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The weather is freezing.
You realize the sudden drop in temperature only now, when the rush of adrenaline fades as your mind finally feels relaxed enough to send signals to loosen up the bones and muscles in your beat up body.
Sinking further into the worn leather seat of the pick up truck your partner claims is his baby, you shudder and tug your thick winter jacket closer for warmth.
The bruises and all other injuries received during this mission are becoming more apparent by the minute. Your right shoulder aches, both hands are nipped by the frost from the outside despite the leather gloves and there's a persistent tug on your left calf. You hope your knees will hold up till you return to the mansion with the way they cracked when you crouched a few hours ago…
However, that doesn't bother you as much because your spine is about to freeze.
Mentally scoffing at the loud whirring engine of the old truck, you have half a mind to kick its floorboard to work harder into heating up the space.
He wouldn't like that.
You glance at your partner. The truck is dark, but the headlights brightening the road are strong enough to make out his silhouette. His winter jacket makes him look ridiculously jacked with the thick padding and he's still got the yellow hood up while the black and red frowning balaclava is concealing his face.
“Hoodie?”
Gloved hands grip the steering wheel as your voice breaks the silent atmosphere of the ride.
“...Yeah?”
God, the guilt is eating you alive seeing him tense even with the mission completed and evidence cleaned, but you're actively developing hypothermia... you think, and he isn't faring much better from the looks of it.
“Is the heating even working? It's been at least half an hour since we've been on the road... should've become warm by now.”
Hoodie breaks his focus from the road for a second to look at the glowing lights on the dashboard. The white line is cranked completely to the red end of the circle. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and moves his eyes back on the road.
“Snow's gonna start fallin' any moment, too. C’mon girl... don't give up on me now,” Hoodie pats the dashboard with care, pet names falling from his lips in encouragement for the old truck.
If you weren't halfway into becoming a popsicle, you'd be jealous, but now you're thinking of joining him in sweet talking to the dashboard if it keeps you warm tonight.
Damn Minnesota weather and the mission. EJ said it would be cold, but I thought he was exaggerating. The Operator should give me a raise for this. Or vacation, I've earned it, dammit. Tim's down in fucking Oklahoma with Toby and Kate, but I bet they aren't freezing their asses off like me. At least I'm not outside putting up pages on trees for hours on end..
A curse from Hoodie snaps you out of the small rant in your mind, your head tilting to the dashboard.
Several warning lights are lit up, one indicating the fuel tank is starting to get empty.
Huh, that's weird. Usually the truck is fueled up before a mission and gets checked top to bottom for maintenance by Hoodie.
The truck was in tip top shape, as much as it could be for its age, before leaving for Minnesota. You guess even his pick up truck reached its limit today.
Without wasting time, you take out the paper map from the glove compartment and shine a flashlight on it to locate the road you and Hoodie are currently on. Tracing the route with your fingers, your eyes lock onto the target, circled and marked with a capital G.
“Here.” You point it towards Hoodie who nods, then you set the paper onto your lap, turning off the flashlight and casting the car back into darkness, “Should be seven miles to our right.”
“Thank you, darlin’.”
Smiling at his sentence sounding softer, you look out the window.
The sides are pitch black from the night's veil, so you opt to stare at the foggy road ahead being illuminated by the truck's headlights.
It's been nothing but trees and roads, eventually a clearing until trees thicken up the sides again. Not a house in sight. Nor another car.
“Do you think we'll see a wild animal crossing the road?”
Breaking the silence again, you grin at Hoodie. His body isn't as tense anymore, his fingers tapping the steering wheel in a short rhythm as he huffs in amusement at your question.
“Like Bambi? With the weather like this, even the devil ain't gonna be outside-”
“Rabbit.”
Hoodie curses, manoeuvring the truck back on track as the animal hops away.
“The hell did that fucker spawn from?!”
Biting your tongue down, trying to stifle a laugh, it's fairly obvious with how much your cheeks grin up that you found the situation amusing.
Hoodie groans, slowing down the speed of the car in caution. He was already driving under the speed limit because of the frozen roads, now he has to be careful not to run over wildlife.
Passing a crossed out sign, he glances at the map in your lap.
There's a small parking lot up ahead, sure. However, the place looks dead.
The small building is boarded up, a ‘no trespassing’ sign nailed at the doors that are halfway open despite the warning while glass is shattered all around the window frames.
