#I am in your walls stealing your loft insulation

[jingle-jangle-spurs]

Robert House watching The Courier rip all the copper wiring out the walls of the Lucky 38

[lovehugsandcandy]

bloom (ColtxMC, RoD)

A/N:  I almost did not finish this in time for Colt day and I would have been heartbroken. (also, alternate summary was “Colt has a plant” but GOD why would he ever have that, right?) @rodappreciationweek

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: ~4500 words

Rating/Warnings: N*FW (It’s not explicit but there’s enough there that it’s probably N*FW. And swearing.)

Summary: Bloom where you’re planted.

It comes cheap, as cash deals often do. The walls are riddled with holes, gaping gunshots and massive dents inflicted in incidents even he doesn’t want the stories of; the roof is in shambles, caved to the floor in spots while leaks spread oily over the surface in others. But the land is secluded, safe, and, though it needs work, the foundation is sound. 

Colt has never been afraid of hard work, anyway.

He wanted to rebuild on the ashes of his father’s shop. It would have been apt, fitting, rebuilding the place that had been his legacy, passed down from ancestor to ancestor until it arrived at his feet, decaying and ruined. 

But it was too obvious. Every single time he drove by, he could see the undercover cops staking out the place, blindingly obvious behind the tinted windows of shiny SUVs. The drive also made him ill; when he caught sight of the charred sign and burnt out support beams, his vision would sway, hands clammy in leather gloves, heart racing a frenetic beat. The last time he sped through, he had needed to pull over, two blocks away, to spew stomach acid into a gutter.

He hadn’t gone back since.

But this new shop, this would work. He would make this work, rebuild here, in safety and relative anonymity, forging a new crew and avenging all he had lost.

A bitter voice cuts through his mental scheming. “There’s one more thing.”

“What?” He glares daggers at Smokey, the gruff man selling the place who earned his name from the trail of tobacco wafting behind him.

“The yard.” 

He follows Smokey out back, to where two wrecks sit on concrete that bleeds into dust at the edges, all surrounded by rusted-out barbed wire fencing. The Lambo would be worth something, if the engine was still there, but the MacLaren is destroyed, probably only worth scrap metal and parts.

“All this is yours, too. But I ain’t moving shit.”

Colt shrugs. “Okay.” He surveys the lot. Buried in the dust, he notices a flash of green, a leaf peeking out of the dirt caked against a metal post. “The hell’s that?” he asks, pointing over to where the small stem is, remarkably, making its way out of the dry earth, spouting where no living thing should ever be able to grow. It’s tiny, barely an inch, but it’s vibrant amid the washed out dust basin surrounding it.

“That plant thing? Fuck do I know.” Smokey sticks his hand in his overall pocket, fishing around until he grabs a pack of smokes. “Anyway, like I said, it’s all yours.”

Colt hands over the cash, takes the keys, and starts planning.

~~~~~

He plasters the walls himself, sledgehammer tearing through the plywood and insulation, dust and dirt raining down on him until he’s covered, paint chips grinding into his skin until every visible inch is full of grit and grime. He stands in the shower for an eternity, scalding water raining on muscles tense with exertion, physical labor quieting the screaming rage in his head.

He can’t do everything himself, gets a truckload of guys to shingle the roof, hires an electrician to ensure that the lifts work on the floor. He keeps his ear to the ground, always scouting new talent, people looking to make a break into his world. There’s a few, various tuners and losers, but no one he trusts. Not yet.

One thing he can do is rebuild, plan, and deal with that stupid plant. He almost ignored it, figuring it would wither away on its own, but he has begrudging respect for something thriving in an inhospitable environment. The guy at the nursery thought it looked like a melon, handing over some instructions and a bag of soil that Colt balanced on his lap as the bike wove through city streets. It’s stupid, utterly ridiculous, but he puts the soil down, anyway. Maybe the melon just needs a chance.

By August, Mona’s out, sprung from jail by some hotshot lawyer and begrudging LAPD acknowledgement of the corruption in the force. He is under the bike when she saunters through the bay doors, a smirk on her face and swagger in her step. She makes a snide comment about his transmission, then wanders into the break room to make popcorn.

He stares after her for a full minute, completely befuddled, but finally shrugs and wanders out back to water the stupid melon.

He wonders if this is his life now.

~~~~~

Colt looks closer, dropping to his knees in a cloud of dust to peer incredulously at the ground beneath him. Yesterday, there had been only one green sprout, the result of careful tending and effort, somehow reaching burgeoning leaves through the fencing slats to chase the sun. But now, there are two, as an evil-looking clover emerges through the soil carefully packed against the fence. How the fuck did a weed grow here? Hell, he has no idea how the fucking melon was growing here, pushing through the dust that caked the ground, but he would be damned if he let a fucking weed ruin his work.

