Chapter Text
Eight months.
It had been eight months since Driver left LA. Eight months since that stupid, desperate job that had gone so so wrong. Eight months since Standard had died, since Shannon had died. Since he’d finally kissed Irene and then turned around and crushed a man’s skull to protect her. Eight months since he let the door close between them, knowing he could never go back.
Eight months since he’d taken a knife to the gut in order to remove the last threat to her and Benicio.
He’d gone straight to Shannon’s doctor friend after leaving the parking lot, knowing the wound was meant to be fatal. The only reason it hadn’t been is because he’d known it was coming and managed to hold it mostly still and return the favor before Rose could rip it out or twist and cause more damage. Even then, he was lucky. It had nicked his small intestines, but was minor enough that the doctor managed to clean him out and sew him up before it got deadly.
That hadn’t been pleasant. Even with the local anesthesia and heavy painkillers, he’d still been awake. It had taken every ounce of self control he possessed to remain still and not recoil from the echo-sensation of someone digging around in his guts.
The doctor had sent him off with some more painkillers and medication to help prevent infection, and Driver had paid him with the cash he’d swiped before he left the car shop.
He left all the money from the job next to Rose’s body. He didn’t want anything to do with it.
And then he drove.
Rose had been right about one thing: He couldn’t guarantee Driver’s safety. Even if the man hadn’t tried to kill him himself, Driver was a loose end in a plot whose roots traced back to something a lot bigger than any one person’s vendetta. Nino and Rose may be dead, but that money had come from somewhere, and eventually someone would come looking. He was the only moving piece in the whole clusterfuck of a situation still alive, and no matter how small a part he played in the actual deed, it was still a trail someone could follow. And he’d be damned if he was the thing that led more of those people to Irene and Benicio.
He had to leave LA.
South would be the easiest route. The most reliable. Cut down and cross the boarder then travel a ways before crossing back. Or keep going, find a quiet place in Mexico to establish himself. Make connections, get back in the game. He was a getaway driver, a criminal. It’s what they would expect.
Driver headed north.
He went south, south-east just long enough to get out of the city and swap his plates for ones he’d grabbed at the shop, then he took side streets and back roads to circle back around and up the coast. Avoid major highways and cities, anywhere there might be a camera or heavy police presence.
He’d told Nino the truth: He wanted out.
Irene and Benicio had been part of it, sure. But watching Standard get shot, seeing someone he’d started to care for killed so abruptly... being hunted just because he knew something he shouldn’t?
...finding Shannon’s body in the shop.
That wasn’t what he signed up for.
There’s a reason he only drove, never asked questions or got involved in the crime itself. Five minutes, no more no less.
He drove because he was good at it. Shannon had been the one with connections, both for stunt work and in the underground. He’d set up the jobs, get Driver in contact with whoever needed his services, legal or not.
Shannon had been the first person who’d looked at Driver and seen something worth something. The first person who actually cared beyond surface level obligation.
And now he was gone, along with everything else. Shannon, Irene, Benicio, Standard. His home, his work, his life.
The only thing he had left was a small go-bag with a few changes of clothes, a couple hundred in cash, and his car.
If he were to be entirely smart about it, Driver would’ve picked up a more common model somewhere and left the Malibu behind too. It wasn’t as showy as other classic cars, especially with the understated silver paint job he’d chosen, but it was still distinct enough to draw attention.
But he couldn’t. It was one of the last real things he had left, besides the bloodstained jacket he’d stuffed into the very bottom of his bag.
He’d left everything else. Lost everything else.
He kept his car.
Driver ended up in San Fransisco.
It wasn’t a calculated decision, he just needed to stop. He'd been awake for nearly forty-eight hours and been driving for thirteen, winding down back roads and taking routes that doubled back on themselves. Doing basically anything but head in a straight line.
Eventually he pulled into the parking lot of a motel on the outskirts of the city, the neighborhood run down enough to hide in but not seedy enough to worry about his car getting stolen. He paid for a room and passed out nearly the second his head hit the pillow.
