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Doin' the dirt: Slang for committing crime for money. Usually refers to low-level criminal activity (aka the dirty work). Doin' dirt is commonly connected to drug dealing & trafficking, but doing dirt can be used to describe a wide variety of crime such as: robbing people, pimping hoes, running small-time gambling rings, assault + murder (for pay obviously), etc.
That, Rick thinks as he drifts toward consciousness, was probably the best sleep he's had in eons, and therefore, some inherently fucked up shit has gone down.
Rick winces. His head feels like it's simultaneously being sawed in half and clubbed with a hammer. It feels like...
His train of thought grinds to a halt.
That isn't usual. Thinking, thinking comes to him like breathing, never a struggle no matter what drugs he decides to take or alcohol he chooses to drink. Must have been physical, outside influence that's causing his confusion right now. Must have been those guys at the bar this afternoon. Swarthy fuckers, watching everyone else in that grease trap like they were such hot stuff, sidling up to him and Stan like they had the world on a string. Rick doesn't remember how it went down, but he doesn't question that he started something, eager to drag his newfound friend into a brawl. God, watching Stan fight was better than religion...
Rick winces. Fighting. Pain. Right.
Rick moves to touch the back of his head, seeking out the epicenter of this injury. Gotta check for a gash or a goose egg, gotta discover the parameters before he can solve the problem.
His elbows bend and hit something solid with a thump.
He frowns, unwilling to open his eyes yet. Rick puts a hand flat and palm-down on the ground. It's hard, but gives slightly if he presses. It's scratchy. Grainy.
It's still pitch-black when Rick opens his eyes to assess his surroundings.
"Well sh-urp - shit."
*****
It was exactly like every plan Stan had ever had before -- stupid. Just... So fucking stupid. Who did he think he was, that he could have one friend in this miserable, pathetic shithole of a life? That he could say no to some unknown drug dealer holding his past over his head, not to mention the dealer's henchpeople who were taller and beefier than Stan himself? Stupid. He was stupid.
With a groan, Stan opens his eyes, already dreading what lies ahead. He tastes blood and the two beers he'd managed that afternoon before things got murky.
"Oh great, he's awake."
He hears the rustling of a newspaper, the schwak of shoes on linoleum, but nobody enters Stan's line of sight. He senses at least one pair of eyes watching him, though.
Cautiously, Stan turns his head to the right. The room sways. His neck burns all over, inside and out. Somebody choked him out at some point, Stan realizes. Those cheap bastards.
Bit by bit, pieces of a scene add up. Stan is sprawled on a dirty mattress on the floor (and say what you will about him sleeping in his car but at least the springs don't stab through the cushions unlike this sad sack of crap). The comforting weight of the Stanleymobile's keys in his right pants pocket is absent. There's a man in a pressed gray suit sitting in a metal folding chair next to his head. A dark brown crucifix hangs on the wall behind the man; the sight of it makes Stan shudder.
Gray Suit continues staring in silence, face half darkened by shadows. Stan's chest contracts at the sight of the man's unblinking owlish eyes.
Antonín. He'd know the Czech bastard's face anywhere. He thought he’d shaken this dealer two years ago, hadn’t seen him since leaving the east coast. Antonín had a hand in every trade back then, had been impossible to avoid doing business with in Stan’s neck of the woods. His people ran designer shit in Vermont and New Hampshire, Stan knows, but Stan had mostly done deals for him in Pennsylvania, running dirt weed or ridiculously cut coke. His appearance here, in this dusty, dead-end bordertown, is throwing Stan for a loop.
The man's lip curls up in contempt. "Hello again, Hector," he says at last, accent lending the familiar words an eerie feeling. "Fancy to be meeting you here."
Stan wrinkles his forehead, racking his aching head before he remembers. Hector Forrest. The alias he had used back then, on that particular run of jobs. That license and passport, he knows, are presently buried in a box in the trunk of his car. Given the likelihood of someone shaking him down while he was conked out, Stan can already sense he's being screwed with.
Stan sits up and swallows around the lump in his throat. "What d'ya want, Anton? Isn't this a little south from your usual scene?"
The drug lord shrugs, leaning back in his seat. From the corner of his eye, Stan notices the shadows behind him shift, no doubt the man's bodyguards preparing for any funny business. "I was only, how is it you say?" He grins and lifts his hands from his lap to provide air quotes. " 'In the neighborhood.' "
His hands lower along with his expression. "I cannot tell you how disappointed I was to learn you declined my invitation to dance earlier this afternoon, Hector," Antonín continues.
Stan scowls back, remembering the bar scene at 3:00. The joint had been surprisingly busy, a good amount of people as Stan recalled. Made sense when he thought about it, though. Rural drunks had nowhere better to go, no better way to waste a day. Stan and Rick had stuck out like sore thumbs, yet no one gave them grief, too engrossed in their beverages of choice.
Well, no one gave them grief right away, Stan amends. He had noticed the two thugs as soon as they entered the bar. Big guys with more muscle between them than the rest of the bar combined. It was their accents that made Stan’s skin crawl, though. East coast, Jersey like him, though maybe from somewhere farther north.
Rick noticed them too then, Stan remembers. His companion had elbowed Stan in the side, dark eyes alight and itching for a fight Stan didn’t want to deliver.
