Chapter Text
Rosaline leans against the side the Ford, her arms crossed as she desperately tries not to give Benvolio Montague too hard of a time at the moment. Not after he'd arrived outside her fire escape last night, on the run from a murder charge and pleading for her help.
And now they're standing on an empty country road with a broken down car and she's wondering what the hell she's gotten herself into.
Benvolio's hunched over one of the open engine hoods. He's down to his ribbed undershirt and suspenders, having taken off his dress shirt to work on the car. It's hot enough standing at the side of the road in the midday summer sun without the heat coming off the engine. His undershirt is damp with sweat and clinging to him. Then between the perspiration, the long night, and the fact that he keeps running his hand through it, his hair has lost the slickness of his pomade and turned into some inadvertent coif. He hasn't shaved in over a day, either.
Rosaline may never admit it, but it's not a bad look for him. Luckily Benvolio doesn't notice her appraisal of him. He's too busy scowling at the engine as if is not the last straw in a string of misfortunes, but rather the thing that has wronged him most in life. Finally, he lets out one last growl of frustration and throws his wrench at the fender in defeat.
"Well?" she asks.
He takes a deep breath before facing her. "I know just enough about cars to know I can't fix it."
"What's wrong with it?"
Benvolio smiles ruefully. "Dunno." He leans against the car next to her, one foot propped up on the running board. Then he takes a cigarette out of the case from his pants pocket and lights it.
Rosaline sticks her hand out to him in a silent request.
"It's my last one," he says.
She says nothing; simply raises her eyebrows at him and gestures further with her two outstretched fingers.
He sighs and passes her the cigarette. "Didn't know you smoked."
"The occasion calls for it," she says pointedly. That he doesn't argue.
They stand there awhile, passing the cigarette back and forth in silence. It's surprising they aren't at each other's throats right now, Rosaline thinks, blaming the other for everything that's happened since they failed to stop their cousins' wedding. Maybe it's because they've realized they'll have to have each other's backs if they have any chance. Or maybe they're just too beaten-down and tired, and all they want right now is to smoke and brood.
"This car," Benvolio says suddenly. His voice sounds strained for some reason. "It's Mercutio's."
She doesn't know what to say to that. She's sorry? Make some dark joke?
So she reaches behind her through the open window to the back seat. There's a pile of Benvolio's discarded dress shirt, suit jacket, tie, hat, and holster. And in one of the jacket pockets should be...
Benvolio smiles appreciatively as she hands his flask to him. "Salute," he murmurs, raising it toward her in cheers before taking a swig. Then he offers it back to her.
Rosaline doesn't tend to drink much, either, but she may as well commiserate with him. Even without facing a death penalty, her life's been no picnic – least of all now. Maybe that's why she's started to like being around Benvolio Montague. They're the only ones who get each other in that regard.
Benvolio takes one last drag and flicks the cigarette butt onto the road. "We'll need to acquire another car."
Acquire. Rosaline knows what that means. She looks up and down the empty road. There isn't much for miles in either direction. "Are you seeing any other cars I don't know about?"
"One goes by every once and awhile."
She passes him back the flask. "And they never stop. You going to lasso one?"
"I've got a gun," he points out.
"You've got a .38," she says. "Maybe if you had a tommy gun you could stick up a speeding car. But with a revolver they're more likely to take their chances mowing you down." Rosaline can hear the distant rumble of an engine approaching. “Any other bright ideas?”
He smiles. "You ever see It Happened One Night, Capulet?"
"Yes," she replies. "And no, I am not going to flash my leg to get a car to stop."
"Just an idea," he shrugs, his smirk tugging wider. He steps away from the Ford to be in full view of the vehicle coming down the road.
"You going to show them your gams, Montague?" she teases.
"You should be so lucky, Capulet."
Benvolio waves to the car and pastes on a smile, one wider and significantly faker than the one he'd worn at their engagement party. And the car speeds by near as quick as Truccio had driven away from that same party (after letting loose a few hundred bullets).
"I don't even blame them for not stopping," she says.
"Why?"
"You looked like you'd escaped the nearest insane asylum."
Benvolio rubs a hand over his scruff and looks down at his sweaty undershirt and the flask in his hand.
“I meant that crazed expression that’s your attempt at looking friendly. Though I suppose the rest of it isn’t helping much, either.”
“Well, it looks like another one’s coming,” he says, frowning at her. “How ‘bout you give it a go?”
“Gladly.” She walks into the lane of the road, confidently planting her feet against the path of the oncoming Buick and sticking out her thumb.
The Buick veers over to avoid hitting her, but just barely.
Rosaline huffs. "I thought people in the country were supposed to be friendly!"
“Lots of desperate people turning to crime these days. And everybody else is too down-on-their-luck that they can’t afford to take any chances,” Benvolio says with a shrug. “We could be some kinda public enemies.”
She snorts. "You were just contemplating stealing someone's car by gunpoint."
"Fair point."
"And we are part of the mob."
Benvolio’s expression grows dark. "Not anymore."
She pauses, taking a moment to study him curiously. Clearly he isn’t just referring to his murder charges. "You don't want to be your uncle's successor?"
Though sitting in the police station yesterday, it seemed that Damiano Montague is having second guesses as well – enough so to not even care what happens to his nephew.
"I never wanted it. Romeo didn't even really want it. I’d rather just get the hell out, and the Montagues and Capulets can both go to pieces for all I care."
But then the lesser mobs would have an all-out brawl for dominance, the chief of police had said, and that wouldn't be any better for the city of Verona than the current feud between the two families. Escalus doesn't like the mob, but he knows that every city has its gang presence and it’s easier to work with them than fight against it. He also believes it will be better for there to be one united mafia running things than for the city to keep suffering the collateral damage of the Montagues’ and Capulets’ never-ending power-struggle. If the two can’t agree to join forces willingly, then Escalus will come down on them and come down hard.
Honestly, Rosaline thinks that may be better. Because she never wanted to be part of it either. If she and Benvolio get married as an arrangement like out of some bygone era, then they'll both very much be a part of it. It'd be better if she just gets out, same as Benvolio.
But Livia. Rosaline can't leave the Capulets unless she knows she can take her sister with her. And work is still scarce these days. There’s no telling if they’d be able to support themselves.
Benvolio’s watching her, trying to gauge her opinion on the whole situation with their families. Whatever he decides she must be thinking, he seems of the opinion she could use another drink and hands her the flask.
“We should probably start walking,” she says before taking a swig.