Work Text:
Dan can sleep through a lot, but the storm still wakes him up. He jumps at a crack of thunder, jarred and disoriented by the noise so loud and close he feels the a phantom tremble in his bones.
His heart pounds. Waking up on the bus is always disorienting. He has no idea what time it is, and the rain is all he can hear.
He pushes open the curtain and realizes there's light filtering in, not from daylight hours but from the kitchen area. He fumbles for his phone; half one in the morning. He's only been asleep thirty minutes, maybe. Phil definitely went to bed before him. Phil's bunk, right across from him, is empty.
His feet hit the ground with a dull thud. No one hears it. Phil and Marianne's heads are bent close down. There's worry drawing the lines around Phil's eyes deeper than they normally are.
"What are you doing up?" Dan says.
There's no response, just another crack of thunder to loud to talk through.
"Storm," Phil says. "The driver thinks we ought to pull over as soon as we see somewhere that might be shelter."
"That bad?" Dan glances outside, as though he'll be able to actually see anything besides the rain that falls in slanting sheets on their little metal cage.
He looks around again, realizing their bodyguard is missing. He opens his mouth to ask before remembering that he's not on the bus tonight, that he'd driven ahead after the show to see some family members that live near their next stop.
"We're meant to drive right through it," Phil says. "And there are tornado warnings."
"Warnings are when they've seen one already," Marianne adds.
She's wearing a tank top and pajama pants, hair bundled up on top of her head. Sometimes in the right light she reminds Dan of his mum, though he'd never actually say that to her.
Dan's still achy with exhaustion, but it sounds like they won't be on the road much longer anyway.
He takes a seat beside Phil.
*
It's strangely somber inside the bus. The driver has the weather report on, and a gps map beside him. They're all listening to the mechanical voice. Dan can see that Phil's got a weather app up too, staring intently down at it.
He reaches out and covers the screen with his hand. When Phil tries to move it out from under the touch, he closes his fingers around it. He knows Phil - he knows how Phil fixates.
Phil glares at him.
"There's a Texaco at the next exit," the driver says. "We'll pull in there and see where the nearest shelter is."
Dan lets Phil's phone go.
*
The Texaco stands alone, fluorescent lights flickering with nothing but empty fields around.
It's nothing like some of the convenience stores or gas stations they've been in. The storm is casting a yellow-gray light on it and the rain sounds even more deafening on the thin tin roof that covers the fuel dispensers.
They pile out of the bus in their pajamas still, feet hastily shoved into their shoes. It's warm and wet and the air almost crackles with something that just feels wrong, not like how air should feel.
The driver goes straight to the man behind the counter. Dan trails after Phil, wandering up and down the small aisles. Phil picks up and puts back down a few things absently, barely even looking at what they are.
Dan puts his hands on Phil's shoulders and guides him. "Coffee," he says. "We should get coffee."
Phil's eyes brighten into awareness. "Coffee," he agrees.
*
They stand side by side in front of a long row of machines.
"What even is creamer?" Dan asks, staring distrustfully down at it. "Why don't they just use milk like normal people?"
"I like the flavours." Phil's busy dumping half a dozen tiny cups of chemical hazelnut into his drink. "I wish we had these."
Dan watches the pile of plastic grow. "The environment is crying."
"I'll plant a tree next week." Phil pushes his glasses up his nose, then brings his coffee cup up to inhale deeply.
Dan almost says something else sharp, almost teases and taunts him. But thunder booms again and it takes Dan's heart with it.
They both stand there for a moment, frozen like they're waiting on something else to happen.
Then there it is: the lightning flashing, an explosion of bright white from every window. The lights overhead flicker. The rain somehow seems to come even harder.
Phil snaps the plastic lid on his drink. His hands are trembling just a bit.
"Snacks?" Dan asks. They have snacks on the bus, but when does Phil ever turn down the chance? But he hesitates, at least until Dan bumps his shoulder. "Come on. Snacks."
Phil gets something neon pink and covered in coconut bits and crisps that claim to taste like pizza. Dan gets wasabi chickpeas and a bar of dark chocolate. They all seem twice as expensive as they should be, but Dan finds a crumpled twenty to pay.