It is a rest stop, or it used to be at the very least.
The actual gas station is just two minutes away, and Hoodie hopes it's open, but if it ain't he's already planning on breaking in and-
“That playground is so sad, I almost feel bad passing it.”
Your comment makes him look to the right again. Sure enough, there's a mini playground following the rest stop. The wooden structures are half rotted with a variety of bright chipped paint, but they caught his attention for the five seconds he looked at them.
He turns the blinker on, turning the truck around.
“Brian?”
Your voice is confused, eyebrows scrunching in question, “The gas station is up ahead.”
He chuckles, “I know, darlin’.”
Parking into the empty lot, near the play structure, Hoodie unlatches his seatbelt and steps out.
You don't get to turn your head around before he's by your side of the truck, opening the door and leaning on it with one arm. His other hand is outstretched to you.
“...”
You blink up at him. Your lovely partner, boyfriend of many years, to the point that boyfriend isn't the right word to use anymore, is dragging you out into the freezing cold in the middle of nowhere in a random northern state county, borderline to Canada, that you want to get out of as soon as possible...
...You unlatch your seatbelt and take his hand.
The playground is as sad looking as it was from the road. The yellow-orange street lights are not doing it any favors by flickering around it.
There's two swings held up by rusted red chains and a small tower structure that has two plastic slides. The first slide is a straight open slide, reaching Hoodie's height, while the other is a swirly tube slide reaching maybe the height of Hoodie and you combined. The slide structure is also connected to a jungle gym with probably ten handlebars in total, the rest all missing.
A small playground meant for the kids to get distracted by enough for the parents to get a short breather from the road. You can imagine kindergartners fighting over the swings or who gets to go down the slide first.
“Looks sturdy enough, doesn't it?”
Hoodie kicks the structure, the wood creaking in answer.
You, on the other hand, are already brushing off the snowflakes beginning to fall from the sky off the swing. The chain rattles and you're not sure the wooden seat can take it anymore after all these years, but it's surprisingly solid as you sit down.
Hoodie shuffles through his jacket’s pockets, taking out the cigarette box and grumbling as he crushes it in his hand, meeting your eyes and shoving it back into the pocket after a pause.
“Thank you for not littering the environment.”
You grin up at him with a sing-song voice, pushing your legs back and forth on the ground and making the swing creak and rattle.
Despite Hoodie having the mask on, you know he's returning the smile.
Strolling behind you, he pushes the swing lightly making you both recoil at the loudest creak heard from this playground so far. The sound echoes through the empty parking lot.
You turn to look at him raising his hands up, his head tilting down to you as he points to the truck.
“I got WD - 40 in the boot of the truck.”
You laugh, commenting how that won't help the poor swing anymore and sit up.
You're already here, you might as well play with everything offered. Which isn't a lot.
Taking Hoodie's hand, you stand at the entrance of the slide tower as he checks the structure's sturdiness again before deeming it safe to enter.
You climb up the ladder stairs to the platform of the taller slide, loudly voicing your disappointment as the slide is indeed meant for children and not adults in thick winter jackets.
“Man, I'll get stuck either way, jacket on or off.”
Hoodie laughs at your misery as he climbs up to you, but karma hits him in the head. Literally.
Again, the playground is meant for young children, you know? Not adults over six feet whose head reaches the ceiling.
Rubbing his head over the hood, he climbs on top of the jungle gym bars, watching you jump down onto the platform of the lower slide.
It's covered in frost, but you don't care. You're having fun after the day you just had.
Plopping down, you push your body and gracefully slide to the bottom. A whole milisecond of sliding down.
“Was it fun?”
Hoodie teases from the jungle gym, walking from bar to bar as his hands extend out for balance.
“Very. And you?”
“Oh, I'm havin’ the time of my life.”
As you approach him, he sits down on top of the jungle gym, his back turned to you as he continues rambling about how he was the proclaimed king of the jungle gym as a kid.
He hooks the back of his knees through the gaps between the ladder-like plaything and hangs his body upside down, the red eyes and frown meeting your raised eyebrow.
He crosses his arms, swearing he is telling the truth.
Chuckling, you get closer, your faces mere inches away from each other. Hoodie's breathing hitches, arms unfurling to grab onto the bars for stability.
He whispers your name, the syllables shaky on his tongue while your hands reach up to peel the mask off to the bridge of his nose.
