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Robert knows this is a stupid fucking idea the second it comes out of Cole’s mouth. If planes are grounded all along the east coast because it’s too dangerous to fly, then it’s damn well too dangerous to cram in a car and be driven through treacherous roads by Richard Cole who is nothing short of a safety hazard on even a good day. Robert also knows, though, that his spot in the band is nothing near secure, and if petty squabbles (or not so petty squabbles considering matters of life and death by skidding off the road and freezing to death in the snow) break out, he’s going to be the one that’s kissed goodbye and this dream that Jimmy has gifted him, all he’s ever wanted, is going to disappear before his very eyes. So Robert sucks it up because at least being dead on the side of the road, as unfavorable as that sounds, doesn’t involve going back to England, tail between his legs, penniless, and forced to finally give it up and make something else of himself.
“Alright boys,” Cole announces, giving Robert a light shove to get him on track, “if we start now we can beat the worst of the storm.”
Robert looks around once more for any last resort brilliant alternative solution that’ll help them avoid this situation and perhaps paint Robert as the brilliant hero, saving the day and whatnot, but comes up, once again, with nothing. Had Jimmy been in charge, as per usual, this would’ve never happened. Jimmy, however, bless his heart, is completely unaware of where he is, or anything going on around him, completely fucked up by a bout of Hong Kong Flu. Currently, Jimmy is leaning weakly against Robert’s shoulder, completely silent other than a miserable cough now and then. Starting the previous week, he’d been mentioning feeling ill, but after a rather dramatic collapse before the show, he’d been whisked off to a doctor who’d diagnosed him with a severe case of Hong Kong flu, tried and failed at talking Jimmy out of doing the show, and finally resigned to giving him an injection of something or the other and telling him to watch his temperature, leaving them to do the gig. After the show, Cole had been forced to carry Jimmy back to the dressing room, and since then, the guitarist had been in a state of staring completely zoned out, through glazed green eyes, completely unaware, and scaring the shit out of everyone with the occasional wracking fit of wet coughs, puking his guts out, or damsel-in-distress style fainting, though that seemed to only happen when Robert was the person standing nearest, forced to drop everything and catch him. Not that Robert minded of course. Being able to play knight in shining armor instead of an eager student to the guitarist, and the slight role reversal the flu had put on him and Jimmy was a silver lining of this whole situation.
“Hey Robert, get in the car,” Ricardo barks again. “And leave Pagey by himself in the back so he can lay down.”
At the mention of his name, Jimmy sluggishly looks up with a congested “wha?”
“Nothin’, just go in the back and rest,” Ricardo responds, guiding Jimmy into the car.
“And if you’re going to hurl, aim at Jones,” Bonzo adds from the shotgun seat, grinning.
A look of disgust flashes across John Paul’s face for a second before he schools his expression again and gets in the middle of the car, next to Robert.
“Alright, settled?” Richard asks, turning around, a slightly maniacal gleam in his eyes. Of course, the bastard is enjoying this.
The drive goes surprisingly smoothly for a while. There’s something about being trapped in a car through the night that really initiates bonding, and within an hour, they’re all laughing and joking around like old friends.
A bit of the anxiety Robert has been harboring since he joined the group has melted away through the night too. It’s a lot easier to feel comfortable in the group when he feels like he truly is among friends, rather than walking on eggshells to avoid being kicked out. As night falls, even John Paul has joined in on the conversation, and for the first time, Robert feels himself start to click with the bassist.
That makes it all the most fucking terrifying when the car suddenly beaks into a skid. For a second, all five of them are screaming bloody murderer, before Richard regains control of the wheel, steering back on the empty road.
“We need to pull over!” Jonesy cries, pressing his face to the window to gauge the heavy snowfall.
“We don’t need to pull over,” Ricardo argues, though Robert can see his knuckles are white on the wheels, “I just need something to relax me. Bonzo, grab a whiskey, It’ll make me a better driver.”
Before Robert can even begin to argue with how fucking stupid that is, Bonzo, never opposed to the idea of a drink, grabs a bottle, opens it, and hands it to Ricardo, who takes a long swing.
“Fucking hell” John Paul growls, pinching the bridge of his nose and slowly drawing in a very deep breath and letting it out even slower with an angry puff of his freckled cheeks.
Before poor Jonesy can even finish his angry exhale, the car jerks again, nearly throwing Robert on top of the bassist, and another round of shrieks, coupled with a nasally moan of pain from the backseat fills the car.
Robert is about to lose his mind.
“Great, now you’re nice and relaxed! What do you prefer the rest of us do while you slip and slide and try to kill us all?” Robert snaps. And picking fights isn’t exactly wise of him, but Robert is getting fed up with this situation. He’s freezing, terrified, tired but can’t sleep, lest Richard accidentally drive them into a snowbank or off a cliff, starving, definitely coming down with something from Jimmy, and Jimmy’s too out of it to even be able to recall Robert stepping out of line when he recovers, much less fire him over it, so he might as well take his chances.
