#fucking LOSER cant even spend his BIRTHDAY without THINKING ABOUT HOW MISERABLE HE IS.

[acadianideals]

happy-fucking-birthday

[turtle-steverogers]

alright babe heres the first 5 I saw: "why are you covered in neon body paint?" "best not to ask" and "I cant breathe, I cant-" and "I cant walk just go on without me" and " ive had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with" and "hey guys im here and im ready to bitch"

hey guys, saph and i were facetiming earlier and she dared me to finally answer this ask she sent in like fall 2018 except i had to use all the prompts and the result is…well, i’m not sure what it is.  but its got criminal race and spot and a cryptic ass albert who makes lava lamps for his niece.  so yah. enjoy!

warnings: its pretty much crack, but there is a brief anxiety attack

ship: platonic race/al/spot

word count: 2490

editing: no

Something a Little Off-Kilter

-

Race was nine years old when his ma grabbed him by the chin, turned his face towards her and told him in all her harsh Italian-mother sternness, “We do not run from people, Antonio.  You have Mancini blood in your veins and Mancini’s do not run!”  And Race, with eyes blurred from tears and nose dripping with blood from the fight he’d just fled, nodded vigorously before trudging miserably to his bathroom to clean up (and cry a little more).

But he’d learned two things that day.  One: what a maiden name was and that his ma’s is Mancini and two: running is for losers who never want to stop running.  And he’d more or less kept up that sentiment, even if it cost him a black eye and some dignity in some circumstances.  Like that one time in eleventh grade when Spencer Reiding called him a fairy and in turn, Race had beat the living shit out of him until his little entourage had shown up and knocked him out cold.  But seriously, ‘fairy’? It’s not 19-fucking-50.

Race supposes, though, that all good sentiments meet their maker at one point or another.  Self-preservation over morals and all that, right? 

“Floor it, Christ, are you flooring it!?”  His grip on the ‘oh shit’ bar is white-knuckled and he can hear himself panting as he twists in his seat for what’s probably the hundredth time.  The blue and red flashing of the cop car that had been following them is nothing but a speck at this point, but Race isn’t really keen on taking any chances right now.  Tonight had been a close fucking call.  

“Yes, I’m flooring it, asshole!” Spot shouts, swerving around a lone subaru that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the otherwise empty stretch of desert highway.  Normally, Race would be surprised at the sheer lack of cars that are out, but he supposes 4 am in buttfuck Arizona is not prime time for travels.  

Letting out a little whine, Race turns to face forward again, stealing a quick glance at Spot as he does so.  He can see the faint worry lines on his face, reflected from the miniscule lights of the dash.  They’d opted to leave the headlights off for optimal covertness, but the moonlight over the desert proves to be more than sufficient.  

Spot’s anxious, Race can tell.  He remembers a year ago when the two of them had first met in that dingy bar in Brooklyn.  Spot had been nothing but a stoic mask at that time, only showing faint hints of amusement every now and then.  It had been incredibly disconcerting, especially to Race who wears his heart on his sleeve, to behold such utter passivity, but Race had since learned to read him.  Spending everyday together for twelve months is really the best lesson in a person’s tells, Race has found.  And really, when he spares a second thought to it, their situation and relationship therefore, is a strange one.  Two broke college grads down on their luck and bearing fuck all from their families meeting by chance and somehow finding themselves stuck in a loop of money laundering and identity theft in order to stay above ground.  Maybe not the best solution to their problems, but hey, Race never claimed to be smart with his choices.  And the rush of adrenaline is as much of a drug as the coke they sell on the side.

“God fucking damnit, is he still following us?” Spot says, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror.

“Dude, he caught us balls deep tryna break into a fucking bank.  He ain’t gon’ let us off that easy.” Race says, “Jesus fuck I told you we should stick to the other stuff.  We were making big cash just fine pulling paychecks from easy civvies.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can tell me ‘told you so’ when we get somewhere I can think.” Spot sounds exhausted and on-edge and Race himself is looking forward to this whole ordeal blowing over so they can find a place to ditch this car and grab a new one and maybe crash at some shitty inn no cop would think to look.  Yeah, laying low for a couple of days sounds perfect right now.  They don’t even have to leave the room.  Denny’s orders in, right?

“Oh, I will.” Race says, sighing an internal sigh of relief as the distant lights of a small town come into view.  Thank god.