Rick only got antsier as the brutes wandered their way down the bar. Stan had half a mind to hustle them out, hop in his car, and hit the gas without looking back. The thugs had blocked his path, however, even before they decided to cross into Stan’s personal space.
“Long time, no see, Forrest,” Thing One had said, leaning in close to make sure Stan heard him over the din of the room. His grin was cold, the grip of his hand on Stan's shoulder painfully tight. "Friend of yours said to tell you he's got a trade for you to supervise tonight."
Stan felt the flare of anger, embers of outrage starting to be stoked in his stomach. “Who sent you?” Stan hadn't been running for long but he'd already packed up and left more operations than he cared to remember. He wasn't a pro, but he always used an alias and never left a trace after disappearing. Who had been keeping tabs on his sorry hide?
From behind him, Stan heard a belch and the creaking of floorboards under someone’s shifting weight. Shit.
“The fuck is he talking about?” Rick hissed. The beer in his bottle sloshed as he gestured at the goons.
Stan’s anger was quickly doused by shame. Crap. Rick didn’t know. Rick couldn’t know, Stan decided. Their relationship was too new; Stan couldn’t scare off the one reliable friend he’d had in years, regardless of the job’s payout. Forget everything; this offer had to die before it was officially on the table.
“Forget it,” Stan had said, ignoring Rick, “I don’t care; it doesn’t matter. Just… tell whoever you’re working for I’m not running shit.” Four sentences. Four nails in his coffin.
Memories of the rest of the exchange kind of fizzle out after the second goon's fist had met his upper chest. Based on his current position, Stan can pretty well guess how it played out.
A long sigh interrupts Stan's thoughts. Antonín tsks, still looking down on him. "Unwarranted pride can repay in unwanted dividends."
"Did whoever teach you English charge extra for all those fancy words?" Stan spits before he can stop himself. "Or are you just stringin' together whatever you hear and like on the nightly news?"
Antonín scowls. "Such words from a man whose friend has mysteriously vanished."
Stan’s heart lurches up into throat, beating double-time. "Where is Rick?" he asks, speaking before he thinks again. The room is still fuzzy around the edges and threatening to spin. Stan’s worried. Shit. Stan is concerned about Rick, and how his absence didn’t ping sooner. If it’s too late, if Antonín did something to him…
"You'll find out soon enough," Antonín replies, voice unnervingly even. He finally looks away to inspect his cufflinks. "And you don’t get to ask the questions," he continues. "Not unless it is what you can do for me."
Stan huffs. “What I can do for you.” He knows what that means. He’s heard it before, from Antonín and everyone else of his ilk. “Dumb muscle,” a mover not a mind. With a pang of hurt, Stan realizes Rick doesn’t know that he never finished high school.
"Alright, boss," Stan says, pushing his hurt aside and packing as much venom as possible into the single word, "what’s it gonna be? What kind of game are we playin' today?"
The curl of Antonín’s lip is sadistic. “I think is what Americans like you call… Monkey in the Middle.”
Stan groans and puts one palm up to his forehead. “Fantastic.”
“We moved a shipment of coke up from Columbia this morning,” Antonín explains, shifting in his seat. “Business as usual. I came to oversee the ‘big stuff,’ as it were. Lots of smaller side trades to be done down here as well, though. I have two local boys a... 'associate' of mine typically supplies. One brick each, per month." He cocks his head to the side, eyes still boring into Stan's skull. "Sadly this associate is incapable of his duties at the present time. This is where you enter."
"Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase," says Stan, hoping his bluff doesn't cost Rick anything important. "You need me to give the kids new drugs and get your cut of the money from the last go-round?"
Antonín jerks sharply. He stares at Stan for a long minute, then sniffs. "$40,000," he says finally, looking down the bridge of his nose. "No less."
Stan tilts his head, clenching his jaw in annoyance. “Forty thou? Here, in this spit-stain on the map?” No way anyone could rope in that kind of cash in The Town That God Himself Forgot, not with two bricks and population under ten thousand.
“Exact amount,” Antonín replies. “Think of it as the value of this ‘Rick’ to you. Anything less on your end, and your friend might be returned in…” He waves his hand in a small circle, searching for the right words. “Not entirely one piece, as it is.”
Stan tastes bile at the back of his throat.
Antonín must sense that his silence is compliance because he smiles once more. “Meeting is arranged on the edge of town, at diner called ‘Hog Wash,’ or ‘Pigs Feet’… “ The drug runner wrinkles his nose. “Something with livestock. I told the locals you would be there in one hour.” He checks his watch, amusement recoloring his features. “That was twenty minutes ago, however.”
Stan sighs and checks his own timepiece. It’s 4:40, give or take a few. Never could remember if this thing was fast or slow.
“Meet back outside here at 6:45,” Antonín continues, “no earlier or later if you want to see your friend again.”
Stan runs a hand down his face. "What do I get for protection? Model 19, 1911?" Something small and shitty, Stan guesses. Seems to be today's theme.
Antonín's expression is hard as stone. "No guns."
Whatever shred of confidence Stan might have felt flees the building. "No guns to a drug trade-off? I’m your asset, asshole. I can’t bring you the money if I’m dead."
Antonín waves off his outburst. "Defending you isn't my greatest concern, Hector. On this run, a mule is a mule."
