on the floor, blood pouring from his face, flashes through Randy’s mind. He wonders if that asshole is currently doing something similar, sitting waiting for his nose to stop bleeding while his girlfriend pets his arm and tells him it wasn’t his fault, he was still big and scary and a real man.
Part of him wishes he had let Benson get another hit or two in before intervening.
He groans and wishes his head would stop aching.
If Benson had provoked that fight, had done something, started it on purpose…
Was he looking to get hit or looking for an excuse to hit someone? Or both…
Either way, it seemed a reckless, selfish decision.
Benson putting both of them at risk with the move.
By the time Randy emerges from the bathroom, his nose long stopped bleeding, dried blood caking the inside of his nostrils, he is in a foul mood.
He enters their shared space to find that while he was in the bathroom, Benson had stripped down to his evening attire, sporting little more than boxers and a worn singlet.
The man is sitting back on one of the two beds, head resting against the headboard, eyes shut. Randy stares at him for a moment, noting that even now, he can see the tension in Benson’s brow. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes. He wonders, for half a second, if Benson has dozed off, sleeping where he sits, before the man’s eyes slide open, fixated on Randy.
Benson looks him over before offering a nod and a gruff, “C’me here.”
Randy trails across the room, perching beside the bed, close enough one of them could reach out and grab hold of the other.
Something Benson reaches out to do the moment Randy gets within arm's reach.
Randy finds himself half pulled onto the bed, Benson peering at his battered face.
Benson sucks in a breath, surveying the damage. “God Randy… gonna look like shit in the morning.”
Randy snorts, holding back the urge to laugh, knowing if he let himself do so the sound was liable to turn into sobbing.
He hadn’t even considered the fact it would bruise. He would be left with a black eye, if not two. Hadn’t thought about what that would do to their ability to pass through unseen.
Benson’s face softens slightly then, the man reaching up to lightly stroke his thumb along Randy’s cheek, tracing along the reddened skin. The man’s hands feel cool against Randy’s flesh. Benson’s touch is soft, kind even, but after the evening he has had, Randy doesn’t want that.
He yanks his head back from Benson’s comforting hands, ignoring the way the move makes his face ache, and hisses out a short and sharp, “Don’t-”
Don’t be soft with me tonight. Not while I am still mad at you.
Benson frowns slightly, grabbing hold of Randy’s chin, trying to lift the younger man’s face, bring it back in. Randy resists, ducking around the hand, moving as though to get up and leave- Benson wrapping a large hand around the back of his neck before he gets far.
The fingers squeeze out a warning against Randy’s flesh, and Randy listens.
He stops fighting, settling back down, seated on the bed before Benson.
Benson’s frown has deepened.
The hand lists from the nape of his neck, Benson trusting Randy had got the message, would stay put without the reinforcement, and comes to cup Randy’s cheek. Benson cradles Randy’s face in his hands, murmurs out a soft and quiet, “You're okay,”
Randy shrinks under Benson’s gaze. It had been all he had wanted, earlier that night, but now that he finally had Benson’s attention, all he wanted was for it to end.
Benson’s thumbs rub against his skin in slow, soft circles.
“What is up with you tonight?’ the question comes out soft, quiet. Genuine sounding. It sets Randy’s teeth on edge.
“Nothing,”
“Randy-”
“It, it doesn’t matter, okay. Look, can we please just- drop it?” Randy ducks his head, hiding his eyes from Benson’s gaze. He wants this to be over. He wants to crawl into his own bed and wait until the exhaustion in his body outweighs the ache in his face and lets him get some rest.
He doesn’t want Benson’s comfort. Doesn’t want his wounds smoothed over and softened.
He wants to feel their bite. His wounds were a reminder of Benson’s violence and his own ability to survive it. He wants to wear it on his face as a fucking badge of honour. He had intervened. Cut short the man’s violence with his body, and he would not let himself forget that.
Benson is still frowning at him. Still trying to search for something in Randy’s face. “Look, what happened at the bar-”
“-Don’t, we don’t have to talk about this-” Just leave it, Benson, please?
“-Was a mistake, alright? Things got out of hand.” The admittance surprises Randy; he lets his eyes flick up for a second, meeting Benson’s once again. He nods, showing he is listening, that he appreciates the words.
“But-” ah, there was more, of course, “you were in a fucking mood before that.” One of Benson’s hands drops to rest on the side of Randy’s neck, thumb still rubbing softly against Randy’s skin, “So why don’t you tell me why you’ve spent the whole night getting your panties in a twist over a few drinks.”
Randy sighs, “It’s not- I don’t care about, about the drinks- about you drinking.”
He cares about the fact he had known something was going to happen, and that something had happened. He cares about fight, and as much as he doesn’t want to, he cares about how he had felt, watching Benson let that woman chat him up while he left Randy sitting in the corner, drinking alone. He cares about the fact he could have climbed out that bathroom window, could have stumbled across the road, into the motel’s office, slammed his hands on the desk and told the night attendant to call the police, there was a dangerous criminal on the loose, just across the street. And that Benson hadn’t noticed that. Benson hadn’t cared to notice that.
“Can we please just, leave it, Benson. Please, just… stop.”
Benson raises an eyebrow, as though questioning if Randy really, truly wants that.
Randy stares back, trying to make clear just how much it is what he wants.
He doesn’t expect it to work, he expects Benson to keep poking, prodding. Jabbing at exposed nerves until Randy cracks.
To his surprise, after a long moment, Benson just nods, letting go of Randy’s face.
Randy blinks, thrown by the loss of contact, even more lost when Benson quickly shifts past him, pushing up off the bed and starting towards the door, with a murmured, “need a fucking cigarette.”
Randy stays where he is, sitting abandoned on the bed, until long after the motel door slams shut behind Benson.