Your hands gently caress the reddened skin of his jaw and face, thumb going back and forth over the stubble where a bruise will inevitably form in the next few days.
“My hero.” You murmur.
The mission took everything out of you and Hoodie, an unexpected situation causing a minor set back, but all was well in the end.
He calls your name once again. Not a pet name, code name or a nickname. No.
Your name, he speaks it like it's sacred. A plea.
And you oblige.
Pressing your lips to his, cradling his face, the world is silent for a moment.
He's not a proxy, not Hoodie. He's Brian Thomas.
And most importantly, he's yours.
Even as you break away from his lips and he chases after the warmth, still catching your breaths in the cold winter air, he's yours.
You step away, proud of the lovesick and dazed expression you've caused on him, his breathing creating misty smoke from the cold air.
Brian jumps down the jungle gym, boots crunching under the pilling soft snow and the mask askew, half curled over his nose.
Heavens above. He used to pray for an angel, pleading to the Lord that his family taught him to worship.
Please, Lord, is there someone who'd love a broken, no-count man like me?
And here you are.
Saying his name with the most charming smile and soft eyes while snowflakes pile up on your clothes and head.
Forgive him, he can't help it.
Grabbing your face, he kisses you like he's man-starved, one hand sliding down to your waist to pull you impossibly closer.
His forwardness surprises you at first. However, you lean into it seconds after, pushing the yellow hood away, along with the frowning balaclava you clutch in your hand.
You slide it down his neck, holding onto him by the nape while your other hand finds place on his face again.
You don't even realize it, but Brian is slowly spinning the two of you in a dance. Lips separating unwillingly, he leans his head onto yours, trailing soft pecks over your cheeks and nose.
“Still cold, darlin’?” Grinning with his tooth gap peeking out, he takes your hands into his as you nod. The sweet moment between you two is warming, but there's only so much you can do against winter coldness.
“Truck should be warmer by now, let's hope the gas station has somethin’ warm for ya.”
Two hot drinks to-go wait at the counter of the lonely gas station while Brian looks at various windshield fluids displayed on the shelves, the manager trying to unsuccessfully sell him a deal of buy-three-get-the-fourth-for-free.
The cashier, on the other hand, doesn't seem bothered by you two, waiting till you bring everything you need to the counter to ring up.
“Alright, got the one we need.” Holding up a gallon of yellow windshield washer fluid, Brian joins you in the snack aisle.
You're already holding a small assortment of both salty and sweet packages in your hands, ranging from candy to protein bars, when your eyes shine in epiphany as you look at the truck liquid.
“Ah, we need water too.”
Hands full, you look at Brian casually holding the liquid over his shoulder. He cocks his head to the drinks refrigerator.
“Lead the way, lovely.”
With ease he holds a six pack of water bottles in one hand, a gallon of windshield fluid in the other and helps you set everything on the counter.
The cashier does the job quickly, packing everything in a bag without small talk as you say your thanks and pay. However, the manager is as chatty as ever, obviously not used to many people stopping by the gas station here.
You put the food and water into the backseat, while the to-go cups are set in the cupholders in the front, dusting off your gloves as Brian opens the hood of his pick up truck.
The manager is next to him asking questions and you cringe as the cap of windshield fluid cracks under his hands when opened.
“You sure didn't check the weather report when travelling here, did you, eh?” The manager smiles while Brian brushes him off, opening the compartment for the windshield fluid.
“You sound southern, let me guess…Georgia?”
“...Alabama.” Gritting his teeth, Brian pours the fluid into the truck, counting down the seconds to when he can leave, while the latter enthusiastically talks about some distant relatives from there.
You try to interfere, seeing the seams of patience ripping apart, but the manager and his big mouth... Fuck, you can't believe the unfortunate coincidence.
The manager mentions his cousin attending Tuscaloosa University and Brian snaps, slamming the hood of the truck shut.
Quickly as you can, you grab the empty gallon and hand it to the manager.
“Enough.” The tone of your voice is cold, gaze narrowed. Snow falls around you, the wind rustling through the barren tree branches.
The gas station manager finally picks up the hint and retreats inside, clutching the empty jug like a safety rock making you sigh.
You've got the truck sorted out, some food for the road and Brian...
He's inside the truck already, scowling like you haven't seen in awhile.
Sitting into the passenger seat, you reach for your seatbelt, but Brian grabs it mid way and buckles it in for you, murmuring an apology while meeting your eyes.