“Yeah?” Stan raises an eyebrow and meets Antonín’s leer with defiance. “So put your money on a different horse.”
Antonín outright laughs at that. "In this neighborhood? It is what you say, a one-horse town. My options are limited on such a short notice." He sits back again with a self-satisfied smile. "And here you are, someone I know I can trust."
"Someone you know you can manipulate," Stan mutters to himself. If Antonín hears him, the other man doesn't acknowledge it, busy searching his jacket pockets for something.
"Besides," Antonín continues, staring down Stan with a new harshness in his eyes, "you got a lesson to learn."
Antonín flicks his wrist; there's a jingling, then a thump and something metal hitting Stan in the chest. His own hands move fast enough to catch it before the thing falls in his lap. It's a set of car keys - his car keys, Stan realizes, feeling slightly more at ease. Small mercy, being able to rely on his own transportation through all of tonight's bullshitery.
"4:47," says Antonín, gazing at his watch. "Best to be hitting the road, 'Hector.'"
*****
Here’s what Stan knows about Rick Sanchez two weeks in -- not a damn thing for certain.
He’s shifty, Stan thinks. One minute Stan has him figured out, pinned down as an uncaring, freewheeling asshole, the next minute Rick is muttering reassurances about how things could have gone worse, how Stan is only doing the best he can. Well, not the best seeing as Rick seems to think Stan has more ‘potential’ than ‘any of these other jack-offs’ give him credit for.
It’s unsettling, but not as disconcerting as the feeling Stan gets when Rick sticks with him, content to drift from town to town. They’ve been scamming their way across the Southwest, small stuff like dining and dashing or trespassing on private property, but that's kiddie stuff compared to the crap in Stan's closet. He wants to know how deep that well goes for Rick, but he wants a friend right now more than he wants to push, so he doesn't bring it up, doesn't bother dealing out hypotheticals when the here-and-now works fine.
Stan knows Rick's criminally smart. Smarter than Ford, probably, but he doesn't seem as overtly interested in perpetual motion or quantum mechanics or whatever his brother liked to prattle about before... well, before. Stan stares at the pile of napkins Rick has accumulated across the diner booth. The other man bummed a pen off their waitress and has been doodling algorithms and grumbling under his breath for the past ten minutes. Stan might be impressed if he weren't so annoyed (and maybe slightly jealous).
Stan looks down at his own hands, at the pile of napkins he's shredded to pieces in the last ten minutes. Never could do anything useful.
It’s only fair, Stan thinks. What does Rick know about him? Jack shit is what. He only got Stan's real name because Rick caught him off-guard, standing on out on a lonely drag of interstate demanding a ride on a humid Arizona afternoon. He was the only person Stan had seen for miles, like he had dropped out of the sky with no purpose other than to hitchhike.
Not that Stan's complaining. He can appreciate flying by the seat of your pants. A wing and a prayer got him to a shitty diner at 1:00 AM with supposedly good quality food and better quality company.
"The world," says Rick abruptly from across the table, "is, is full of idiots."
"Uhhhh, okay," Stan replies, thinking he probably just made Rick's case for him with those two words.
Rick waves a hand in Stan's direction with a snort. "I mean you, you’re… passable."
"Thanks," Stan snarls.
"I mean, but like," Rick begins. He bangs a fist on the table between them, emphasizing a point Stan is reasonably sure did not get vocalized. "You're not n-nothing, you know? You just gotta... you're knowledgeable about s-something, right? There's something if we, if we hit it off, so just... tell me something interesting. Hit me with s-something weeeeird."
Stan sighs. “I don't…”
"Don’t," Rick interjects. "Stop. Thinking. Just talk to me, just do it, just fucking say s-”
"Condoms can hold up to a gallon of water," says Stan.
"What," says Rick, insistent expression sliding off his face.
Stan kicks himself mentally. Leave it to his stupid brain to drag up THE most embarrassing random fact then decide to stall. "For like... it’s a survival tip. If you get stranded somewhere with what you have on you at the time." He swirls his coffee but doesn't drink any. God knows he's jittery enough. "You can use 'em to transport water since they're durable." He can't look at Rick, oh god, why is he still talking. "They’re flammable, too, if you can’t start a fire with just wood."
There's a beat of silence, of Stan feeling Rick's appraising eyes on him. Then it settles. The air seems to clear as Rick slides down on his vinyl seat with a squeak. "See that is fu- is ridiculous." Rick props his feet up on Stan's side of the booth, then prods Stan with his booted toe. "Keep talking, tell me moooore."
Stan blinks at the tabletop. He wants to actually consider this one, pull out something even more impressive, but the more he thinks about it, the slipperier his ideas become. " 's illegal for a man to knit during fishing season in Jersey."
Rick snorts out a laugh. "You do a - urp - a lot of that?"
"Knitting?" asks Stan with a smirk, finding he can meet his friend's gaze again.
"Fishing," Rick clarifies with a half-hearted eye roll.
"Used to, I guess," Stan offers before clamming up.
"In Jersey?" Rick continues.
Stan drums his fingers on the table. Nice mess he made for himself this time. So long as he backs away slowly... "You can survive a landslide if you pull your shirt over your head."
Rick quirks an eyebrow. "No kidding."