He’s just digging his fingers into the dirt, trying to get every offending root, when footsteps thud behind him. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Mona asks, skeptically.

“Getting this fucking thing-”

“What is that?”

“A weed.” He drops the invader, and it scatters in the wind, dancing through the fencing.

“No…” She hesitates, sounding puzzled, and he squints at her profile in the sunlight, waiting. “The plant thing down there.”

“Guy at the store said he thinks it’s a melon.”

She blinks. “You’re growing a melon.” He doesn’t know what to make of her tone, half accusatory, half mocking, so he only shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. Finally, she snorts. “It might be nice for you.”

“What?”

“Might be nice for you to actually make something, instead of fucking shit up all the time.”

He glares daggers at her retreating back before inspecting the stupid green stem again. It might be his imagination, but it already looks stronger, as if culling the invading weed had already strengthened its roots. 

Maybe the fucking thing would thrive if its enemies were removed.

~~~~~~

In October, Ximena makes her way through the front door, a smile spreading across her face and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. He’s speechless as she lifts him into a giant hug, his ribs creaking in protest.

“Heard things were getting better around here, sweetie.” Colt feels a bashful flush heat his cheeks at the familiar nickname, but she’s not wrong. He and Mona had just swiped a couple of Sodertaljes for a half a million just last week, and he’s already scheming to snatch two more. The crew is making a name for itself; he’s rebuilding. “Where’s Mona?”

“Back room,” he answers, watching X stroll away in absolute confusion before he wanders to the yard. Apparently, he can’t control the comings and goings of the dregs of his father’s crew.

But maybe he can control the fucking plant.

~~~~~

Ellie doesn’t come home for Thanksgiving. 

He knew she wouldn’t. It’s his business to know things, the location of priceless cars, the name of the rival crew who’s been running jobs in the Hills. Collecting tidbits of information and splicing them into a bigger picture is one of those skills that keeps the crew afloat and him alive.

But knowing things about her (the spot at the curve of her shoulder that makes her cry out, exactly how much pressure to use where she’s so sensitive, hell, even the stupid, sappy shit like how she likes her coffee, all locked away deep in his brain), well, that’s far from business.

He knows her house (third from the corner with the busted up cruiser in the drive) and he would recognize her car anywhere, even just a flash of it.

She stays at school for Thanksgiving.

But she comes home for Winter Break. He drives by one morning (three am after a successful job, when the roar of adrenaline in his blood makes him desperately miss the one person he wants by his side) and it’s there, vivid pink reflecting the streetlights. He has to remind himself to fucking breathe.

The next afternoon, groggy after tossing and turning all fucking night, he can’t decide when he should just show up at her house and how to avoid the detective if he did. 

He actually doesn’t need to decide. 

“Why didn’t you rebuild the old shop?”

He spins, splashing the coffee in a sticky mess over concrete (one cream, two sugars, far too sweet to be anything more than a reminder). “What-” The smile on her face is playful, teasing, and his fingers itch to run through her hair. “How did you…?”

“You’re not the only one who has friends in low places.” She turns at the echoing footsteps and is soon swept into hugs and smiles and the dull banter of catching up. 

But after, after he steals her away, upstairs to his loft, coaxing sugar sweet sounds from her lips with the rapaciousness of a man denied for far too long, he ensures that she remembers exactly who she came to the shop to see. 

When he’s exhausted, temporarily sated yet only waiting until the next burst of energy for round two, he traces random designs down her bare back. “You ready to come back, yet?”

“Colt…”

“Hey, I know you’re too good for school. Just wondering if you know it yet.”

She spins in his arms; when her bare skin glances across his chest, he tightens his fingers, still curled into her back. “Jesus, Colt, you haven’t changed at all.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“Your dad…” His nails dig into her back at the mention; her wince makes him drop his hand to the sheets. She continues, “Your dad wanted more than this. For you.”

“What about what I want?”

“Well, what about what I want?”

He blinks, pulling his arm back. “The fuck? You’re doing what you want across the fucking country.” He watches her stand and storm about the room, pulling on clothes, swiping at her eyes. “Ellie, come on-”

“This was a mistake.”

He sits up, crossing his arms over his bare chest to fix her with his darkest glare. “What the hell does that-“

“I should have…” She trails off and, for a moment, he sees the glimmer of indecision in her eyes. “I made my choice. I’m going back to school and I can’t…” Her voice wavers and she doesn’t even finish the sentence.