He’d woken shivering and feverish. It was like once Driver finally slowed down, the toll from everything he’d managed to survive caught up to him all at once.
It took three days before he could stand without getting dizzy. Six before he could stomach anything heavier than soup. Nearly a week and a half before he felt well enough to start looking for a way to replace his rapidly-dwindling funds.
He’d found work in a small locally owned garage that sat right on the boarder between lower and middle class neighborhoods. It didn’t have any criminal connections as far as he could tell, scoping it out for a few days before approaching just to make sure. He did the same thing a few weeks later when searching for an apartment.
The criminal network of this city was unfamiliar, but Driver had been a part of that world for long enough to recognize the signs.
He’d settled into a routine.
Wake up, have breakfast, check the news, head to the shop, work as many hours as he was allowed. Either work on his car afterward or go for a drive, get to know the flow of the city like he’d once known LA. Get groceries once a week. Head back to his apartment, either work out or work on one of his side projects until he got tired. Go to bed. Rinse and repeat.
It was slow, quiet. He kept his head down. Kept to himself.
It was exactly what he should be doing.
Driver felt like he was suffocating.
The restlessness had started after three months, insomnia after four. Taking to the streets in his car stopped helping midway through six, and he had started to get desperate.
Being alone had never bothered him before.
Before.
Before before before.
Before Irene. Before Benicio. Before he got a taste of a life he'd only ever seen glimpses of. One he thought only existed in cheesy fiction that portrayed an impossible fantasy, one that ignored how cruel the world was in actuality.
Easy smiles and playful teasing and hands that were only ever gentle.
It ached.
God it ached.
There was a void in his chest. An absence of anything solid, anything real, that was threatening to rip him apart at the seams.
He quite literally stumbled across a solution while walking back from the store, forgoing his car in hopes that the exercise would tire him out enough to let him get at least a few hours rest.
The guy may have well come out of nowhere, Driver’s focus was so scattered. He'd cut through an alley without checking, a rookie mistake, and taken a fist to the stomach before he even registered he wasn’t alone.
His bag of pasta and shampoo spilled it’s measly contents across the alley as his back slammed into the rough brick of the wall, his assailant grabbing a fist full of his shirt just under the collar to hold him there.
Driver didn’t think.
He didn’t know what the guy wanted, didn’t hear whatever he might’ve said. Hell, after the fact he wouldn’t be able to tell you the guy’s hair color or even if he was wearing a hat or a hood.
One moment his back was against the wall and the next he was standing over a body.
Not a dead one, thankfully. He’d nearly panicked for a second before he found a pulse, but the guy was still alive. Driver rifled through the would-be-mugger’s pockets until he found a phone and dialed 911 with shaking hands.
He’d hung up as soon as he gave the operator the location, quickly but methodically removing any trace of his presence and retreating back to the safety of his apartment. The box of pasta went in the cabinets, the shampoo in the shower. He cleaned and wrapped his abused knuckles, got ready for bed. Tried to ignore the buzzing under his skin.
For the first time in months, Driver slept until his alarm woke him in the morning.
If it had just been the adrenaline, he could've found something else. He was trying to keep his head down, and getting into fights on the regular was a great way to do exactly the opposite.
But when the aching absence threatened to choke him, the sharp zing of pain he got from pressing down on his injuries was grounding.
It was real. Tangible. A lifeline he clung to with all the desperation of a drowning man.
It wasn't good. It wasn't what he wanted.
It wasn't anything like the feeling of Irene’s soft fingers intertwined with his own on the gearshift as they drove. It wasn't the sleep-warm weight of Benicio in his arms as he carried the kid back to his room after a long day. It wasn't the gentle light of their home that made him want to bask in the simple peace, content to just exist near them for as long as he was allowed.
It wasn't what he wanted.
But it was something.
And anything, even pain, was better than the numbness that had sunk it's claws into his chest and grown... until he was half-convinced that eventually he'd forget how to feel anything at all.