The driver and Marianne are already back in the bus. The man behind the counter looks exhausted. Dan expects Phil to try and make small talk anyway, because that's the sort of guy Phil is, but he seems too lost in his own head right now. His eyes keep glancing toward the window, toward the rain.
There's more thunder as their food haul is being dropped into a plastic bag. They all pause and wait it out.
They're almost out the door when they hear the man behind the counter call out, "Good luck," in the sort of voice that makes Dan's stomach turn uneasily.
*
"Nearest hotel is twenty miles out," the driver says. He's sat in his seat, body turned toward them. "Just the other side of that big front. Guy in there said the side roads wouldn't be much better of a bet. Highway is our only option, anything else takes us opposite where we need to be if we want to keep to our schedule. We can try to pull off and hope it calms down before it gets to us, but we're going through it either way."
"Is it that bad?" Dan asks. "Have you been through a storm like this before?"
He shakes his head. "Not too common that a storm like this hits and there's nowhere to hunker down. Bad timing, bad luck."
"What do you think?" Marianne asks.
"Well. The problem with waiting," he says, "is that if it starts to flood, we're really shit outta luck - excuse my language, ma'am. And with how hard it's coming down, that seems bound to happen. Driving through right now we stand a chance of getting out from under the front before the water has too much of a chance to accumulate, and making it at least to the hotel."
"Alright, then." Marianne squares her shoulders. "Let's not waste any more time."
*
The wind slams against the bus so hard that Dan imagines he can feel how hard the tires pull at the road to keep them upright.
"How many more miles?" Phil asks.
He's asked that at least seven times in the past twenty minutes. The bus is crawling along, the driver wary of hydroplaning with the water already starting to accumulate.
They're headed for the hotel. The curtain that normally keeps him partitioned away from them is pulled back and Marianne is sat closest to him with driving directions pulled up on her phone. The driver has the weather station playing loudly. It keeps reeling off county names that Dan's beginning to have memorized.
Every time the weather report crackles to life with an update, Phil jumps. After the first twenty minutes, Dan gives up any semblance of their normal subtlety and just slides down onto the floor in front of the bench where Phil sits. He elbows at Phil’s leg until Phil gets the picture, untucking the one he’s sitting on and adjusting so that Dan is between his knees. Dan sits back then, pulling Phil's arms down to his shoulders. It's stupid to feel like this is safer, but it does feel that way - Phil surrounding him, Phil's hands right there and easy to grasp.
Lower feels safer, too. Dan doesn't hate the rain when he's tucked up nice and cozy in bed at night listening to it, and during the daylight hours it's nothing but a nuisance he'll put up with. But in the dark, in this situation - it's deafening, and sat on the floor seems the farthest away he can get.
"Twelve," Marianne says, and they sit in silence some more.
*
Something hits the side of the bus with a slam.
Dan jumps, squeezing both of Phil's hands so tight Phil will probably have bruises. "What the fuck was that?"
"Just a limb," the drive calls back.
"Just-" Dan starts. "Just a limb? Like, a twig, or a fucking log-"
"Dan." Phil shushes him. "You're not helping."
Dan shuts his mouth. He knows Phil's right. He also knows Phil's saying it because he's scared, too.
*
It feels like half the night has passed by the time they start to see the signs of civilization.
Dan's sat up by then, ass gone numb from the fake wood flooring. Phil's hand has found it's way between Dan's back and the seat, just resting there comfortingly.
The first thing they realize is that the street lights are half out.
"It looks like The Wizard of Oz and the Walking Dead had a baby," Phil says. They're as close to the front as they can be, watching out the massive front windshield.
"Three streets up, then take a right," Marianne instructs.
All the buildings are closed, some windows even boarded up. Dan has the stray irrational fear that the hotel might be closed as well, but when they get there the lights under the covered half-circle lobby entrance are still casting an ominous yellow.
"Bus is too tall to fit under there," the driver says. "We'll have to get our stuff and make a run for it."
*
They're soaked by the time they push open the heavy glass doors. They've only got their backpacks, a change of clothes and toiletries shoved into them.
