Stick Shifts and Safety Belts
Title: Stick Shifts and Safety Belts
Author: Everett
Rating: Hot (for sexxins)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings:
Word Count: 4,543
Summary:Columbus had picked up another annoying, psychotic habit, apparently out of thin air. It was amazing, really. All those fucking rules and he could still get more obnoxious than he already was. He was like the Michael Phelps of crazy, fuck, never enough quirks for Columbus. Go for the fucking gold. Newest one reminded Tallahassee of an eight-year old niece he’d had. Every time they got in the truck, this stupid expectant look parked itself on the kid’s face and he asked the question, pointed and superior (“Seatbelt?”). Eventually got bold enough to reach across Tallahassee’s chest and grab the buckle himself before he managed to push him off. A low threat and the kid threw himself back into his own seat and just pouted (such a bitch). Tallahassee responded by snapping off an anecdote about the danger of seatbelts (“Fucking decapitated, better than a guillotine, or so I’ve heard”), mocking, watches the slight, neurotic shift of expression that flits across the kids face before they tear off down the road, purposefully more reckless just to mess with him.
Shuts him up well enough. He still buckles himself up but at least he leaves Tallahassee alone about it.
And it’s, god, after daybreak but still too early, fog clinging low to the ground, and not really light yet, sun still working on breaking down the clouds in the sky. They’re winding across some flat, backwater road. A smooth ride mostly, no real explanation for the twists and turns. The whole place is level, clumps of trees, small forests scattered across broad, slightly soggy plains. Columbus has this totally shit out-of-it look on his face, dark circles under his eyes and nails chewed ruthlessly, bloodily short. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Hadn’t been sleeping barely at all, fucking insomnia. And there wasn’t anything to do about it, either, just grin and bear it because there’s no other option. Whatever was keeping him from sleeping was his own problem. Probably one of the worst things about Zombieland. No doctors, no shrinks, no camp councilors, just you and your own head and your own wounds and hoping for the best. Tallahassee had nightmares about broken legs and meningitis. So the kid wasn’t sleeping and the only thing to do was watch him get more and more out of it. He wouldn’t take pills, was scared of medication along with everything else, and with all of his unique psychosis Tallahassee’s not sure he’d want him to anyway. Two things you didn’t mix with drugs unless you talked to someone first were booze and crazy. And it’s driving him up the wall, because the last thing he wants during the zombie apocalypse is a more useless than usual Columbus, because the kid’s already awkward and off-balance at the best of times. He can’t imagine him being particularly on the ball with two hours of restless sleep.
Nothing he can do about it though, just keep driving, pretend he doesn’t notice that Columbus has the palm of one hand pressed into his right eye, obviously holding off some pain or another. Perfectly typical day except for the part that’s not, the road, the truck and the signs, here and there, that the world has ended, the occasional desiccated wreck of a car, clumps of flesh and cloth. Exploded suitcases and random roadside litter and nothing else for miles and miles. And Tallahassee’s so fucking used to this shit he doesn’t even notice it anymore. Takes a corner going sixty, a cluster of trees at the bend. Surprised, then, to see a big fucking animal standing in the center of the lane like it owns it, and normally Tallahassee just hits shit that gets in his way, but this is a big fucking animal, the sort that goes through your windshield and kills you. Swears, once, slams on the breaks and jerks the steering wheel to the left. Neither of them scream because that’s not something people actually do, Columbus gasps, tired eyes open wide and hands on the dashboard and the fucking truck is top heavy, it flips over when the tires slip on the slick roadway, roof hitting the tarmac hard, grinding and the shrill sounds of metal and shattered glass and the roar of the engine. The fucking animal isn’t, apparently, on the road anymore because they slide upside down for fucking 15 feet or some shit and they don’t hit it. It only takes seconds, and Tallahassee isn’t really aware of any of it because he’s too busy being thrown around the cab, not buckled up so his upper back is curled onto the top of the car and he’s all upside down and flopped around as they roll and slide, and the beaded glass of the windshield is leaving little cuts on his arm when they finally come to a stop. Find himself flat on his back against the roof of the car, darker than shit with the fat body of the thing keeping the filtered grey daylight out.
