Who: Drake and Rome What: Attempted theft, limbs stuck in windows, and possibly car-related bonding. Where: A parking lot. When: Recently. Warnings: Some language, I think?
Rome was all about opportunity. He’d just scored a half-eaten sandwich off a picnic table before the gulls got to it, and the soda machine in front of the store had a buck and change in the change slot, so he bought himself a brand-new soda, too. The lot was mostly deserted, since it was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, and Rome could get away with moving through the city without sticking himself in a crowd that might pick up his steady stream of audible thought and find out he was up to no good.
He was cutting through, moving over the pavement and idly slapping rearview mirrors that folded so they cleared the aisles between cars in front of him, when the black gleam of a vintage muscle car took over his horizon. Rome licked mayonnaise off his fingers and wiped them off on his ragged jeans, circling the Impala with admiring eyes. His Noise, which he was pretty sure there was no one around hear, reflected it. Nice car, really nice car, man, I bet you could run people over in this and they wouldn’t even know what happened, I wonder if it roars when you step on the gas, or if it’s just one of those ones that’s hollow under the hood, is there anyone around? He paused here, and there was a brief ‘silence’ as he looked around. No, don’t see anyone, hey, what’s this? Rome bent and peered through the driver’s side window. Someone had left a really beat-up wallet on the nice leather seat. Lookie here, like it’s waiting for me, baby. The window was cracked a couple dangerous inches and Rome looked around before he stuck his hand in and slid his arm into the Impala, reaching for the wallet. Come on, come on, come on. He streeeeetched. The frustration made the racket a little louder. Come ON.
Parking was a constant source of aggravation for Drake. Most people were idiots in everyday life but there seemed to be a special kind of stupidity reserved for vehicle-related activities. If he’d owned an ugly hunk of metal for the sole purpose of getting from one place to another then it wouldn’t have bothered him so much, but Drake’s car was much more than just a car. Hence why mundane things like finding a parking spot and driving in traffic were done with a fair amount of thought and planning. Funnily enough, he put more effort into taking care of his car than he did most anything else.
In this particular instance he’d thought the spot he picked was good. Not great, but decent. Stops for sustenance to keep him going throughout the day were commonplace since Creation-hunting could be draining if he let it, but it was a little difficult to buy anything without money. That was in his wallet, which he’d apparently forgotten in the car like an idiot, and the cashier gave him a disdainful look as he jogged through the automatic doors with the promise that he’d ‘be right back’. Drake dodged and weaved through the rows of unimportant vehicles with frustrated huffs of breath, but before he actually spotted the familiar black gleam of his pride and joy he heard... something. A voice, specifically, but what made him pause was the lack of a source. Assuming he was hearing things - honestly, he’d seen and heard stranger things - he continued on in the direction of where he’d parked, finally catching sight of the Impala past the tops of the other cars.
A few more long strides and Drake realized there was an unwelcome addition to what he was seeing. He was pretty sure there hadn’t been a guy sticking his arm through the window when he’d left, but it was the fact that someone was far too close to his car that irritated him more than what the guy was obviously reaching for. Basically, if you were close enough to touch the Impala, you were too close. This car had boundaries. “Hey!” Drake raised his voice to make his presence known once he was close enough to be able to give chase if the guy decided to run. He’d dealt with runners before. “Mind telling me what the hell you’re doing to my car?”
The quickening stream of come on, come on, come on stopped abruptly with an almost ringing silence the second that Drake’s ‘hey’ made it through the air. Rome had been focusing entirely on the wallet, his shoulder pressed up to the roof of the car as he forced his arm in just a little further and felt his fingers brush the seat and then the wallet. So close! became Oh fuck, fuck, fuck fuck! in one long panicked stream of--well, what would appear to be sound, until Drake figured out that it wasn’t tone or volume that changed, but emotion and intensity. Fear, in this case, was increasingly ‘audible.’
Rome tried to pull his arm out of the window, but he’d just spent a good minute working it in there, skinny as it was, and it didn’t come nicely. Ow, ow, ow! Fuck, that hurts, can’t get out, shit, kick him away if he gets too close! This stream of panicked commentary was accompanied by wriggles of his body, like a rabbit in a snare, to work his arm free. Should have left the fucking wallet, like bait in a trap, goddammit, stupid, stupid, stupid. He turned as much as possible to face Drake, and this rabbit had claws. Touch me and I’ll fucking kill you, he threatened, his mouth twisted into an unmoving sneer. He meant it, so his following Noise (that fucking hurts, get loose and worry about it later!) didn’t contradict, but obviously if he hadn’t been angry-afraid-panicked, he probably wouldn’t have meant it at all.