“You want to relax too?” Richard growls, anxiety making him much less suave, “then shut the fuck up and take a drink.”
Just like that, the idea of drinking doesn’t feel so stupid anymore, and Robert gladly takes the bottle taking a long swig before passing it to Jonesy who looks one more skid away from absolutely losing his shit.
Ice is pelting the windshield now, and the visibility is all but nonexistent.
Richard throws back more Whiskey, his driving getting more and more erratic.
“Maybe if I turn off the ignition, we can just skid right to Seattle,” he jokes.
That’s Robert’s last straw.
“Is this fucking funny to you?” he roars, “we’re going to die out here you asshole, and you’re making fucking jokes?”
“Robert, don’t distract him!” Jonesy yells, being just as distracting.
“Shut up!” Richard growls, at the same time, staring dead ahead, clutching the wheel even harder.
“No!” Robert yells, shouting over Jonesy’s pleading, thundering winds and pounding hail, as he’s tossed by another skid “pull over before we all end up on the side of the road!”
“Shut up, Rob! Now, where’s the fucking Whiskey?” Bonzo shouts.
Robert is about to continue screaming when the sound of police sirens fills the air.
All four of them go dead silent.
“Dear God,” Jonesy mutters.
“It’s just a state trooper,” Richard reassures, going to pull over “they’ll just let us be on our way after a few questions.”
“And maybe give you another bottle of whiskey for the road-” Robert starts, voice bitingly sarcastic, but he’s cut off by Bonzo clamping his hand over Robert’s mouth.
“Shut your bloody mouth for once before we all go to jail,” he snaps.
Jonesy’s about to respond when there’s a knock on the window.
“Open up, State Police,” a voice calls.
Immediately the four of them right themselves, plastering charming smiles on their faces, trying desperately to look like they aren’t on the verge of ripping each other to shreds while driving to their deaths.
“Sir, you’re going to have to turn back,” the trooper says, flashing Richard his badge, “these conditions are incredibly unsafe to drive in.”
For a split second, Richard looks between the state trooper and the road, and before Robert can even process what’s next, the car is hurtling forward, throwing everyone backward, and producing a loud thump as a comatose Jimmy rolls out of the back seat and onto the car floor.
“Oh my god! Oh my god!” John Paul cries, face going sheet white, “Are you insane? We’re fleeing from the cops!”
“Listen to him and stop!” Robert screams.
But Richard is too far gone to be convinced. Powered by bloody-mindedness and alcohol, he sends them hurtling through the highway, sheets of rain, hail, and thick snow pelting the windows.
Empowered by his escape and the hysterical sound of Jonesy’s screams, Ricardo slams the accelerator and sends them flying right into a long suspension bridge. Without anything to shield them from the wind, and no traction from the tires, the car immediately goes spinning to the right, straightening out mere feet from the edge.
From the side of the bridge, the drop is about 100 feet off the ground, and one wrong move would send them plummeting into the inky black, choppy waves below. Robert’s heart leaps into his throat.
The wind is pelting harder. Jonesy’s gone completely silent. His jaw is clenched and his knuckles are white on the roof handle. Robert can’t breathe.
They’re so close to the edge that a breath could send them falling. Bonzo and Richard have gone still too. The air feels charged.
For a moment, all of them are perfectly still and silent.
Then all hell breaks loose. A strong gust of wind throws them, and the tires slip on the ice. Immediately they hurtle toward the edge.
“Stop the car!” Bonzo roars, “Ricardo you fuckin’ idiot stop the bloody car!”
“You fucking asshole, you’re going to get us killed!”
“Shut up you fuckers and drink some more whiskey!”
The car slides again.
Throwing caution to the wind, Robert dives into the driver’s seat headfirst, slamming down the breaks with his hands, screaming for his life.
“Don’t fucking do that!” Richard screams.
“Watch the edge-”
“I think I’m going to be sick!”
“Can it, Page!”
The sudden break sends the car into a 360. The nose is grazing the edge now.
Robert’s sweat-soaked hands slip from the break.
“That’s it!” Richard growls, stomping on the accelerator.
Flying back as they plunge forward, Robert screams, the sound not dying until they’re safely on the other side of the bridge.
For a second, they’re all completely silent, holding a collective breath of terror.
The first sound Robert hears is Bonzo’s hysterical laughter, immediately joined by Richard. Jonesy, who had been practically shaking with rage, just moments before, sinks back in his seat, closing his eyes. Robert lets the breath that had been expanding in his chest out, sitting on the car floor, shaking and scared shitless, but just thankful he’s not dead.
For god knows how long, they all just rest there relieved and happy to be alive.
Finally, Robert breaks the silence with a small cheer.
“I guess we’re Seattle bound from here.”