When the door slams, he flops against the bed, worn and wilting. 

~~~~~

Winter brings the first fruit. 

One of the many benefits to living in Southern California is the weather, where each sunny day is a picture-perfect copy of the last. So, even though it’s February, Ximena watches as he carefully cuts the fruit from the vine and stands, cradling it in one arm. “Huh,” she says, shooting him a critical eye. “It’s kinda like that saying: bloom where you’re planted.”

“Huh?”

“The saying… bloom where you’re planted? It kinda means… um….“ Her hands flail about before settling across her chest. “Work with what you’ve got? Plants need fertile soil and plenty of water and sunlight. That plant was given this dusty piece of shit lot owned by a fledgling crew. But even though these aren’t really the best conditions, it’s still blooming anyway. Even though the circumstances aren’t the best, you need to use your talents where you are, not think about what could have been.”

He runs the words through his head, callused fingertips tracing the dappled skin of the melon, trying not to think of different circumstances. “Christ, X.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Its just a fucking plant.” He turns and heads through the shop, careful not to splatter fruit on the concrete, her heavy footsteps close behind. 

Mona is already in the break room, lazing about the table, and he gingerly cuts into the skin, handing her and Ximena a pale orange slice.

“Is it hygienic to cut it with that knife?” X asks, teasingly, but takes the proffered piece, regardless. 

“Shut up and try it.”

He waits as they bring it to their mouths, holding his breath as each takes a tentative bite. Finally, Ximena breaks the silence, wrinkling her nose. “It’s kind of… bitter.”

“You mean it’s fucking awful!” Mona spits the blob of flesh into a napkin, disgust curling her lip, and she wipes at her tongue rapidly.

He glares at them steadily but can’t disagree once he cuts his own piece. It tastes wrong, flesh too chewy, too tart on his tongue. His eyes water as he swallows it down; he closes the switchblade and chucks the entire melon into the trash.

Maybe this whole thing is a fucking waste of time. 

Maybe nothing would ever bloom at this shop.

~~~~~

Winter also brings Toby. 

Colt hears the engine roar from the loft and, when he opens the bay door, he gapes at the blaze before him, raging from the hood of a modded-up import.

“It’s not supposed to do that.” Toby leaps from the driver’s seat, grabbing the fire extinguisher that he apparently keeps conveniently under the passenger seat.

“No shit.”

“I think I dialed the ignition force up a little too high, but with a couple of modifications-”

“What are you doing here?”

Toby’s jaw drops. “What do you mean? I heard you were building a new crew.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you suck at the delicate modifications needed to create the next generation of revolutionary sports cars, and you also wouldn’t know your way around surveillance technology if it bit you in the ass and bought you a milkshake afterwards.”

What the... Awkward phrasing aside, he’s not wrong. “What the fuck. Is everyone just gonna waltz right in and…” Colt trails off as Toby walks away, tripping over nothing on his way down the hall.

The cheer when he strolls into the break room is loud, raucous. Colt wonders when his shop became the thrift stop for local rejects.

He wonders why he does nothing about it.

~~~~~

“I’ve heard they like it when you play music for them.”

Colt looks up. “The fuck?!?”

Toby peers down at where he is carefully packing more soil around the base of the stem. “The plants,” he explains, eyes blinking wide behind his thick lenses. “I think they like music. Do you wanna borrow one of my German trance electronica CDs?”

“God, no,” Colt snarls, standing and wiping dirt on his jeans before turning heel, storming back into the shop.

After watching for two days (weren’t there supposed to be flowers sprouting on this fucking thing?), he finally buys a wireless speaker, hiding it next to the fence. At first, he tries classical; based on a quick internet search, soothing orchestra is recommended. However, the strings gnaw on his ears and, even worse, the plant still looks like shit. 

Once he’s annoyed with that prissy crap, he flips to music he likes and is amazed when the furled leaves seemed to get greener and greener. Colt can just make out 2pac as he stares in amazement at the plant. Will I see the penitentiary or will I stay free? He shakes his head and walks away; he doesn’t know shit about plants.

~~~~~

She comes back for Spring Break, too. He doesn’t even need to drive by her house; she posts a picture at LAX, beaming grin filling his phone screen as she poses at arrivals.

He waits, doing petty jobs and minor repairs, anything to keep his hands occupied, but it doesn’t stop his mind from racing. Finally, on the fourth day, soft footsteps edge onto the shop floor. He tries to keep his eyes from widening; based on her smirk, he doesn’t succeed. 