Lays there for a second, doesn’t feel a thing, and then all of a sudden it hits him: bruises on his head, cuts on his hands and neck, sore all over. Lucky he didn’t have much of a chance to prepare for the crash, because he went into it sort of boneless and avoided any real damage. Still can’t think very well though, his head ringing and there’s some blood on his face that’s trying to get into his eye. Realizes he’s swearing. Calls to Columbus and tries to get his head craned around to look at the kid, freaked the fuck out because he’s not making any fucking noise, not a peep, and Columbus makes noises all the time, god, all the fucking time. But he can’t get his neck turned the right way, hurts like a sonovabitch. Tries to get his hands under him while his mind reminds him so fucking helpfully that seatbelts fucking kill people, they jerk them around and there’s no airbags in this piece of shit truck, and god he just fucking told the kid, fucking seatbelts. Manages to get into a sort of viable position, turns around, catches sight of him, still strapped into the seat, hanging there silent and motionless and Tallahassee wants to scream now but couldn’t even if he tried. Drags himself over so quick it hurts, hands on the kid’s face, blood running down it from a cut on his forehead and fingers fluttering uselessly trying to remember where the fuck you look for a pulse. Finds one after a moment, realizes, again, that he’s talking without thinking about it, just a stream of consciousness, of “Shit kid be okay be okay god damnit answer me fucking hell Columbus come on this isn’t funny, fuck,” for what seems like forever, goes to plant his shoulder into the kid’s and reaches up for the buckle, tries to maneuver it so he can catch him when the clasp lets go and almost succeeds, except that most of his body hits the ceiling-ground without any sort of protection, a sick flop of dead weight, and Tallahassee only just manages to keep his head and neck and shoulders from following them. He sets about the task of dragging Columbus out of the truck, mind going blessedly blank as he pushes pain and worry out of the way because he’s got a fucking job to do.
Fucking kid should be awake, though. He’s sure of it. Hit the fucking floor hard when he fell out of the seat. Fucking animal, fucking horse-moose-deer-cow whatever the fuck in the fucking road. Panics, again, when he gets the kid into the light of day and sees how fucking pale he is, but doesn’t see any more blood or obviously broken bones so he should fucking be awake. He runs his fingers across the Columbus’s forehead, trying to brush the hair out of the cut and get a better look at it, probably smacked himself good on the dashboard. Hopes he didn’t break his spine from whiplash and wouldn’t know what that looks like anyway. Back to the endless litany of meaningless words strung haphazardly together as he runs his hands down Columbus’s arms and across his chest, looking for breaks, and feels for a pulse again. Grabs one of his hands and pinches the skin between his thumb and index finger hard. Nearly fucking cries when the kid flinches minutely, because fuck, at least there’s that. Finally brings his breathing back to something like normal, sits down next to him and thinks about what the fuck he’s going to do now. Tries to remember the last car they passed, tries to think of what the chances are that it’s closer rather than further. Isn’t sure if it’s a good thing that they’re in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. Fewer zombies, but no cars. No fucking first aid, because they have a kit at Columbus’s insistence, but it’s all filled with wet-naps and hello-kitty Band-Aids and a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Seemed funny at the time, not so much now. Glances back at the kid who’s still not awake and crawls his ass back to the car again. Ends up having to punch out the back window to reach in for his duffle and the retarded rolling suitcase, and he is a little surprised one of the guns didn’t go off and shoot both of them in the head. He ends up dragging it all back to where Columbus is laying and pulls another one of the kids idiotic sweatshirts out of his bag to use as a makeshift pillow and wonders if that’s even right, because he thinks he remember something about not moving people who may or may not have neck injuries. He doesn’t have any choice, though, there’s not going to be any fucking magical Columbus-only ambulance pulling up any time soon. Hello-Kitty is the only doctor on call.
He’s aware, suddenly, that he’s sitting in the middle of the fucking road and the kid’s lying equally smack dab in the center lane, which as Columbus so often reminded him, wasn’t a lane at all. He can’t bring himself to care. It’s asinine enough to consider dying in a car accident, it’s impossible to even entertain the notion of getting hit by another driver. At least until the zombies learned to drive stick. Breathes in deep and winces slightly because he’s at the very least bruised his ribs, and quite possibly cracked one or two. His hands find their way into the duffle and he goes about cleaning his big knife, slow and careful and concentrating. Keeping busy, almost a soothing way to pass the time. Stays like that for a long while, goes from knives to guns, takes some of them apart and cleans every piece. He figures some time has passed but doesn’t really know how long, the sun still obscured by a thick blanket of misty clouds, oppressive atmosphere and smothering silence. He’s sure Columbus would say something about what a nice day it was, maybe something about birds or butterflies or nature or camping or something equally baby-sitter’s-club inspired, except that Columbus isn’t saying anything at all on account of possibly never waking up again. Tallahassee doesn’t know what he’ll do if that’s the case. Isn’t sure how long you wait before you give up on someone. And after that, then what? Drag him along? Shoot him in the head and leave him in a ditch on the side of the road, another body among thousands? Maybe just fucking sit there until the land swallows him and the rest of the remnants of humanity. Fuck, he’s being morbid. Can’t seem to help it. End of the fucking world and it takes a car accident to make him maudlin. Still not distressed enough to miss the sound that Columbus makes, soft and broken and better than any other sound he can think of.