"Keeps the dirt and debris out of your face holes," Stan explains, gesturing to his own head. "...I mean, provided it didn’t crush you right away. So long as you can breathe, though, you should be able to tunnel up and out."
"With your shirt over your head," Rick points out, still sounding a touch skeptical.
Stan grins up at Rick. "Swear to God."
"Huh," Rick says with a nod. He smiles back with hooded eyes, his acceptance easing Stan's doubts. "Heyyy there we go, that’s what I k-keep, keep you around for," he continues, and Stan finds he can breathe a little bit easier.
It feels like he's said too much, but running his mouth was worth it, worth the self-satisfaction that lingers even after their food arrives. It was worth it for Rick's attention and amusement.
"So," Rick asks once they've both made decent work of their meals, "where d-did that come from?"
Stan shrugs, suddenly engrossed in the oily film on the top of his coffee. "Dunno, I read it in a book once or somethin'." It came from wanting to impress Ford when they were younger, of him and his brother looking up survival tips when they were small and excitable, trying to one-up each other. It came from preparing for adventures, or misadventures, maybe. He can't tell Rick that, though. That isn't a hand he wants to play this early in their game.
Rick snorts. "Alright, Mister Mystery, don-don't tell me." He's silent for a second, foot tapping against Stan's thigh. "Didn't take you for the b-book type, but the rest of it makes sense."
"Yeah?" says Stan.
"Yeah," Rick agrees, "you're the t-type know how to get, get out of a fight, out of, out of a tight - urp - spot." A smile stretches across his face slowly, and it makes Stan's stomach flip. It's too soft under the grimy fluorescent lights, too nice for Rick and his perpetual judgment.
"That's what, that's what I like about you, Stan," Rick continues easily. "You fiiiight. You r-rally the troops in your head and you claw, you claw y-your way out. You fight until you hi- hit a wall, fight until you wanna, you wanna quit, and then you k-keep fighting."
Stan's laugh rivals the old diner coffee in bitterness. "Only ‘cause I’m too stupid to do anything else."
Rick shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe that s-says even more about you then. Maybe - urp - that’s, that's more important than learning about-bout other shit that doesn't, that doesn't interest you that m-much." He points his pen at Stan, fixing him with a hard stare. "I mean, where ya’ gonna find - urp - find a book to teach you s-something like that?"
Stan shift uncomfortably under his gaze. "I don't... I don't know."
Rick resumes doodling. "Exactly. I'm - urp - I'm right about this. Don't d-doubt me, Pines."
Stan studies him, stomach churning. He tells himself it's entirely from the lack of food. “Yeah. Maybe.”
*****
He isn't panicking. Rick's mind is Zen enough, a swirl of drugs and booze plus the almighty concussion courtesy of Stan's friends enough to keep him calm for the time being. Panic is the last thing on his agenda.
Sometimes the universe works in funny ways, Rick thinks. Like, thank Christ that conversation was recent enough that he remembers what Stan said about shirts and dirt and shit. Thank God the mobster morons buried him with his boots on in a pine box slapped together with like three nails.
Rick squints at the shitty plank above his head. He taps his right toes against the board, testing his theory. Now that his brain is awake again, it's cruising to make up for lost time.
Say his scrawny frame can exert 25.8 kPa, even in this cramped coffin. The dirt's definitely gonna be loose enough, given how recently and hastily his burial transpired. He probably has a fighting chance in hell of tunneling up and out if the soil here is dry. Provided, of course, those lazy spineless shit fuckers only buried him less than two feet in. He bets they did.
Rick takes a minute he can't necessarily spare to think of Stan. He's hedging his bets again, trusting this kid who apparently tangoed with a crooked serpent to give enough of a shit about Rick to come looking for him, and to have enough wits to find Rick before he runs out of oxygen.
He scowls as a handful of loose dirt trickles through a crack onto his face. Fuck, what does Rick even know about Stan? Who knows what else he's been lying about? Still, Rick has enough of a glass house to know better than to throw stones. Later. They can hash things out later.
Time spent dicking around in the coffin means more time to asphyxiate too, Rick figures. The average pine box volume is 54 cubic inches, so 886 liters, give or take. If Rick's taking up 64, 65 liters of that, and he breathes wisely, that's like, four, maybe five hours before the oxygen gets used up.
Less if he keeps fidgeting. Even less if he does something stupid like attempt to escape.
Rick lies back, patting his pockets out of habit. His lighter is missing. Fantastic. He vaguely regrets not swiping Stan’s pocketknife when he had the chance, too. Lesson in preparation for another day, Rick decides.
He sighs, then stretches to the best of his limited ability. "Well," he says to himself, punctuated with a belch. "Time to get this - urp - get this s-show on the road."
*****
“You’re short,” Stan growls.
The two local dealers glance at each other and flinch back a pace at the same time. They're less 'professional dealers' than 'boys,' can't be any more than seventeen, Stan thinks, given the patchy facial hair and still-present acne. Stan isn't far enough removed from his own turbulent young adulthood to prevent a pang of concern from shooting through his veins. He knows what it's like to fall in with this crowd, what kind of options these guys must have had to be dealing when they should be spiffing up their tuxes for prom or preparing for college.
Doesn't change the fact that they don't have the money Antonín wants, though.