Spot mumbles something that sounds like, “Fucking finally,” and eases up on the gas, turning abruptly once they enter the city perimeter.  

They’ve gotten good at this: losing tails, but Race still holds his breath as Spot loops around the backroads of the town, looking for a place to dump the car.  It’s a few minutes until Race can see the lights of the cop car reflecting off the drug store they’d passed upon first entrance and he hisses out another curse, jabbing Spot in the arm.

“Stop here,” He says, “If he finds the car, fine, but he sure as hell ain’t finding us in it.”

Spot looks like he wants to fight back, but instead, he surprises Race by pulling to a surprisingly quiet stop by an old auto-shop.  He gestures for Race to get out and swiftly grabs their duffels from the back seat, tossing Race’s to him, both pausing when the cop car cruises in front of the alleyway closest to them.  Inaudibly, they let out synchronous sighs of relief when it continues on. 

They cheat behind the auto-shop and are barely settled into identical crouches when a quiet, “Psst,” captures both of their attention.  Race jumps violently, only barely recovering in time to slap a hand over Spot’s mouth as he begins to shout in surprise.

“Over here,” the voice whispers again.

The two of them turn to look at where the auto-shop’s back door is now open and Race squints as the silhouette of a man comes into view.  He can see the man waving a hand in front of him, beckoning them closer, before exchanging a look with Spot.  A silent conversation passes between them, we’ve made bad choices before, what’s one more? And Spot shrugs a little before hoisting his duffel back onto his shoulder and tiptoeing towards the man.  Race follows behind warily. 

Now that he’s closer, Race can see that the man is about their age- young and a little rugged looking with hair that curls towards his jaw at the nape of his neck.  His face and arms are splattered with- well, Race’s first thought is that it’s blood, but upon further inspection, he sees that it’s paint.  Bright yellow and orange neon paint.

He has a lot of questions.  Like, how the fuck did you notice us lurking behind your building at four am? And, why did you think it was a good idea to interact with two obviously suspicious looking men? But all that comes out is, “why are you covered in neon paint?”

Spot drops his head in a groan and the guy laughs somewhat maniacally, “best not to ask, it’s a long story.  Well, actually it’s not.  You see, it’s my niece’s birthday tomorrow and she really likes lava lamps so I’m hand making a few for her and that includes painting the bases and she’s going through that quirky eight year old phase where everything rainbows and neon is super cool, so I’m making them neon tie-dye,” he says it all in one breath and Race finds himself struggling to keep up, “anyway, the names Albert.  You two look like you need some help.  Wanna come in?”

The whole situation’s fucking weird, but Race and Spot exchange another look, this one holding the quick debate of, what other options do we got? And a moment later, they’re hustling into the dingy auto shop.

The lights are dim on the inside, but it’s a surprisingly cozy set up.  The side dedicated to cars is immaculately organized, with a few hanging from the ceiling and others lined neatly on the ground, propped up on floor jacks where necessary.  On the other side is clearly where Albert lives, with a couple curtains sanctioning off a twin bed and desk, where sure enough, three lava-lamps, varying in color and size, are set on a few sheets of newspaper.  

Spot frowns as Albert locks the door, turning to them with a smile, “I’m assuming the cop car out there’s for you guys?”  When Race and Spot don’t answer, he continues, too lighthearted for the situation, “Yeah, figured.  Feel free to lay low here ‘til the threat’s passed.”

“If the police are clearly after us, aren’t we the threats?” Spot asks, “Wait, no, hold on, aren’t you gonna ask us what we did?  Aren’t you put off at all?”

Albert waves a hand, “Nah, I do this all the time.  Just don’t try to murder me and we’re good.  You look like nice enough people, just a little down on your luck.  I don’t mind you camping out here while ya need.” He sets off towards his desk, seemingly to finish the lava-lamps, “The door across from the supply closet is technically an office, but I stuck a mattress and some blankets there for people like yourselves.  Feel free to crash.  If the bull comes by, I didn’t see anything.”  With that, he’s gone.  Behind the curtain as if he’d never been there.

Race blinks, bemused, and looks at Spot.

“What the fuck did he mean, ‘I do this all the time’?  Who the fuck is this guy?”

Spot shakes his head, looking more lost than Race has ever seen him, “Hell if I know.”

The office-turned-guest-room turns out to be more spacious than Race had anticipated and he and Spot are sitting on the mattress, munching on granola bars that were placed unceremoniously in a bowl by the door, when they hear a knock from outside.  