“Ow,” the kid manages to say, brings his hand up to his forehead, which is still oozing because head wounds bleed like a stuck pig, finds the hand stopped long before it manages to get there. Tallahassee’s gripping his wrist, firmly holding it in place and away from his head. Columbus gets a good look at him and frowns, tries to sit up and fails. Repeat performance, “Ow.”
“Stop moving you idiot,” he growls, dropping the kid’s wrist now that he’s sure he’s not going to do anything stupid. He knows the look on his face right now has to be something else, annoyed and worried and whatever else mixing with the blue and yellow bruises he can feel growing on his cheeks and the streak of blood from his split eyebrow drying dangerous near his left eye.
“You look like shit Tallahassee. Did we hit that moose?”
“Speak for yourself kid. Fuck, moose, is that what it was? No, we hit the goddamn ground, actually. Next time I play chicken I’m fucking winning.”
Columbus laughs a little over the apparent absurdity, as it hits him hard before sobering up, looks serious again and says, “Seriously though, you don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine, bruises, ain’t nothing. You, on the other hand, hit your head pretty good,” Tallahassee can’t shut himself up, keeps talking when he knows he should stop, “wasn’t sure you were waking up.”
Immediately feels bad because the look on the kids face goes all tense and worried, looks at anything but him and the breath catches in his throat. Wonders if the kid is more scared of dying or of being alone. Fucking hell, Tallahassee knows which one it is for him, no fucking question, and that’s not right. He’s pretty sure he got into this life to avoid thoughts like that in the first place, buried himself in little pleasures and sudden outbursts of violence to evade things like lonely. The kid apparently gets over whatever is bothering him, at least enough to try to sit up again, fucking hopeless, except that Tallahassee’s there to help him without having to be asked. Watches the look on Columbus’s face as he catches his first sight of the truck, and yeah, it’s a fucking sight. Most of the windows shattered to pieces, pieces of crumpled and shredded metal dragged off the car and scattered behind like so much confetti, the paint scraped onto the road like it was creating a brand new lane. Not for the first time, Tallahassee is thankful for the big heavy frame of the bastard, but for the first time wishes it had airbags. Kid hit his fucking head pretty hard. Had to hurt. And Tallahassee lets himself, for the first time, admit that he hurts too, that he aches and he can’t get his lungs all the way full without feeling like death. Absorbed in admiring the forces of nature and machine he misses that Columbus is trying to get up until he’s almost falling over. Grabs the kids shoulders before he gets all the way back to the ground and helps him to his feet with a grumble, wobbly all the way over to the side of the truck, which Columbus slides down against, resting his head against what used to be the bottom of the backdoor. He follows the kid down, kneeling in front of him, hands on his face again, thumbs resting above his eyes and trying to get a good look at his pupils.
“You’ve probably got a concussion. Means you can’t sleep for a bit.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a huge problem,” Columbus answers, and Tallahassee doesn’t like the reminder much at all. He just glances back down the road again, dropping his hands and squinting against the headache and the washed-out light. Leans over to reach through the driver’s side window where he lost his hat.
“Okay then kid, you just sit tight, and I’m gonna go find a ride,“ he says finally, getting back up and adjusting the hat, ignoring the twinge of pain. Ready for a long fucking walk, only he doesn’t get the chance to start because the kid’s decided a panic attack would be the best course of action.
“You’re leaving me?” panic and disbelief, like he just found out Santa wasn’t real, eyebrows shooting up to hide under his mop of hair.
Tallahassee sighs hard, glares down at him, “I’m not leaving you. I saw a rice burner a couple of miles back, so I’m gonna go get it so we can get the hell out of here and not die.”