"We don't..." the kid on Stan's left starts. "I mean, it's what he said to bring."
Stan raises an eyebrow. "This is it?" He waves the leather bag in the space between them, doing his freaking best not to point how suspicious three slobs like them look handing over a professional leather briefcase in a diner parking lot on the edge of town as the sun sets. "You need me to count it for you again? Two kilos, because you're small fries. Because you're local and this town is a shithole. That's what, 2,000 grams? You should have had at least eighty-thousand total, 40K in here." Stan isn't a hundred-percent certain that checks out. He's only the middleman, only dumb muscle feeling the strain of mounting stress and threatening to shake out of his own skin. But it's what Antonín wants, and what Antonín wants, Antonín gets. "You sold it all, didn't you?"
The dolts share another look, and Christ they have to knock that off. Stan is starting to feel left out.
"We were doing twenty to thirty for a gram," Lefty finally explains, "depending on the customer." The guy on Stan's right avoids his glare, kicking up gravel with his holey sneakers.
"Twenty to thirty," Stan repeats. Twenty to thirty. Twenty to thirty. The words cycle through his mind, making his blood boil. "Here's — " He stops, growls. Wait. No. Fuck that.
Stan runs a grubby hand down his face then back up through his matted hair. Here's the thing. He's holding a briefcase containing $35,000. He's on the edge of a nameless town intimidating two futureless kids while his heart hammers in his chest. Every dollar he's short is coming out of Rick somehow.
"He told us you'd try bargaining," the kid on the right finally says, sneering up at Stan with a thin-lipped smile. His eyes are black and lifeless. "Said not to push us around 'cause you'd pocket the extra profit yourself."
Stan meets his cold stare with a glower of his own. "Antonín said that, did he?" Antonín said no guns. Antonín said $40,000. Antonín said he'd give Stan his friend back in one piece once the deal was done.
Rick would know what to do, Stan thinks uselessly. He'd have a better plan than the one swimming through the shallows of Stan's brain at the moment.
What was that word, Stan found himself thinking in a voice that wasn’t his own. What is it "con" is short for again? Confidence, big guy. Gotta find a way to work the system in your favor even when the dice are loaded.
Stan growls, staring past the goons at the horizon. He doesn't need to look at a watch to know he's out of time, that this is a dead end. Even if he had the leverage, he doesn't have the room to haggle, not if he wants to get Rick out of the lion's den.
“Forget it,” Stan says, slamming the briefcase shut. He yanks open the driver’s side door and swings a leg in, anger thrumming through his veins. “I’ll get the money some other way.”
*****
Rick braces his hands against the wood. Here's what - here's what needs to happen. No hesitating, no overthinking, no thinking period, he just has to go. He just has to do. He a rangy fucker, he isn't built like Stan, but he's strong, theoretically. He has force, and this chipboard has been giving since he first laid fingers on it, so this should be a cakewalk. Theoretically, of course.
Right. Now or never. Do or die. Easy peasy.
Rick shifts his right leg, angling it to get the best force behind his kick. He inhales.
Aw Christ. Forgot the most vital part, the bit he literally just remembered. He barely resists the urge to bang his forehead on the lid above him.
Hands on the hem, Rick shimmies to pull his shirt up, dragging it inside out in the process. It’s even more freezing and damp in the pine box, and if he gets a sliver in his ass, Pines is gonna have to kiss it better (or worse. Or... whatever, he can chase down that train of thought later).
He can’t see what he’s doing, but Rick ties the tattered affair up to the best of his abilities. “The best of his abilities,” in this case, involve knotting in a tuft of his own spiky hair and banging his shins against the cheap wood, but whatever, it’s done. Beggars can't be choosers or some shit.
Now Rick kicks, smashing up with a steel-toed boot; dirt floods into the coffin. Rick folds his knee, moving so the dirt shifts under his leg, and presses it up. If he can keep cracking along the seam of the box, it’ll be easier, make a hole tall enough for his lanky frame versus having to fold himself up at one end.
He yelps as something cold and sharp digs into his knee. Right. Nails. Fantastic. The wood gives regardless, cracking in around the nails. Bastards really did cut some corners making this bad boy.
Rick raps his knuckles against the lid before deciding his elbow is more expendable. Bringing his right fist to his chest and his forearm to his face, Rick jerks his elbow up — strike — and the wood splinters. He jabs again and it all but shatters. Jackpot.
Instinctively Rick rolls away from the incoming dirt. He bangs every limb and joint in the move and curses loud and colorfully. It gets him a mouthful of sweaty cotton fabric, and no, screw this, not worth it, not worth it at all.
He splutters. Crap, he has to move the dirt. Rick starts blindly shoveling it over, across the space to his left, with his hands. Making space, making sure it doesn't crush him. Given the climate, it should be dry enough. It should also be loose enough, given it was dug up and reset within like, hopefully, the last few hours. Still. Nothing worth getting stupid over.
Rick mutters another string of curses, then rolls to move the accumulating dirt underneath his body instead of basically on top of him. So fucking stupid. He's gonna blame it on the lack of oxygen if this story ever makes it to the surface.