The keys jingle in his hands, trembling while the truck starts. The keychain you gave him, a small black bear with a yellow bow, is now fiddled with in between his fingers. You note to get him an actual fidget toy or a stress ball at least.
The truck is quiet, except for Brian’s heavy breathing that's subsiding the more miles he's away from the gas station.
You see the defeat in his eyes, the understanding his past will haunt him, define him years down the road. What is he thinking about?
Brian bites his tongue. His face may have changed, gotten older, but his sins aren't forgiven. He is cursed. He lost a lot of people, some by his own hand.
No. It was the Operator messing with his mind. But he didn't fight back.
He hurt Tim, his best friend. Did Tim ever forgive him? Years deep into their service to the Operator, did either ever apologize to one another? How did the two even reconcile?
Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will. -Romans 12:2
Please no.
His father told him God sees everything and will punish wrongdoing. He answered in bible verses, twisting their words and meaning.
All Scripture is God - breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness. -2 Timothy 3:16
Why?
His mother read the Bible as his bedtime story every night. Told him names have power and not to say God's in vain. Told him his own name means noble, strong and mighty, that is Brian.
The Spirit clearly says that in later times some will abandon the faith and follow deceiving spirits and things taught by demons. -1 Timothy 4:1
God, why?
“BRIAN!”
Gripping the steering wheel, he feels like he just took a breath after being underwater for too long. His heart is hammering inside, trying to break through the bones of his ribcage, clawing out from between his lungs and guts.
He's not there. This isn't his house, this isn't Rosswood, this isn't the hospital, this isn't the tunnel...
And he was driving... fuck, he was driving and having an episode... he could've killed you...
“Brian, love.”
He lets go of the wheel, the car's engine turned off and to the side of the road. Did he do that?
You're reaching out to him, hands barren from the gloves you wore, waiting for him to take them. But, Brian just stares.
The words don't come out, only the clashing of his teeth as his jaw grinds and chatters. There's saliva pooling into his mouth and he swallows it down as it wraps like thorns around his neck in torturous pain.
Like the thorn crown they put on Jesus.
STOP.
A pained whimper leaves him. The two of you are in the dark, but the headlights' glare from the road illuminates the side of his face streaked with tears.
“...Brian, come back to me.”
His hands reach, not for your embrace, but for his seatbelt. Clicking it loose, he digs into his pockets, taking out the empty and crumpled cigarette box, a lighter and his gun. All thrown onto the dashboard as they clack against the windshield.
His eyes stare into yours in desperation, tearing his own gloves off and throwing them with the rest to the dashboard.
Steadying the laboured breaths, he opens the door.
“Give me a moment, don't f-follow outside.”
You watch in worry as he walks behind the truck, his back turned. Clawing your nails into the leather seat, you consider doing what he told you not to. Then you see it.
The red backlights light up the item in Brian's clasped hands, a cross necklace he never took off despite his tumultuous relationship with religion.
It's wrapped around his hands, glinting gold.
Brian is praying.
Turning around, you give him privacy.
This is intimate.
You don't listen in on a man's conversation with God.
The heating is fully functioning, the road ahead looks freshly cleared of the snow blanket and Brian Thomas is calm.
He turned up the radio volume just a bit, the songs outmatching the sounds of the engine and heating, but not muting them.
You're sure he doesn't care about the songs on here, but the current radio station is mocking you by playing Nettles by Ethel Cain.
Hands curled into the sleeves of your jacket, your eyes look through the window, the night sky changing the dark blue into lighter shades as it hits 7am.
Your reflection stares through the window, eyes tired and halfway closed from exhaustion.
You drove the truck for the remainder of the previous night, up until an hour ago when Brian stirred awake in the backseat.
His short hair was ruffled, sleep indents visible on one side of his face as the other side began to bloom in bruises under his jaw and cheekbone.
He looked pure, uncorrupted.
His mind and heart seemed weightless, asking for the time with a heavy southern accent as his hands wrapped around the driver's seat from the back, eyes squinting at the road.
“M’ gonna drive now.”
Closing your eyes, the lyrics of the song somehow become louder in your mind.
When I won’t wake up on my own (Wake up on my own), wake up on my own
Held close all the time, knowing I’m half of you
How did you manage without Brian before?
How did he manage without you?
You don't recall when you started feeling like Brian is more than a coworker, more than a friend to you, but you recall the night he almost died after a mission, the night that bonded you closer.