He doesn’t even let her speak, crossing the floor in five steps, arm on her wrist, dragging her upstairs so he can push her against the door.

“I’m not gonna apologize.” He says it into her mouth, words rushed to shorten the time before her lips were on his.

“I would never expect you to.”

“You know how important this is to me.” Her fingers curl in his jacket as he rolls his hips.

“I know,” she moans as his lips slide down her neck. “I just want… you could be so much more than this. I don’t want you to destroy yourself.”

He makes his way back up to kiss her ear. “Fuck, Ellie.” His voice is low with promise and she shivers at every word. “I’m going to destroy you.”

She laughs joyful and clear as they fall into bed, and he reacquaints himself with the curve of her shoulder, the soft skin of her thigh. The dirt under his nails leaves streaks of grit down her back, over her ass, and he scrubs her clean in the shower, catching the droplets of water as they fall from her lips.

“How long are you staying this time?”

She’s in a towel, water still dripping from the pile of hair at her nape, skin glowing from being scrubbed clean. Colt had never seen anything so radiant. “I’m home until Sunday.”

“Not what I was asking.”

“Tonight?” She bites her lips, eyes wide on his.

“I’ll take tonight.” He leans over to pull on the fabric, dropping the towel to the floor. Beaming, she squeals as he pulls her back into bed. If he only had tonight, he was gonna make it fucking worth it.

~~~~~

They try the melon again. It’s May and the days are getting longer; snooty colleges would soon let underclassmen fly home for the summer.

He tries not to think about it.

He cuts through the fruit, three pairs of eager eyes around him, and hands out crescents, his leg bouncing under the table as he waits and watches the crew take hesitant bites.

“It’s…” Mona chews thoughtfully. “It’s not bad.”

Ximena smiles. “It is definitely better than last time. It’s not very sweet, but at least it’s not terrible.”

“Thanks,” he replies dryly.

“What do you guys mean?” The words are hard to comprehend over the entire wedge that Toby has crammed into his mouth. “This is incredible!”

Colt takes a tentative bite. It definitely wasn’t as bad as last time, the sourness of the last attempt now faded into an inoffensive tartness. The flesh is soft against his tongue, but it’s not sweet; unlike the fruit from the store, it is bland, inoffensive, boring.

At least it’s edible, a marked improvement from when the first fruit sprung from the barren soil.

Only Toby takes another piece, but Colt counts it as a win.

~~~~~

The soil disappears easily, lather carrying it down the drain as if it were never there. The grease is more difficult, solvents and scrubbing not enough to take everything off, and he can see the dark lines coating his skin for days, until they are as much a part of him as the freckles dotting his nose and the scar under his rib cage.