There's no one behind the counter at first, but after Dan slams down on the bell a few dozen times a guy who looks about their age walks out looking flustered. "Sorry about that. Had the television on watching the weather coverage - they had a funnel touch down half a mile away. Did you spot it? What direction were you coming from?"
The driver takes over the conversation, more familiar with the area than any of them. All Dan can hear is half a mile away and his heart is pounding.
"How many rooms?" They're finally asked.
Marianne glances at them, pausing to let Dan answer first if he wants, like she always does. If he doesn't interrupt, they'll each get a room to themselves.
He does. "Three."
The rooms are ground floor, and they're told that if they hear the sirens going off they need to evacuate back into the hall near the lobby and they'll be led to the designated shelter area.
*
"I can't believe it's still raining." Dan stands at the window staring out.
He still can't see much. Most of the city around them looks dark. It's hard to even get a good sense of how much of a city it really is. Maybe more like a town, like one of those American small towns in movies about straight people making questionable life choices in the name of even more questionable love.
"Get away from there, please," Phil says. There's a wet noise as he spits toothpaste into the bowl of the sink. There's still a bit of white clinging to the corner of his mouth when he walks out of the bathroom. "What if something comes flying in through the window?"
"You've seen too many Final Destination movies," Dan says. "You heard him say the tornado warning is over and the wind seems to have died down. It's just the rain."
Phil stands at his side for just a second looking out. "Still," he says, grabbing Dan's arm and pulling him away. "Don't risk it."
"Fine," Dan grumbles but he swaps spots with Phil, going through the motions of an abbreviated bedtime routine. Phil has both their phones plugged in to charge by the time he comes out.
"Besides." Phil continues the conversation as Dan gets into bed beside him. "It's more Twister than Final Destination."
"Nah." Dan stretches out, enjoying the chance to close his eyes. "Not enough cows."
There’s silence for a few seconds. The room is dark, and the rain is still so loud.
“Dan,” Phil says quietly.
Dan reaches out right away. He couldn’t put a name to the tone Phil’s using but he understands it on an emotional level. He understands what Phil’s asking for and that it’s something he needs too.
“We’re okay,” Dan says, practically crushing Phil with the force of his embrace.
Phil’s still shaking a little. His hair is still a bit damp from the rain outside. He feels perfect against Dan, warm and solid and reassuring.
“Yeah,” Phil repeats. His arm slides around Dan’s waist, and Dan suspects this will be one of those nights where neither of them needs their own space. “We’re okay.”
*
There are no sirens, and the morning dawns deceptively beautiful.
No one seems to have really slept that well, too busy trying to funnel off the adrenaline of a night gone not at all how they expected.
Outside the hotel the bus is just where they left it, but it's surrounded by more limbs and debris than they could have seen in the dark the night before.
"Wow." Phil sounds dumbfounded. "That wind must have been so strong."
A couple of the cars in the car park haven't survived intact. There's a limb smashed into the windshield of one of them, and a small electric car with a dent in the hood. They board the bus while watching hotel crew just starting to gather and prepare for cleanup work.
The rest of the town doesn't look much better as they drive through it.
"The man at the hotel said we'd be going past where it touched down," Marianne says. "Hopefully none of the roadways are closed."
They don't seem to be, but it's obvious when they come across the path of it. Dan feels sick to his stomach at a car turned over on it's side, a house demolished.
"Was anyone hurt?" Phil asks.
"No," Marianne says. "Amazing, isn't it? No deaths reported, only minor injuries."
They drive through a church whose sign has been relocated closer to it's front doors. "Wow," he says again.
She keeps staring out the window, shaking her head a bit, then turns to look at them. "Alright, you two better get a bit more sleep if you can. It'll be a long day."
Dan tears his eyes from the scenery too. He knows she's right. He'd even walked out of the hotel in his pajamas still, him and Phil both, knowing rest would be important before the show.
He sits in his bunk but doesn't lay back yet, watching Phil do the same. No words pass between them, just long reassuring eye contact. There's no danger anymore, and they both know it - but the destruction still feels strangely impactful.
"Sleep," Phil finally says, rubbing a hand over his mouth and yawning into it.
The yawn is contagious. "Yeah," Dan says, around the shape of it. "Sleep."