Work Text:
It turns out you can only ignore the fact that you're bleeding out for so long before driving becomes an impossibility. Driver hadn't really been thinking about that fact when he left LA. Left Irene and Benicio. Left the closest thing he had had to being a part of a family since, perhaps ever, really.
He's dying, he's pretty sure. The wound in his stomach is deep, and it's been sluggishly leaking his life blood for hours now. He's pulled over into the parking lot of some shopping center. There's a pharmacy. Reasonably, Driver could go in and at least buy some gauze and medical tape to pack the wound, maybe eke out a few more hours of driving and find somewhere nicer to die than a parking lot somewhere in Fresno if he can get his vision to stop darkening at the edges.
Driver takes a breath and braces his hand against his stomach as he exits the Malibu. This might be harder than he anticipated. His legs don't feel like they're going to support him and his already fuzzy vision swims for a moment. He makes it to the side of the building before collapsing against the wall and sliding down it.
Oh…ok. Guess he's not getting those few extra hours.
That's fine. It's not like he had big plans of starting over and living the good life in another city. He doesn't get to have nice things like that. The last few days had proven that.
Driver closes his eyes. He's fading in and out at this point. It's funny though, he can almost feel something poking the area around his wound. No, he can feel something poking his stomach. There's a voice too, low and kind of…sultry? He tries to focus enough to hear the words.
“...looks nasty…be fixed though…”
Driver catches about half of the sentence. He manages to pry his eyes open and look at the person kneeling in front of him, their hand resting just below his stab wound. Long blonde hair with long blunt bangs covering one eye, scruffy facial hair, and a grin that hovers somewhere between playful and threatening.
The other man grins wider as they make eye contact, then rather carelessly pulls Driver up to his feet, throwing an arm around Driver's waist to steady him. He speaks again, the tone and words ringing as ominous in Driver's ears before unconsciousness takes him.
“I'm not going to kill you. I've never killed anyone.”
Driver wakes slowly, wincing at the bright streak of sunlight that falls directly across his eyes. He must have fallen asleep in the Malibu. The thought doesn't even get the chance to settle before it's immediately shattered by the sound of another person's voice.
“So you're awake for real this time. I’ve been expecting this now that your fever finally broke.”
Driver's eyes snap open and he shoots up into a sitting position, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his stomach as he does. He is very much not in the Malibu. His eyes dart around quickly to take stock of the situation. He's in a bed, in a bedroom, presumably in someone's home. Likely the home of the person standing in the doorway with sharp eyes and a sharper smile. The man looks vaguely familiar, something about the hairstyle is ringing a bell, but Driver is pretty sure he's never this person in his life.
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
That phrase has never sounded less believable. The man's voice is soft, but there's an edge to it that is not reassuring.
“If I wanted to hurt you I would have done so by now; I've had plenty of opportunities. You were out with a fever for three days after I stitched you up. The wound had a nasty infection.”
The words prompt Driver to look down at his stomach. He's not in his own clothes. He gently lifts the hem of the borrowed shirt and touches the wound; it's neatly bandaged, gauze and dressings carefully layered over the area with medical tape. The man hadn't been lying about fixing him up at least, but that didn't mean that Driver was safe. He looks back up at the man warily. The other still has that unsettling grin.
“You nearly bled out in that parking lot; you're lucky I was running errands after work. I figured I'd save you the trip to the hospital, since I can do anything they would have done there. And it's always so awful to go back to your workplace after you've already clocked out for the day.”
Ok, this guy was a medical professional of some kind. That settles Driver's nerves a little bit. He’s still not sure he trusts the guy, because honestly who brings an unconscious stranger with an obvious stab wound into their home, but he's pretty sure the other man isn't going to try to kill him. He clears his throat to speak, the words coming out hoarse after days of disuse.
“Who are you?”
The man in the doorway’s eyes nearly sparkle, his grin shifting from merely unsettling to pleased and unsettling.
“Me? I'm Jeffery Thank You.”