*****
Stan puts the car in park, then grabs the opening flap of the leather briefcase and gives it a few good shakes. Hopefully the breeze will dry up whatever ink didn’t set on the drive over. He had some hundreds forged already (which was fortunate since he almost wasted five minutes tonight blanking on what building was on the backside), but he had rushed to make a few more in a dirty gas station bathroom down the road. Antonín isn't an idiot, of course he's going to count the bills as soon as Stan hands them over. He wouldn't risk stuffing with blanks, and as low as Stan has sunk in the past few hours, he was loathe to actually rob anyplace for the necessary dough.
Sighing, Stan kills the engine and leans forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. Stupid. So fucking stupid. A shark like Antonín will probably see through his god-awful plan in two seconds.
Nah, don’t sell yourself short, comes a familiar voice from the back of Stan's brain.
He frowns, sitting back up. Rick had better appreciate this, or at the very least not hand him over to the cops when the dust settles.
Stan gets out, feet hitting the gravel of the parking lot. He surveys the abandoned church Antonín chose as their meeting spot, walking slowly toward the group gathered near the rusted cemetery gates.
A metallic screech catches Stan's attention; looking up across the lawn he spies a broken-down swing set by the parsonage, and isn't that just his luck? He stumbles over the gravel, over his own unraveling shoelaces, but he manages not to land on his face. Score one for the home team.
Stan marches forward and shoves the bag of bills into Antonín's chest with a newfound sense of courage. It's done. He did it, and here he is.
Antonín smiles, as if sensing Stan's attitude and deeming it cute. "Well then," the gangster coos, inclining his head toward a goon at his back, "somebody get this boy a medal."
Stan sneers, bringing his face up to his former boss's grinning mug. "I got your kids the drugs. I got you the money," he says, emphasizing his words with another shove of the briefcase between them. "Now give me Rick back."
Antonín rolls his eyes, and then his hands are on Stan. Their fingers clash against the briefcase's handle, Antonín prying Stan's grip loose. His free hand lands on Stan's chest, pressing hard enough to send Stan stumbling back a few steps.
Stan watches numbly as Antonín and his guards approach their car. The goons pile in, but their boss circles back. He pops the trunk, and Stan's heart clenches in his chest. He's got this. He did it, he's got Rick back, they can get the hell out of this town and... and Stan doesn't know what, exactly, they'll have to talk, he guesses, but that's fine, he can live with that so long as --
His thoughts are interrupted by a clank.
It takes Stan a second to figure out what happened, to make sense of what he's looking at. There's a shovel on the ground at his feet. Antonín threw him a shovel.
There's a cemetery attached to this church estate, Stan remembers sluggishly. It's small, but it's there and filled with shadows. Rick is still missing, but Stan has a shovel and a cemetery and a sadistic drug runner at his back. Solve for X.
His brain has catches up at the exact moment Stan realizes Antonín is howling at him. Stan balls his hands up into fists, resting useless at his sides. Bastard always did have to have last laugh.
"Get digging, Hector," Antonín cackles as he gets behind the wheel of his own ride, snickering at his own joke as the door slams shut and Stan breaks out in a cold sweat.
*****
Rick can't see shit with his stupid ratty T-shirt around his head. Not that he expected to, but still. Beats getting a mouthful of the mounds of dirt he feels around the rest of his body, he guesses.
He has this, though. He's freaking Houdini up in this joint. He's gonna invent a time machine for the sole purpose of going back and making that stage clown his bitch.
He feels a worm brush against his bare arm, falling with the shifting soil to land on his chest. Yeah, some fucker's definitely gonna die for this. Rick pushes the dirt toward his feet and wonders if Stan will help him get rid of the body. He at least owes Rick the use of his car and its spacious trunk. At the very least.
It might be his imagination, but Rick thinks the pressure is lessening. It's either working or he's dying slowly of carbon monoxide, so, win-win in either case.
There's a rush of cold night air against Rick's right hand. He pats the flat ground above him, sifting through a mound of dirt before his hand's being crushed again, something bulky and warm pressing into his skin. It's more solid than soil, sweaty, and then it's yanking, threatening to pull Rick's arm from its socket even here beneath the mountain of earth.
Huh. Chalk this plan up in the "working" column then, Rick muses before whacking his shrouded head against a plank of plywood.
*****
Here’s what Stan knows right now, standing at the gate of the cemetery. He is absolutely and certainly, without a doubt fucked.
Stan runs a hand through his hair and fights the urge to run. In, away, the direction doesn’t matter, doesn’t occur to him to matter until his feet are moving. He’s been running on borrowed time and adrenaline for the past five hours; he can’t stop now.
He can’t stop shaking, either. His sweat-slick palms struggle to keep their grip on the shovel handle. What if he collapses in his tracks? What good is Stan to Rick if he can’t muscle him out? God, if their roles had been reversed…
If their roles had been reversed, would Rick have come back for him, Stan wonders.
He huffs out a breath. Who cares right now? He can't afford to deal in hypotheticals. Stan pushes down the thoughts that aren't helping - this is why you can never have friends; as if Rick needs something besides your age and intellect to hold against you - and walks. His sweat from earlier is drying in the rapidly cooling night air, making him feel even clammier. He can't remember the last time he showered, or ate, for that matter. His stomach churns, not helped any by the idea of what Stan might find if he reaches Rick too late. At the back of his throat, Stan tastes bile.
Don't cry, don't throw up. Don't cry, don't throw up. Don't cry...