It was actually a very good thing that Rome had set his sights on the wallet instead of causing any damage to the Impala. Oh, Drake was still less than thrilled, but he would’ve been ten times more furious had it been the latter. He stopped a couple feet away from the would-be thief and would have been gratified by the fear, because he should be scared, but what he’d assumed was the guy’s voice didn’t sound quite right. If there was one thing he’d learned during his time with EIT it was that there was always an explanation, but right now that wasn’t one of his top priorities. Dealing with the guy whose arm was currently stuck in his car window ranked up there.
Despite his annoyance it was difficult to keep from laughing. Hell, he didn’t even have to do anything; Rome was stuck like an animal in a trap and his struggles were amusing in a pitiful sort of way. “This is why you don’t stick your limbs where they don’t belong,” Drake said with a smirk. The show of bravado and the threat didn’t faze him, since it wasn’t anything he’d heard before and most threats came from figures more intimidating than this. He noted that while he could still hear things that obviously came from Rome, they weren’t spoken words. Huh. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna touch you, not that you could kill me even if I did. I’ll let you keep on struggling.” He took a few more steps forward and tilted his head to look in one of the back windows. “All this over a wallet that’s only got a couple of twenties in it. Too bad.”
The laughter was good, it made Rome less panicky. He stopped yanking so hard on his arm, and his breath didn’t strangle so badly. He glared at Drake through squinting eyes that were on the blue side of muddy as the stream of commentary didn’t stop. Not going to hurt me, just going to call a mallcop, or something, came the disdainful answer that probably wasn’t meant to actually address Drake’s opinion. It was hard to tell, because it was all one long stream, and Rome didn’t have to stop for breath. Whatever, jerk, two twenties buys a month of food, so what do you know, with your nice car, or whatever, get free in a second, just keep talking. True to his word, he was working his arm free, and got his bicep out from above the window by twisting comically.
It was a little tricky to follow everything Rome was saying, or not-saying; whatever it was there were no helpful pauses or clear way to tell whether half of it was even directed towards him. “Do you talk, or is this your thing?” Drake waved a hand in a careless gesture before letting it drop back to his side. Watching him struggle was fun and all, but the guy would get his arm free soon enough and he wasn’t yet inclined to just let him off the hook. “She is a beauty, I’ll agree with you there,” he said, patting the car as though it was a horse instead of an inanimate object. “But I’d be careful about what you say to the man who owns the car you’ve got your arm stuck in.” His tone was a little too cheerful, and despite prior threats he had no intention of keeping his distance. “Maybe if you try an apology instead, you’ll get lucky.” By this point Drake was just messing with the guy, lacking any real intent to cause him serious physical harm. Nah, he’d just scare him a little before letting him run off with his tail between his legs.
Rome didn’t turn off just because Drake was talking, either. The Noise would usually stop for a few seconds right when he began, to get the gist of what the man was saying, before it picked up again. The result was like talking to an audience half-ignoring you. Wants to know if I talk, I talk, and then a moment later, he opened his mouth, and he did indeed talk. “I talk!” It sounded both hoarse and high, rusty, angry, but very much audible, in the traditional sense. It was obvious, in the contrast, that this was not at all tinged with the emotion of the other ‘sound,’ and it took a second to process the resentment in the tone rather than just perceiving it in the mind. Why talk, nobody can hear it above the Noise, this guy likes to hear himself talk, but yeah, I guess it’s a nice car, can’t be his car because he doesn’t have enough money, you only have two twenties? then again yeah, must be, nobody’s weird about somebody else’s car like that. Rome’s eyes drifted down to watch Drake’s hand on the paint-job. He pried his elbow free and pulled at his wrist, trying to back away too quickly. He stuck again, and the yelping OW temporarily stopped the rest of the Noise. I’m sorry, okay, jesus, I’m sorry, ow, fucking window!
“Good for you,” he said dryly, though the fact that Rome could talk likely meant that this other thing he could do was an ability all its own instead of the way he communicated. Funny how out of all the desperate people out there it was a fellow Creation who ended up with his arm in the Impala’s window. “If you had my voice, wouldn’t you like to hear yourself talk too? ‘Course you would.” Drake was used to people assuming the car wasn’t his, since apparently he didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d own one like this - which made no sense, really; car owners were supposed to have looks now? - but his overprotective manner usually made his ownership pretty clear. “Yeah, yeah. I’m weird about my car. That’s a new one.” He didn’t even bother to attempt a subtle use of sarcasm. With a heavy sigh Drake decided Rome had been tortured enough, even though the idiot could’ve freed himself sooner if he’d stopped struggling like some kind of rabid heroin addict and just calmed down for five seconds. “Look, stop moving for a minute and I’ll roll down the damn window.” He didn’t have that automatic bullshit which meant he’d need to open the door and do it by hand. “I’m gonna open this door so I can get to the handle and I swear if you kick me this won’t end well. Got it?”