He carries other dirt with him, foul and dark, and no amount of scrubbing will ever make him clean.

~~~~~

He almost thinks she won’t come back, not this time, that Spring Break was a bittersweet goodbye and her full year away has convinced her that her new life is a better fit, holding more promise than a crew still finding its legs and growing into its reputation. He fears her time in the books may have taught her she belongs in musty libraries and dim corridors, soaking up knowledge like she soaked up gearshifts and speed, and that formulas and theories would replace the itch to drive fast and take chances.

But he’s wrong.

The door opening on the shop floor barely twinges his consciousness, and the increased chatter doesn’t stir him either. He just rolls over, burrowing his face into the pillow.

But the hands sliding down his bare back definitely jar him awake and he whirls, brain working far slower than his limbs, and it takes a minute to come to grips with the figure in front of him. When he finally realizes that she isn’t some dream-induced phantom but is real, a corporeal figure perched over him, morning sunlight glancing off her hair and fingers solid at his back, well, then he moves, quickly pulling her down before she can change her mind, relearning how she cries out and moans his name.

After, her body drapes over his, slick skin on slick skin, and his fingers trace their way up her back, her forearms; he’s comparing the real Ellie in his arms with that of memories and dreams and his mental mapping is disturbed when her lips forms words, hot against his chest. “Have you ever gotten something you wanted and realized that you might not want it anymore?”

The question makes him pause; he can think of a million things he’s wanted, desperately, abject need coursing through his veins and making him desperate to destroy all obstacles.

But he can think of only one he has actually gotten. He pulls her close, heart simmering at the question, and drags needy lips up the bare skin of her shoulder, etching tongue and teeth in a haphazard line that only stops behind her ear, when the moan flows through her chest and vibrates against his skin. “I’ve gotten things I wanted and realized that I wanted them even more.”

Her answering smile glows in the sunlight and, yet again, he finds himself again lost to the world of sensation and pleasure and the utter rightness of her body under his.

When she sits up in bed, hours later, he is deeply satisfied when her voice again rasps over his name; he is so distracted by imagining all the things he can do that will make her again dip the vowel, slow and sexy, tongue sliding over the single syllable desperately, that he misses the question. “Wha-?”

“Show me around.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, but...” She tilts her shoulder and tugs the sheets tighter around bare skin; Colt pulls his eyes from mapping the dark marks lining her shoulder and focuses on her words. “I only really saw the break room and your bedroom.”

“The only important spots here.”

She huffs a sigh. “Show me around?”

“Fine, fine.” He trudges out of bed, dressing slower than normal since his eyes won’t stop cutting to her, jealously watching her jeans slide up to cover the teeth marks on her thigh. If she was just going to skip off again, he was going to do his damnedest to memorize the sight of her perched on his bed, glowing in the daylight.

“Ready?” she prods.

He rolls his eyes, throwing on his t-shirt and walking out of the room, taking the stairs twice at a time, hand vaguely waving at the shop floor as he saunters through. “Hydraulic lift. Air compressor. Impact wrench. The piece of shit that Toby swore he could get running two months ago, but the engine still won’t fucking turn over.” He turns to see her trailing careful fingertips over a toolbox. “Can we go back upstairs?”

“Is it like your dad’s shop?”

He starts. Usually he bristles when people mention Pop, fury and regret and a deep need to prove himself just below his skin; however, there is only curiosity brimming in her eyes, a hint of concern below the surface. He has nothing left to prove to her. “What?”

“I dunno. Does it have everything the old shop did?”

He shrugs. “Mostly. There’s more space, so I added in another lift. We also have the lot, so Tony has been collecting more pieces of shit that he swears will be vintage collectors one day.”

“There’s a lot?”

“Hm?” He eyes the distance between them and the stairs, probably 50 feet, but he could get Ellie back there and up to the loft in seconds if he were properly motivated. “Yeah, out back.”

“Can I see?”

Internally, he groans but nods, leading her out the back door and into the sun. It’s the same dust pit as normal, and he casts an unimpressed eye around the heaps of metal. However, Ellie looks enraptured, peering around the wrecks, walking the perimeter in slow, careful steps. 

“Wow, it’s huge.” He shrugs; he feels the tips of his ears reddening and tries to fight it, but it’s a lost cause when she gazes at him like that. “Wait…” She pauses, eyes falling to the ground. “What’s that?”

“What?”

She kneels to the ground, hovering over the dust to stroke careful fingers over the melon. “This.”

“A stupid plant.”

“A plant?” She blinks up at him, squinting against the midday sun, and this time he can’t suppress the huff.

“Yeah, it’s a stupid melon thing. It was here when I bought the place and I’ve been trying to actually get something decent, but it’s fucking pointless.” She stares at him so long he fidgets, rocking back on his heels. “We’ve tried it a couple times, but it never tastes good. And I looked up when to water it and the guy at the shop blathered on about soil and sunlight, but it never seems to come out right.”

She falls silent again, and he stuffs his hands in his pocket, waiting until she finally asks, “You… you did this?”

He gapes. He did everything in this fucking place, from installing the bay doors to filling the tool chests to even putting together the bed she had just fallen apart in. “Yeah?”

“Huh,” she murmurs, eyes falling on him as if she was just seeing him for the first time.

He rocks back on his heels. “It’s just a stupid fucking plant.”

“I just… I never expected… you...” She stares at him, piercingly, as if she could see right through him, deep inside his brain to his deepest thoughts and desires and fears, deep to where she had already twisted tendrils inside him that he could never prune. “I thought you were gonna burn yourself down.”

“And I said we were both gonna be great.”

She bites her lip, considering, and Colt has the dawning realization that can actually, finally get what he wants. “When are you supposed to get fruit?” she asks and his heart skips a beat.

“Well…” He calculates days in his head. “It flowered a week ago, so I dunno, three more weeks? A month?” A smile spreads, slow and sure across her face, and Colt realizes that things will be different. “Why?” He smiles back. It’s impossible not to break into a grin when she looks at him like that, like he answered a question she never asked. “You gonna stick around?”

~~~~~

And when they finally cut into the melon, a week after he built two more things (a desk and a dresser, painted in such an audacious shade of pink that he smirks every time he walks into their room), he licks the juice dripping from the corner of her mouth, sucking the sweetness and laughter onto his tongue. It tastes amazing. It tastes like home.

.

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Colt

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