Stan tries to focus. He's looking for a recently-dug grave with no headstone, probably near the back of the yard to raise less suspicion. He breathes out, forcing himself to look around slowly. His eyesight is shit in the dying light, in unfamiliar territory, but he can't afford to miss anything. He can't afford a do-over or second sweep. It would be Stan's luck to be running laps in the cemetery while Rick runs out of air below his feet.
Stan jumps nearly out of his skin; something moved. Something is moving, a dark and roiling shape he can’t make out in the shadows. It’s on the ground, falling in instead of pushing out. It’s dirt sinking into a hole, Stan realizes with a jolt, dirt moving for only one purpose and one person Stan can think of.
He runs, sinking to his knees by the burial plot. It’s Rick, it has to be Rick. Stan tosses the shovel to the wayside, scrabbling to move what soil he can with his hands. He got Rick into this mess; the last thing Stan needs is to accidentally maim him while attempting to help.
Five bony fingers break through to the surface, hand twisting at the wrist to pat the ground, and Stan jumps, but he knows those fingers. He isn't too late, thank Christ. Stan grabs Rick's hand and pulls. All his might is no dice, though. There's still too much resistance. Stan frowns. He lets go of Rick's hand reluctantly and leans further into the shallow grave to brush as much dirt as he can away from the lid with flat, muddy palms.
Rick did good work, Stan thinks, surveying the splintered wood, especially on the bottom of the box. The nails near the top and middle of the box don't look loose enough yet, though, and those planks are cracking inward, pushing down on Rick when they really, really ought to let him up and out.
Stan raps his knuckles against the jointed wood, hoping Rick catches his drift. There's no way of knowing what his friend can hear in there, no time to ask real, topical questions, but Rick is a smart guy and Stan needs to act fast. He reaches back for the shovel, fumbling it for a second before he has a good position.
Slowly, Stan slides the shovel blade in between where wood meets wood. He pushes down, leveraging the lid and coffin side apart. There's a sick snap, and then the plywood is flying. Stan topples ass over teakettle, landing in the damp grass to watch a mass of splinters and soil erupt from the gravesite.
A primal yowling fills the air as lanky limbs make themselves seen, as some of the dirt and debris slither back into the ground. There's a black chasm where his friend's head should be. Stan's first panicked thought of Oh god, his face is gone is quickly replaced by realization that it's only Rick's shirt covering him. Stan feels twin swells of embarrassment and what might be pride; it's been a while since Stan felt that one, but it seems to fit right now.
"Jeeesus C-Christ." Rick pulls his shirt free, lowering it to recover his torso before swinging a leg over the side of the grave. Stan scrambles for the other man, pulling him the rest of the way out to kneel on lawn. Rick rises, shaking off dirt and chunks of wood with a hacking cough that has Stan wincing in sympathy.
Stan gets to his feet as well, whole body shaking in a wave of relief after he notices Rick's coughing has evolved into cackling.
Rick grabs Stan's nearest arm, twisting him in close. Stan lets himself be led, bone-weary until he realizes Rick has both scratched hands on his face, has his mud-streaked mug against Stan's, ragged breath closing up the sliver of space between them.
The kiss is over before Stan realizes it's happening, has him struggling for an appropriate reaction. What... what did Rick mean with that? Was he supposed to mean something with that, or was it a heat of the moment thing?
Stan notices Rick is still holding his arm despite moving apart once Rick begins shaking him. "HA! Look at it," Rick is gloating once more, pointing at the cocked-up coffin. "Eat my ass, Houdini." Stan rolls his eyes - heat of the moment thing it was then.
Rick pauses, tilting his head to the side in contemplation. "Wait, I was in, was in like threeee feet of dirt?" He scoffs. "Pussies." He finally turns away from the site, allowing Stan to relax a little as they stroll down the line of adjoining headstones. "But that's sci-science for ya."
Rick's hands are back in his personal space, Stan realizes, as bony fingers poke around inside Stan's jacket pockets. Stan takes note of the dirt still covering Rick's arms, and of the faint goosebumps underneath. Wordlessly, he removes his coat and gives it to his friend.
"Oh, thanks," says Rick, slipping it on before slipping his hands in the pockets. He turns up a pack of cigarettes and Stan's lighter. "You mind if I..."
Stan stops walking. "Smoke? You just... you wanna smoke. Now?"
Rick waggles an eyebrow. "A-and almost aaalways pal." He doesn't wait for a formal go-ahead, using Stan's confusion to shake out a stick and set the end aglow. Stan notices the slightest quake to his hands as Rick tries to get the lighter going, but he bites his tongue.
"Your f-friends took my, my fucking lighter before they chucked me in there," Rick continues once he's taken a good long drag. "Gonna have to sh-share with you, mi a - urp - amigo."
Stan stuffs his hands in his pockets, biting back the "I'm used to sharing" that threatens to spill past his lips. "They took your lighter," he says instead. "And you already noticed." He snorts, half a laugh bubbling in his throat. "Jesus, what... you planned on smoking there or something, Einstein?" Maybe Rick wasn't as smart as Stan previously thought.
"Jesus," Rick replies, exhaling a plume of smoke, "give a guy one, one second to breathe." He ambles toward the nearest sturdy tombstone and takes a seat on it, long legs stretching out into the space between them.
