Anodyne: Chapter Three
Title: Anodyne
Genre: AU - Romance/Mystery
Summary: With just six months to live, Roxas makes a desperate attempt to find the mysterious man from his past - his last chance to survive a fatal disease.
Rating: M (eventual)
Pairing: Axel/Roxas
Warnings: Language / Violence / Sex
Comments: Huge thanks to reversiblelove for helping me with this because I was having SO many issues with the middle. School started and I totally lost my momentum, so thanks to her I'm back on track. Unfortunately this chapter is fairly un-beta'd, so constructive criticism is very much encouraged. I like knowing people like my stuff, but I like knowing how to improve even more! So without further ado, here’s chapter three of Anodyne.
Anodyne
Chapter Three: Wheels on the Bus
Cloud never noticed the growing stash of money under his little brother's pillow and if he did, he was certainly too busy with wedding preparations to take much notice of it. Roxas was fine with sitting back and watching his brother lose his mind, like any groom would. Have the flowers come in? Were the invitations stamped? Bronchitis or no bronchitis, that priest sure as hell wasn't going to be absent on the big day!
The wedding itself was a rather quiet event in Roxas's opinion. Random family members continued to nag him about his sickness, his parents, and oh, how's that baseball coming along? Roxas knew that if he were to inform them of his countdown to death, a good half would probably faint on the spot. And as interesting a hysterical spectacle would be, Roxas was unable to let himself ruin his brother's wedding like that. And so the wedding came and went, and Roxas remained a quiet cameo in Cloud's Big Day.
Roxas's quiet take on the whole wedding weekend was shattered when Cloud barged into his room clutching a half-packed suitcase.
"What do you want?" Roxas groaned, rolling over. "Come to give me the juicy details about the devirginization of your blushing bride?"
Cloud whacked him with the suitcase. Roxas swore loudly.
"Language. And I leave in half an hour, figured I'd go over some rules before I left."
"Whatever," Roxas said. He folded his arms behind his head and looked up at his brother, smiling. "You've got one hell of a hickey on your neck, by the way."
Cloud ignored the remark. "No parties. No blasting music. No dying. Call grandma every day. If you feel sick, even just a little bit, go to the hospital. Period."
"I feel sick every day."
"Well, more sick than usual then," Cloud said, running a hand through his hair. I'm doing this against my better judgment, you know. With you in such bad shape."
"I'll be fine, Cloud," Roxas whined. "Now go finish packing and get out of here!"
Cloud leaned down and kissed Roxas on the top of his head, then returned to packing. The boy laid in bed at least an hour after the front door finally closed, waiting for Cloud to come barging in at any moment to retrieve a forgotten hair brush, cell phone, or wallet.
Finally sure his brother was gone, Roxas leapt out of bed. He dressed quickly, throwing on a green shirt from Pac Sun and a clean pair of blue jeans. He pulled an old baseball duffel bag out from under his bed, already stuffed with clothes.
Shaking from excitement, Roxas stuffed his bus pass in his pocket and hurried out the front door of the condo. He fumbled to lock the door behind him, sprinting down the stairs of the building while his duffel bag flopped at his side.
The bus station was a run-down brown building five blocks from Roxas's condominium. His chest heaving from the sprint, Roxas plopped down on the metal bench in front of the building. He licked his lips and anxiously checked his watch, internally pleading the bus to hurry up. The online schedule had said the bus was coming to Vegas from Oklahoma - what if the pilgrims or whoever the hell it was that lived there were holding the bus hostage? What if the driver had been taken as a corn-husking prisoner, doomed for eternity? Roxas shuddered at the thought.
Roxas was already halfway through his dreamed-up bus rescue mission by the time the vehicle in question thundered up to the station. Heart beating rapidly in his chest, Roxas stumbled up the steps, showing his pass to the overweight, cheerful driver.
"Admit one to Los Angeles. Take a seat, kiddo."
His ears ringing, Roxas slid into the seat directly behind the driver. He set his head against the window and inhaled slowly, already beginning to dream about his mysterious savior.
Roxas awoke three hours later and was content to watch the dry, flat terrain as the bus moved into California. Five hours into the trip greeted him with the beginnings of civilization, passing through the expansive Southern California suburban towns. Roxas pressed his face against the glass and squinted, trying to catch and tall buildings that would signify his arrival in Los Angeles, or perhaps the crooked Hollywood sign on those famous rolling green hills.
On the other hand, traffic changed drastically. Roxas noticed the bus had pulled into a six-lane highway as it approached downtown L.A. while the population of buildings and people on sidewalks increased dramatically. After about twenty perilous minutes on the highway the bus took a sudden exit that would ease it slowly into the city. Roxas observed the other passengers collecting their things and waking their children.