“I’ll come with you then!”
“Don’t be an idiot, you can’t walk. Hell, you can barely manage to sit up on your own.”
“What am I going to do if I get attacked?” shrill by this point, “If I can’t walk I’m pretty freaking sure I can’t run! Please, just let me come with you.”
“It’s not like I’m going to leave you unarmed,” sees the kid’s reaction, watches him get more stubborn looking, not willing to compromise, “and it’s not like you’re any less likely to get attacked if you’re with me, so just stay, alright?”
Only Columbus doesn’t look alright, he’s getting the look like he’s going to cry, swallows once before opening his mouth again, “What if you don’t come back?” and Tallahassee realizes that Columbus isn’t talking about him just driving off and leaving him behind, “Please Tallahassee.”
And he’s got his lips pursed and his brows are furrowed and low and he knows damn well he can’t say no to that, not when the kid’s all soft at the edges, no sleep and a head wound. Scrubs his hands across his face and swears under his breath, knows a lost cause when he sees it. When he’s ready to face the world again he looks down at the idiot, eyes narrowed and ignoring the way the kid’s worrying his lower lip, like he’s afraid Tallahassee’s actually going to say no. Like he doesn’t realize that he already won this argument months ago, when he first hopped into the truck.
“It’s miles back kid.”
“Cardio.”
Another sigh, “We’ll have to leave your bag, cant’ carry it.”
“We can come back.”
“Can’t carry you.”
“I can walk, watch,” swings his long, awkward arms behind him to push off the tuck, manages to get his feet under him before he has to lean back again, looking like he’s about to hurl, paint the streets with whatever he’s got in his stomach.
“Damnit kid, you’re just a barrel of laughs. Come on then,” breaks his own word, grabs the duffle first and then Columbus’s arm.
“Hey, I’m not the one who crashed the car,” the kid answers, familiar banter, but checking to make sure he hasn’t hurt Tallahassee’s feelings. Almost makes him laugh, isn’t that stupid, thinking after he almost killed the kid he’s going to get all twisted up over a few harmless words.
“Only because I didn’t give you the chance. You know damn well you’d swerve for a moose, you’ve probably never run anything over in your life.”
“Didn’t see you hitting it either. Did it give you very sad, intelligent eyes?”
“Only didn’t hit it because I wouldn’t have had anywhere to put the horns.”
“Uh, it didn’t have any horns,” Kid’s already got sweat beading up on his forehead, is holding on to Tallahassee’s arm by this point, but keeps walking and doesn’t mention it, “I think it was a girl moose.”
“Well damn, lost you a chance at a girlfriend, didn’t I?” and Tallahassee’s watching him careful, not saying a word about the fingers twisted up in the fabric of his jacket, about how his own ribs hurt and the kid’s pulling him slightly off balance and making it worse. Doesn’t think it’s important.
It’s later, only not by much, he tells Columbus he needs a rest because Cardio is the kid’s thing. He’s lying, Columbus looks like shit and he can’t remember how fucking far away that Honda was. Wonders if he’s putting both of them in danger by going backwards instead of forwards.
“You don’t have to lie. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” snapping again, already tired of this, sitting in a fucking ditch and aching, knows that Columbus is tired and sore too, probably has a headache and still hasn’t slept.
The kid sighs, runs his hands through his hair and flinches when he brushes the cut. Doesn’t bother arguing this time, which is something.
“Anyway, as I was sayin, it’s not like you can just call anything football.”
“What do you mean? I think Soccer came before football.”
“See!” and he sounds triumphant at least, is a little amazed he can act this well, “You just called it soccer. Football is about big men running each other down, not a bunch of skinny little foreigners playing kick the can.”
“At least they spend more time using their feet. And anyways, they don’t wear pads and their fans beat the shit out of each other. I don’t see how this is a pansy sport.”
“Pansy.”
“Ha, right, okay then.”
Watching him carefully. Decides this is enough rest because he just wants to be off this fucking road and out of this state as soon as possible. Helps Columbus up without asking him if he needs it, because really? He doesn’t give a shit what the kid’s opinions on the matter are. Not right now.
“So what you’re saying is, that if you had the chance to go anywhere in the world, the place you would go is Michigan?”
“They’ve got a town called Hell.”
“We’ve got a whole planet called hell!” Columbus throws his arms wide at the statement, one of those times he’s adamant about something.