"So," says Stan after the silence takes on an uncomfortable edge.
"So," Rick repeats mockingly. He twists his foot to drag a line in the grass with the toe of his boot.
Stan clears his throat, shuffling a step closer. "You, uh, you OK, pal?" Not exactly the best words to come out, but they're better than nothing.
Rick squints at Stan for a long second, crickets chirping faintly in the background. Finally he shrugs. "Eh. I've had worse." He resumes smoking then, and he sounds so much like he genuinely means it, that having a drug runner put him in the ground and having to dig his own way out while his 'friend' bumbles around on the sidelines isn't even remotely one of the weirdest things to have happened to him that Stan can't help it. He loses it, the laughter starting out small but building until it has his knees buckling. Stan cracks up, tears streaming down his face as he reaches forward for support. It's Rick's bony knee that he latches onto, and that has him doubling over even more than before. Above him Stan hears Rick laughing as well, pausing to rasp out of cough every now and again but matching Stan's mirth all the same. "Probably could've just, just leeeeeft me in there," Rick snarks. "Would've been f-fine for another, another hour or so."
Stan can't breathe. It's ridiculous, everything about this scenario is ridiculous. If anything had gone... if anything different had happened, if he hadn't gotten here fast enough and Rick hadn't been smart enough and strong enough to claw his way out, then where would Stan be right now? If things had gone sideways...
He's crying, Stan realizes. Shit. Shit. It feels like he's choking, whether from laughing or sobbing he can't tell. His head is killing him. He can't look at Rick, not when the guy is so far above him, not when he can feel Rick's appraising eyes on him. If a hole could open up in the ground and swallow him right now... well, actually, Stan would think twice about that after tonight.
Burying his face in his hands, Stan is surprised to feel Rick shifting above him. He hears the hiss of a cigarette butt against granite, and then there's a hand on his back, patting gently between his shoulder blades. Sharp, smart fingers prod at his tense muscles, testing the waters before Rick tentatively brushes his knuckles against the back of Stan's neck.
"C'mon," says Rick, voice quiet and miles away from where Stan kneels in the dirt, "you didn’t f- urp - fuck up."
That's the problem, Stan thinks. Because maybe he didn't fuck up here and now, or at least not as badly as he could have. But he will again, soon. It's kind of a constant these days.
"You can leave," Stan finds himself saying. It's easy, dissociating, telling himself Rick is better off without him. He pulls himself up and turns to look down at Rick, still slouched on the grave marker. "We'll get out of here. We'll get cleaned up and split town, but once we're... I don't know. Once we're out of town, if you want to hitch another ride, I wouldn't blame you."
Rick's face hardens as he stands, rising into Stan's personal space. He looks determined. Stan knows him well enough to recognize the expression and silently thrills at the familiarity of it. He tries not to get hopes up, not realizing until Rick is reeling him in by the shirt front that his hopes might actually be met for once.
Stan is expecting it this time, prepared for Rick's mouth meeting his own. Rick closes the gap in a rush, too hard, and their teeth clack together painfully. Stan opens his mouth in a shout, and Rick seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue in. Stan grabs a handful of his own jacket, jerking Rick away with a grimace. "Let me set the pace, would ya'?"
Rick sticks his tongue out, scowling. "Gggod, bossy," he grumbles. "All r-riiight then, since you know- know best let's get on with it, yeah?"
He looks so put out that Stan can't help cracking a grin. "Yeah," he replies before bringing their lips back together, reeling Rick in by the coat. It isn't a great kiss, but it's real and grounding. It makes Stan feel wanted, needed even maybe. A guy could get used to this.
Stan moans and reaches up to run his hands through Rick's wild hair. A mess of dirt spills down at his touch, and Stan laughs short and sharp against Rick's lips.
Rick pulls back, laughing as well. “You w-want me to leave?” He scoffs. “Fat f-fucking chance of me leaving, not now that things got - are getting interesting.”
Stan breathes in and breathes out, air filling his lungs as his stomach drops with a swoop of relief and affection. He says nothing. Voicing the feeling might have Rick mocking him. Even unspoken, the emotions make Stan uncomfortable, thoughts muddying up his head. He’s not going to ruin this too, whatever this is.
Rick makes a fist and slaps it against his open palm. Orange flecks from the tip of his cigarette. “Let’s get payback, let’s get, let’s bury one of their guys.”
Stan relaxes slightly, a nervous laugh escaping his mouth. Rick grins back at him in the low light. He hiccups, then, knocks his fist against his chest and coughs. “You got - urp - got 'cher car aroun-around here somewhere?”
"Yeah, I..." Stan pauses, mentally kicking himself for not hiding his car earlier, for leaving it out in the open where the cops could have seen it. What's done is done, though, and a quick glance over his shoulder assures him that, yes, the Stanleymobile is still in the church parking lot where he left it. "Yeah, it's back that way." He jerks his head back that way, and Rick's gaze follows.
Rick takes one final drag then tosses his cigarette in the hole. “Good, let's get, get the fuck outta here.”
Stan watches as Rick walks out of the shadows toward the church. He spares a moment to look down at the embers dying in the grave, at the splinters of wood sticking up in from the loose earth. He shivers, then squares his shoulders and starts after Rick.