Chapter Text
The cab of the tow truck smelled like tobacco, and it wasn't helped by the hot air that blasted through the vents. Lars shuffled some loose receipt paper with his boots, revealing the floor, caked with mud. The driver and him sat in contented silence as the truck rumbled its way to the mechanics, Lars' Toyota strapped to the back, jumping at the potholes.
When Lars had started the car that morning, it had made an odd, shrill sound, and there were some lights on the dash, but that was just something that sometimes happened. It was an old car—Lars had gotten it for his sixteenth birthday and it was still old back then, now it was twenty six years old. It made odd sounds sometimes, that's what old cars do.
Apparently not. Lars was about fifteen minutes into his drive when it sputtered, made a series of questionable sounds, and abruptly stopped. Nothing he did worked, including sighing and landing his head on the horn while he tried to remember the number for the tow company that Gus had to call the year before. He couldn't even do that—had to call Gus and write down the number on his hand. The ink was being smudged with anxious palm sweat now, most of the numbers coming off in streaks of black.
The truck finally came to a stop at Hanson's. The closest mechanics, a mile out from the town proper. The exterior had been painted white a while ago, and now the brick was mostly exposed again, the years of weather having eroded the coat. Only one garage door was open wide, a truck parked there and lifted up. The rest were closed, icicles pointing down from the trim above them. Lars exited the cab, his boots crunched on the salted pavement as he approached the garage.
He froze.
Clad in a dusty blue jumpsuit, stained with grease, stood Mystery Man, fiddling with a tool. Now that he wasn't half dead and freezing, his skin was tan, sun-kissed in a way that could only come from someone in a warmer, sunny climate. Were he wearing anything else, he'd probably stick out like a sore thumb. He still sticks out to Lars; a positively bright, sunny thing in the middle of gray, dreary winter. He paused, examined the tool, and only then seemed to register that anyone was there at all. His cool blue eyes looked over and caught on Lars, who gave a small wave. He mirrored it.
Was he supposed to say something? There was no guidelines on how to proceed with interacting with the stranger who broke into your garage late at night covered in blood. He blinked, and blinked again, trying to think of something to say. Saying nothing at all was always an option, and it was one that Lars tended to like, but if Mystery Man was the only one here he would have to explain what happened. Should he—
"Lars!"
Lars jumped at the sound of Hanson's voice. Deep and roughened by years of smoking, it boomed from a hefty frame. He looked over to see him striding toward Lars, bald head tucked into a beanie and hands tucked into a jacket.
"What's brought you around here?"
Lars motioned to his old Toyota, still secured to the tow truck. "It stopped working."
"Clearly. Did any of your lights come on before it died on you?"
Lars felt his face flush as he sucked air through his teeth in faux consideration. There were so many lights, but Lars shook his head. "No. Not that I can remember."
Hanson patted his shoulder, making Lars stiffen. "Alright, no problem. We'll get her looked at."
Lars nodded and Hanson walked off to talk with the tow truck driver. He only gave a small look over to Mystery Man, just to encounter half a second of eye contact and look away. He was going to avoid that for as long as he could, actually.
Pulling off one of his gloves, Lars made a call to Gus to try and get a ride to work. It was a few agonizing seconds of ringing just to eventually get sent to voicemail. He was lucky Gus answered the first time—though it was probably only because he continued to call, over and over. He more than likely gave his brother a heart attack. The thought sent a pang of guilt to his chest.
Who else could he call? Karin was definitely too busy—she'd picked up her job as a school administrator after Alice started preschool. He could call Margo or Kurt, but they always got there before him and making them drive from work to pick him up and go back to work seemed inconvenient. He didn't have a particularly large contact list.
"You need a ride to work, Lars?" He looked up to Hanson again, who motioned over to Mystery Man. "Casey can give you one. Uh, Casey, this is Lars. Lars, Casey." He motioned between the two.
Casey. That was his name. Lars turned to look at him. He had one eyebrow raised in silent question toward Hanson. The shop owner waved him off. "I got this, go test out that new car. It's not a long drive."
Wordlessly, Casey sat down the tool he'd been handling and began a stride towards the back of the mechanics shop. A few minutes later, a muscle car came around to the front, pulling up beside Lars. The door opened, revealing Casey leaning over into the passenger seat to push it. He moved back to the driver seat, an invitation for Lars to come in. Did he really have a choice at this point? It turned out 'as long as he could' happened to only be a few minutes.
The car was lower than Lars was used to, and he nearly hit his head on the roof. The fumble took the balaclava off from his head. He reached to get it back from outside the car, and rested it in his lap. His hands worked to smooth back his newly messy hair.
"Where do you work?"
Ah, so he did just talk like that—like he was forcing his mouth to comply with making syllables. It wasn't just the blood loss. Lars felt like that too, sometimes, especially around small talk.
"Preston Industry. It's-" Lars was going to try and give a relative location, but the car started going as soon as he said the company name.
Okay. Back where he started. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to say anything at all? Staying silent was a good option, but it wouldn't help the pile of questions that had sat in his head for the past month; the growing curiosity that had gnawed at him all this time. He was half convinced he'd dreamed the whole event. Hands fiddled with the balaclava in his lap.
"How are your wounds?" Is that the right way to put it? Should he have just said 'are you okay?'—
"They're fine. Thank you." Okay. Good. Obviously, they were fine. He was alive, after all. "Did you tell anyone?"
"No, no one." Casey looked over, only for a moment, like he was making a snap judgment on whether or not Lars was lying. Lars wasn't lying, he never told anybody in fear that either they wouldn't believe him, or they'd freak out about it. Whatever he got from that split second look seemed to lead Casey to the truth.
"Good. Don't tell anyone what happened."
"Why?" This question gets no answer, just Casey making a turn. "What happened anyway? Did you get into a crash or something?"
"Or something."
Mystery Man was somehow becoming an increasingly apt name for this guy the more he spoke. The questions just kept coming to Lars mind. He kept his mouth shut, though. He didn't want to bother the guy if he didn't want to talk about it. The balaclava in his lap became his new fixation, he stared at it as if it were something new and not his dad's that he'd taken and been wearing for years now.
He blinked. Lars was good with silence. A quiet ride with the ambience of tires on asphalt. It seemed like Casey was good with it, too. He didn't try to fill it, asking Lars mundane questions that would only leave him disgruntled by the curt response. Lars looked over.
The hand on the steering wheel was stained with grease, darkened around the nails, and so very sure. All of Casey, in fact, seemed at ease in a way Lars wasn't expecting. People always use the term 'in their element', and Lars never quite understood what they meant. Everyone struggles, even at things they're good at, even at things that they believe they were born to do. Not Casey. It's hard to believe he'd ever crashed a car.
Lars was staring and he didn't really care. Casey had relaxed completely into the driver's seat, eyes straight ahead, only occasionally checking the mirrors. Driving did not come naturally to Lars, and it certainly didn't come confidently to him; he'd avoided interstate driving until the age of twenty. The demeanor that Casey had obtained by driving had brought something bubbling to the surface for Lars, maybe a sense of envy, but mostly a sense of awe. Casey was undeniably cool.
Lars wanted to know everything about him.
Another blink. He focused down at the balaclava again. He remember the leather gloves that had been sitting in his nightstand for the past month.
The car turned into the Preston Industry parking lot, and he stopped at the entrance.
"Thanks." Lars muttered with a small nod. Casey mirrored him in acknowledgement. He opened the door and lumbered his tall body from the low car. Before he closed the door, he leaned down to look at him again. "See you around, Casey."
Again Casey nodded, and Lars closed the door.
The car turned in the parking lot, and raced off into the distance.