Rome was accustomed to people responding to what he thought and not to what he said, since it all ‘sounded’ the same and they couldn’t really tell the difference. It never stopped being annoying, though, especially when people took things as insults when he was just observing things to himself. Wasn’t going to touch the stupid car, just wanted the dumb wallet anyway, bet he wouldn’t have noticed anyway, leaving it there, can’t steal a car like this, have to break the window, be a shame, I think dad had a car like this, don’t think about dad, and no one to fence it to, don’t have contacts like this, be a fun ride though. And then, decidedly softer, as Drake told him to hold still: Arm fucking hurts. Rome’s eyes moved from a squint at the door to a squint at Drake, and he stiffened a little suspiciously, but the fear was largely gone out of his thoughts. What’s he going to do if I do kick him, yell? Alright, I won’t kick you, he agreed, but I’m not sticking around here for you to call the cops, came the thought on its heels. Rome had no secrets. He blinked at Drake to see what he’d do.
In all actuality Drake would have lamented the loss of his wallet for fifteen minutes at the most before moving on, but he saw no need to vocalize that thought. “Your old man had a car like this? Means he had good taste.” Sure, he didn’t know many people who had this make and model aside from himself and his father before him, but an Impala wasn’t the equivalent of a unicorn. There was no need to assume it was anything more than a coincidence. He waited until Rome confirmed that no, he wouldn’t kick out like an angry animal, before digging his keys out of his jeans pocket and sliding the right one into the lock. Still, Drake wasn’t an idiot, and he was prepared to dodge a blow and retaliate if circumstances changed. “I’m not calling the cops. They’ve got better things to worry about than some kid trying to steal an ugly wallet, which I forgot. You think I left it there on purpose?” Once the door was open enough for him to get his arm through he rolled down the window and pulled back, and it wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if Rome took off as soon as he realized his arm was free.
Rome didn’t strike out. He tensed, but when Drake didn’t touch him, he relaxed again, and waited (in the Noise) to be freed. Yeah, dad had good taste. He knew more about cars than anyone could ever know, and he tried to teach me but I can’t remember, I never had a car, but his car was like this one, I remember, it was long and black and the seats didn’t have a head cushion, and it purred like anything when he started it, mom hated it though, hated the sound of it coming, I always liked it, I wonder if this one sounds that way? Rome was very relieved that no cops would be called. Good, don’t want to go to jail, eighteen now, they can put you away and you never come out again. There was enough fear tinged in this thought that by the time he was free, Rome pulled his battered arm against his chest and retreated a good car length away before stopping and watching Drake a moment longer. Maybe he’s lying, and he’ll call them once I turn around, can’t tell, How come you got a car like that if your wallet only has forty bucks?
Drake could have put a stop to the kid’s retreat before he had a chance to get too far, but Rome reminded him more and more of a scared animal with each passing moment so he let him have his space instead. “She purrs all right,” he said belatedly, since it was hard to keep up with his nonstop flood of thoughts or whatever they were. “I take care of her myself. Saves a lot of money that way. Your dad was smart to try to teach you.” Like his father had in the days before things got bad and the days following; it was one of his few constants. He wondered if Rome had ever been to jail before, judging by his fear, or maybe he’d just heard one too many horror stories. “Relax, kid. I don’t care enough to waste my time or theirs.” He inspected the window for a moment and determined having an arm stuck in it hadn’t done any damage. “Why I’ve only got forty bucks in my wallet is none of your business, but I’ve had this car for a while. She’s not new.”
She shines, Rome thought, lips still, eyes focused. Dad’s shined, shone, shined, which is it, who cares, it was black like this one, I’m sure it was black, but it doesn’t matter, I don’t have a car, can’t drive, can’t hotwire, can’t have one, that’s how it is. Rome rubbed his new bruises, standing his ground and tilting his head. He had straw and tumbleweed hair, a permanent skeptical squint, and his ‘voice’ was sharp and quick even as the thoughts tumbled over each other. What kind of car is it?