You, Tim and a half dead, bleeding out Brian stumbling down the stairs to the mansion's basement, his blood on your hands and clothes leaving you frozen in place. Tim had to pull you away to let Jack do his job.
When I lay with you in that auld lang room
Wishin’ I was the way you say that you are
That morning you knocked on Brian's door, not expecting to be let in, let alone heard. With the bandages and stitches, he had every right to be asleep, knocked out on painkillers for days.
But he called your name, and knew you were behind the other side of the door.
You apologised, then flicked his forehead and then hugged him.
“Never take a deadly hit in my place ever again.”
Think of us inside
Gardenias on the tile, where it makes no difference who held back from who
The first date, if you can call it that.
Brian, his pick up truck and you.
He took you to a flower park in the evening, most of the blooms tucking into themselves already. He brought you your favourite flowers.
Then to a diner, your favourite one that you've only ever mentioned once while returning from a group mission.
Lastly, he took you on a drive into a clearing, laying on the grass and held your hand as he pointed out every star and constellation he could see.
”To love me is to suffer me”, and I believe it
The depressive episodes, meltdowns, panic and anxiety, nightmares.
They were part of you. Part of Brian.
He witnessed you at your worst, kept reaching out to you as you pushed him away.
You witnessed him at his worst, his past spilling out of him like a confession of sin.
You are flawed people. You work for the Operator, it's inevitable he will feed on those flaws and use them against you.
Purposely trauma bonding you and Brian further, the synergy of your teamwork improved after your relationship blossomed, the Operator tightly sewing in a red thread between you two in his favor.
Do either of you mind at this point? No.
You'd burn everything for Brian and he's aware, returning the sentiment.
You two trust each other with each other's hearts. With your lives.
That's why Brian pushed you last night. Your shoulder slamming against the wall. He knew you could take it, because it was the better choice than seeing you being hit with a baseball bat over the skull.
That's why you pulled him down harshly last night. He could take it. His back colliding with the concrete floor was a better choice than the bullet going through him. You'd rather he bugs you with his complaints about back pain, rather than having to count another bullet wound on his body.
The argument that followed while evidence was burned, who is protecting who, pointing fingers at each other - it all melted into mutual understanding by the time the truck engine was started.
I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you.
The instrumental of the song ends and you feel cold again despite the heater working overtime for you.
The radio host comments something about the weather, the snow and making the best of it by building snowmen and sledding. It fades into background noise as you turn to Brian, your head propped up on your arm.
“I meant it at the playground. You're my hero, Brian.”
He bashfully drags out your name, flustered smile perking up his face as you continue.
“You're the strongest person I know.”
Your words bring heat to his face, the genuine tone and the sincerity of your gaze making him scratch at his neck, fingers looping and fiddling with the gold cross necklace.
“Darlin’, you leave me speechless at times.”
His hand moves to rest on your thigh, thumb drawing circles on the outside of it.
The smile drops as his hand feels the shivering of your body.
“Now, why didn't you tell me you're still cold?”
Lifting his hand to your forehead, he hums in thought. With one hand on the steering wheel, Brian unlatches his seatbelt with the other and shrugs off his jacket in seconds, draping it over your body in the passenger seat.
“Rest your pretty eyes, darlin’. I've got you.” His hand finds solace on your thigh again, and you smile.
“Told you, Brian. My hero.”
Reaching for the glove compartment, you toss him a new box of cigarettes and lay down into the seat, drifting off to sleep.
He huffs, wondering why the cellophane is missing. He doesn't mind sharing with you, but... tapping the box over the dashboard, he opens it and grins. Teeth gap and all.
All twenty are untouched in the pack, except one flipped upside down. The lucky cigarette, your trademark for him.
The one that was only Brian's to take at the end of a pack and everyone in the mansion knows it's off limits to steal.
He places the cigarette box into the pocket of his jacket over you, grabbing your hand and bringing it to his lips.
“I love you.”
He places you hand over your thigh, covering it with his own hand as his eyes follow the snow covered road and traffic signs.
Your small hum makes him chuckle, his voice starting to loosely sing the current song on the radio, glancing at your sleeping form from time to time.
“Nothing...nothing, hm hm...”
Indicating a turn, he gently turns the steering wheel, catching the sign that's welcoming to some small town along with the population number.
“...can get a look in... nobody fucks with my baby, nothing, nothing...”