“Easy now,” because the kid almost falls over. Looks at the horizon again.
“It’s fine.”
“Stop saying that, just, fuck, stop it, okay?"
Tallahassee can see the fucking car. He can fucking see it. Almost cries again, except instead he hoots and hollers and jumps around a bit instead, and it fucking hurts better than anything else in the world.
“Okay kid, I let you come, but now you sit the fuck down and let me do my thing, got it?”
“Uh-huh,” Columbus is done arguing, looks even more exhausted and pale than before, shivers because it’s cold and he’s got a thin sheen of sweat on his face that’s making his hair cling to his head and stick into the gash. Stopped trying to keep it out of it awhile ago, because it seems intent on just doing what it wants. Tallahassee is still a bit surprised that the kid’s letting him walk away (leaves him with the double-barrel and the duffle, pulls his own gun with ease) and travel the last few hundred or so feet on his own. Takes it at a jog, is already tired and has a stitch in his side, but fuck it, that’s nothing compared to the ribs.
The car is nearly-white and looks like it’s made of plastic, a shitty little Asian thing, a ching-chong-ding-dong car that no doubt gets impressive gas mileage and runs on the same engine as a golf cart. Can’t care, it’s the most beautiful thing Tallahassee’s ever seen. Opens the door and checks the back seat reflexively. He’s glad, too, because there’s half a corpse in there he’s got to drag out. Has to push the seat forward to do it, fucking coup. Pops the trunk with the push of a button and it is empty except for a roadside repair kit, which won’t be much help with the truck, and a flat spare tire. Puts himself in the driver’s seat and is fucking relieved as anything to see keys laying on the floor, because he knows how to hotwire a car, but isn’t sure he could pull it off now. Prays silently before jamming them into the ignition and turning. The car makes sick grinding noise and he feels like dying for a moment before it starts. It makes a high, squealing sound but otherwise nearly silent. It doesn’t purr like a hemi so much as buzz like a fly. Can’t care, just slams the door and puts the pedal to the metal, which is a fine statement but it still feels like it takes forever just to get up to thirty, gets to the kid quick enough anyway. He finds him where he left him, sitting on the side of the road with a strange little smile and Tallahassee grins like anything.
“Need a ride?”
“Ha, yeah.”
Gets out to grab the duffle and the kid and gets them loaded in without much trouble, Columbus’s legs are a bit too long for the passenger’s seat but he’s not complaining. The doors are closed and the car has a fifth of a tank, which should be enough, and Tallahassee suddenly can’t stop himself, folds his arms up on the top of the steering wheel and rests his head between them, takes deep, slightly shaky breaths and stops pretending, for a minute that he isn’t tired and hurt and fucking scared. Columbus is there in an instant, his hand on Tallahassee’s shoulder and leaning forward, probably wearing that concerned face of his.
“Tallahassee?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are… Uhm, thank you,” he paused for a moment, longer, even, than his usual broken sentences required, “I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck are you sorry for,” turns his head and finds the kid is right the fuck there, almost too close to see properly, “you didn’t do anything.”
“I, uh. I freaked you out, I think. Made things harder. I do that sometimes, I know, I just- sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he realizes his voice is rough, cracked, and clears his throat. Pushes his arms straight and sits back against the seat, looks up at the roof of the car, which he now felt he had a more complete understanding of. Columbus’s hand almost gets trapped behind his shoulder, and the kids got this uncertain, worried look on his face even as he sits back into his own seat.
“You’re okay, right?” he asks him suddenly, can’t help it. Actually afraid of the answer but needs to hear it anyway.
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not great. My head hurts and I’m tired, but I’m fine. I promise.”
Gives the kid a hard look, but he’s wearing his sincere face now. He breathes out long and slow, closes his eyes for a minute, “Okay. Okay good,” can’t stop himself, is leaning over the other seat before he thinks it through, right hand on Columbus’s headrest and the left on the kids throat, thumb on his fluttering pulse and pushes his face into the kids like he’s forgotten how this all works. Not like this, but Columbus, after a moment of what is probably a freak out, seems to get it, brushes his lips against Tallahassee’s and breathes in, stuttering and shallow. Tallahassee lets himself run his thumb along the kids neck once, drags his teeth across the his lower lip before pulling away, pushing himself back into his own seat, hands back on the wheel and foot back on the pedal.
“Good.”