Race feels a pit of dread form in his gut and he lowers his granola bar, appetite lost.  It’s the cop, it’s gotta be.  Who else would be knocking before dawn?  And oh god, they’d left the car right out front, how much more obvious can they be?

Race glances at Spot, who’s also stopped eating, and hisses, “If he catches us, run.  Go on without me.” 

He means it, but Spot just huffs out a bitter laugh, “As if.  Now shut up.”

They strain their ears, listening as Albert opens the door, feigning sleep they know he hasn’t gotten in his voice, “Officer.  Is there a problem?”

They can’t hear what the cop says, but Albert’s side of the conversation is fairly clear, “Hm? Oh, the paint?  I was working on a project for my niece and must have dozed off before cleaning up.  Anyway, how can I help you?”  There’s a pause, “Two- what? I haven’t heard anything about no bank robbers, that’s terrible! I- oh, that car, that’s…strange, that wasn’t here when I went to sleep.  Sure, you can check around back, but I doubt ya’d find anything.  I’da heard if someone were moving around out there and I didn’t hear nothing last night.  Yes sir, I- oh?  Nah, I’m afraid I can’t letcha search my shop.  Not without a warrant.  Mm, sorry officer.  Yes, I understand the caliber of the situation, but it is my legal right to deny your entrance to my home without substantial reasoning.  Mhm, but see, that’s a hunch.  I don’t see no warrant.  Okay, officer.  Yes. just around back.  Go ahead.  Alright, officer, okay.  Nice chat.  Goodbye.”

The door closes a second later and Race lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  All at once, the adrenaline of the night hits him.  They’d almost been fucking caught, Christ, what if they’d ended up in jail?  What if they still end up in jail?  He couldn’t survive jail, fuck, he wouldn’t even be able to afford and lawyer and shit-

His body is shaking, vibrating really, and a weight is steadily growing on his chest.  Involuntary tears prick at his eyes and he brings a hand up to the front of his shirt, tugging as if that would release some of the pressure from his lungs.  

“Race?” Spot sounds distant and Race turns to him, knowing he looks panicked, but having no capacity to change that, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Race says, voice high and pitchy, “I can’t really breathe, I can’t-”

“Shit, hey, it’s okay.  I think you’re having an anxiety attack,” Spot says, sounding uncharacteristically gentle, “I know a lot happened tonight, but we’re okay,” He places a comforting hand on Race’s shoulder, “Just breathe, it’s okay.”

Race nods, closing his eyes and focusing on Spot’s touch, allowing it to ground him.  A few moments later, he’s feeling calmer, if still a little shaken.  

“You alright?” Spot asks, not removing his hand.

“Yeah, I dunno, man,” Race says honestly, “It’s been a rough ass night and all I want right now is something to drink and someone to cuddle with,” his eyes fly open as soon as the words are out of his mouth.  He hadn’t meant to say that.  He’s not sure why he said that.  It’s not even like he and Spot have that sort of relationship, nor is he particularly seeking that out.  But now that it’s out there, Race wouldn’t say no to some good old physical comfort.

Spot seems to sense that and laughs a little as he removes his hand from where he’s still gripping Race to sling his arm around his shoulders.  It’s a little more intimate than they usually are, but friendly and comfortable nonetheless.  Race takes a deep, shaky breath and rests his head back against the wall, leaning into Spot’s side.

“Yeah, it’s been a fucked up night and I think I’m still deciding whether or not it’s real or just some weird fever dream,” Spot says, “Like, who even is that guy?  What the fuck is his deal?”

“Lord even knows,” Race says, “But I think I got my fill of crazy for a while.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They lapse into silence and Race is just starting to drift off when the door to the office opens and Albert pokes his head in, somehow covered in even more paint than before and holding up a bottle of tequila, “hey guys, I’m here and I’m ready to bitch.  The cop is gone now, though I wouldn’t recommend skipping town just yet- better safe than sorry.  Also, bank robbers, huh?  Haven’t had your kind in a while.  You’re a fun type, though the arson that I met last week was pretty spicy.  Anyway, drinks?  I know it’s early for alcohol, but I get the feeling y’all need it.”

Spot doesn’t even try to lower his voice as he says, “Yeah, I don’t think our fill of crazy is over yet.”

-

don’t ask me what that was about, i genuinely don’t know

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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