Work Text:
They were somewhere over the border into New Mexico when Randy passed out in the passenger seat. Benson knew he hadn't been sleeping well over their days of nonstop travel, and he couldn't blame the kid. He had to be restrained when they stopped to sleep for the night, Benson not risking the possibility that he'd make a break for it. It was for his own safety, Benson told him that many times over, but every time Randy said he understood, there was a flicker of rebellious disbelief.
Benson couldn't blame him for that, either.
He knew Randy wanted to ask why he was still with Benson at all. He had asked, actually. But Benson didn't have an answer he could give, not one he felt confident in. So he did what he did best and avoided the question. Replied with something along the lines of ‘because I said so’. Not his best work, but it got the kid to stop asking eventually.
He didn't know how to tell Randy he couldn't imagine being alone. How he hadn't even expected to make it this far. How he had expected to end that day with bullets in him because like hell was he going to prison…
How he'd gotten more than a little attached to the younger man in the week of travel.
Benson should know better. He was good at keeping people at a distance, did it all the time on purpose and everything… But it was hard when Randy was in the passenger seat every day, staring out at the changing scenery with bored eyes ringed in purple sleeplessness. It was especially hard when he managed to coax out a smile, or saw those eyes dewy with tears he was trying not to shed…
It was bad. It was wrong. Benson was a dead man running and he couldn't let go of this one thing who he knew deserved better than him. Selfish, he supposed. Wouldn't but the first time someone called him that.
He looked over at Randy, the kids face serene and peaceful as he leaned into an arm propped up against the window. He only ever looked so calm in his sleep. Well, unless he was having a nightmare. But it seemed those were giving him a break, too, fist balled but not so tight they'd score the insides of his palms again. Benson hoped he was having nice dreams, somewhere far from this car and the guy who fucked up his life in a backwards attempt to fix it.
Benson's eyes turned back to the road, itching for a cigarette but wary the smell of it, or sound of rushing wind when he cracked the window would stir Randy. He wanted the kid to sleep. He needed it bad.
Instead Benson focused on the road, eying the oncoming potholes with resentment. They'd been avoiding main roads and highways, too many potential prying eyes and his car a big yellow beacon. He didn't even know if the cops were looking for them, to be honest, but he was playing it safe. He had to. Unfortunately that meant the roads here were absolute shit.
He glanced at Randy again, unable to resist stealing more looks at the way his chest rose and fell in small and constant waves, lips drifting apart as he sank deeper into rest. He'd just have to dodge the worst parts of the road so Randy could sleep a little longer.