“Your old man never taught you how to drive?” Drake raised his eyebrows, though a few things were becoming obvious about the kid the longer they stood and... well, talked, even if that wasn’t the right word for it. Whoever his dad was probably wasn’t in the picture anymore, and his rant about how much food two twenties would buy suggested he didn’t have much of either; he was likely either homeless or living in Hamartia. “‘67 Chevy Impala,” he said with the kind of pride that most people didn’t associate with non-living things. “I’ve had more than a few dealers interested in buying her, but I’m not interested in selling.”
“No,” Rome said, in his rusted, unused voice. The lack of emotion in it was jarring compared to the Noisy thoughts that followed. Said he would, never did, not around long enough, wonder if his dad taught him to drive, doesn’t everybody’s, I don’t know, I guess, it doesn’t matter. In an effort to appear casual, Rome put his hands in his pockets, but winced when he used his bruised arm. Ow, fuck. Yeah, don’t sell it, don’t sell it unless you really need the money, though I bet it would be a lot of money, but if it was my dad’s, I wouldn’t. Then, a quick second later, quiet, amid a hardening expression, Don’t think about dad.
The contrast between the kid’s thoughts and his actual voice was surprisingly apparent, but it didn’t seem like he had much control over the former or that he used the latter very often either. Drake couldn’t help feeling at least marginally sorry for him, since he would have isolated himself completely if it were his thoughts being broadcast for the world to hear. So much for privacy. “Mine did,” he confirmed, with the flicker of a smile he wouldn’t allow to fully develop; especially not when it was obvious that Rome’s dad had either died or taken off at some point. “Knew a hell of a lot about cars, like yours. Not everyone’s does.” He shrugged, trying not to dwell on the similarities between their fathers. “If you had managed to get my wallet, what were you gonna do with the money?” Drake leaned against the car door, deciding he’d help the kid out and move the topic away from dad-related things. It probably said something about the state of his life that he was waiting for Rome to take off before leaving himself, but EIT wasn’t a 9-to-5 job.
Thought there'd be more in it than a lousy forty bucks, Rome admitted, scowling. Wanted one of those sleeping bags, the warm ones, because the floor of my new place is kind of cold, though not as cold as outside, and if I got a sleeping bag I could pack it with me if the cops come to make me leave, don't know how much one of those costs, I can save up, totally doable as long as I got the running water, the new digs are sweet, just need a little income. Rome didn't like giving so much information for one question, and his mouth twisted with resigned resentment. Then, because Drake seemed to care about the difference between thought and speech: "What do you care?"
To a guy who’d spent years living in motels at the best of times and out of his car at the worst, Rome’s situation was familiar in a certain way. Besides, a lot of Creations crossed over with nothing and found that this side wasn’t full of the opportunity they’d been expecting. It occurred to him that Eli probably would’ve offered him a job at Reliquary or something, but he wasn’t Eli. “You keep trying to steal wallets from cars, kid, and you’re gonna get caught sooner or later by someone who will call the cops.” Drake didn’t have much to offer in terms of employment advice, though, never mind advice in general. “Care about what? The money?” It was his first assumption, but he noticed the question was spoken rather than thought.
Any question was always answered almost immediately by Rome’s Noise, even if he may not have chosen to reveal his thought-process to an answer. No, not the money, the stealing, why do you care if I get caught? He’s right though, probably a matter of time, but not a lot of options at the moment, is there. It was easy to see why Rome would not be able to keep a job.
“There’s a difference between caring and that thing called curiosity.” Drake raised his eyebrows in a manner that he thought demonstrated just how much he didn’t care, even his questions might suggest otherwise. So maybe he’d resorted to stealing once or twice in the past and heard stories of prison life from his dad; none of that meant he had to give a damn about strangers who tried to snatch his wallet. “Look, kid, there are places owned by people like you and me.” Too late he realized that if Rome couldn’t afford a stupid sleeping bag chances were slim that he had a computer, so the forums would be near useless. Oh well. “Chances are they’d be less likely to mind about that thinking thing you do,” he added, circling around the back of the car to get to the driver’s side door.
It was easier for Rome to believe Drake was just curious, and his Noise immediately following made that obvious. He talked to himself more than other people, and it was obvious he didn’t know people, in general, all that well, and believed the worst whenever possible. Rome quirked a brow. What’s he mean, you and me? Guys that like cars and wear badass jackets? Thinking thing... nobody else has this. Everybody minds. Everybody’s in my mind, all the time. Rome took a step back as Drake moved around the car, and then he turned and took off at a jog through the parking lot, followed by a ramble of dying sound cursing his new bruises.