It happened so fast. One minute Roxas was in his comfortable seat and the next he was shuffling down the steps of the bus with a dozen impatient passengers behind him, duffel back clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. He retreated to a nearby bench as the other passengers jostled one another down the steps. He watched them one by one either duck into the bus station or hail a taxi and disappear into the city. To his surprise the streets weren't as packed as he would have expected.
Finally Roxas trudged through the bus station door where a wrinkled old man was working at the front desk. The boy's eyes fell upon a stack of laminated maps on the desk and, still shaking, he approached the front and picked one up to flip through the smooth pages where each street within L.A. had been labeled neatly. Even the bus schedule was featured on the back.
"Three dollar fifty," the man suddenly grumbled from beneath his wrinkles. Startled, Roxas reached for his back pocket. A map was certainly a worthwhile investment, especially considering how big the city seemed.
But his wallet wasn't in his back pocket. Or his front pocket, or the pocket of his jacket, or in his shoes or in his hair or his duffel bag or anywhere.
Roxas stared blankly at the front desk, his mind racing. His wallet had been in his pocket upon boarding the bus, he knew that for sure. Maybe someone had stolen it? He considered the people that had sat near him - a pair of middle-aged women behind him and an old man dozing in a seat across the aisle. He also remembered a young marine sitting in a seat directly diagonal from him. Depressingly, none of those people seemed like possible suspects.
Perhaps someone nicked his wallet while he had slept? It was possible. But had he really been so sleepy that the feeling of someone sitting next to him and cupping a hand under his backside to slide his wallet out would go completely unnoticed?
The boy wandered back outside the bus station and slumped down on his bench. A quick, desperate search through his duffel bag revealed that, no doubt about it, his wallet was definitely gone. Meaning there was only one thing he could do.
Roxas shrugged his bag over his shoulder and began walking down the wide L.A. sidewalk. He ignored the cars that flew past him on the beautiful girls that strode by like high fashion models. His searching eyes finally fell upon a Dunkin' Donuts. Bingo.
Hoping the cartoon were right, Roxas slid inside the front door. He took a few seconds to revel in the cool air conditioning that lovingly blew upon his face. One thing was for sure, Los Angeles and Vegas both shared unbearably hot climates.
Roxas scanned the small, dirty donut shop. A bored-looking Hispanic woman was slouching behind the register and for the most part, the place was pretty much empty. An old woman was quietly reading a newspaper and sipping her coffee at one of the booths, while some rock star wannabe in a blue shirt fiddled with an iPhone.
Wait.
The boy hurried over to the young man, whose wild red hair fanned out from the back of his head like a Triceratops's frill. His lean face was pale and tattooed below both acid-green eyes. The letters "LAPD," beautiful to Roxas's eyes, were printed in white on his shirt.
"Uh, excuse me," Roxas squeaked. The man's eyes shot up in his direction like bullets. Roxas squirmed. "Look, I'm not from around here and I think my wallet got sto-"
"How old are you?" His speech was drawled, almost in a sarcastic way, and somewhat nasal. The man leaned back in his chair and threw one skinny arm over the back of it so he was twisted halfway in Roxas's direction. He looked dreadfully thin to Roxas, even more so from this angle than from the back.
"I'm seventeen," Roxas answered honestly. "And if you're about to ask for my parents, they're not around."
"Fair enough," to cop said. He looked somewhat annoyed, and Roxas deduced that he must have been on his lunch break.
"I just got off a bus from Vegas and... I think someone riding near me took it."
"Take a seat, kid." Despite the numerous 'NO SMOKING' signs posted around the shop, the policeman fished a cigarette out of a half-empty box in his pocket. Roxas noticed the lighter he used bore a cheerful picture of Mickey Mouse.
"First thing's first - what's your name, and what the fuck were you doing hopping a bus from Vegas to L.A.?"
"I have a terminal disease," Roxas answered coldly. Why wasn't he filling out a report? Where was his car, his reinforcements, his gun?! "I wanted to see L.A. before I kicked the bucket for good."
The cop threw back his head and laughed a reaction that startled Roxas to the point of nearly falling out of his plastic seat. This only got him all the more flustered, his cheeks reddening from anger and frustration.
"Jesus, kid. If you knew how many times I got that fucking sob story." He took another drag on his cigarette, purposely blowing the smoke in Roxas's direction. The boy waved a hand in front of his face wildly, his eyes watering partly from irritation and partly from outright anger.
"Y-you're an asshole! Are you even a real cop?!" Roxas snapped, glowering across the sticky table.
"Which bus station?" the cop asked calmly.
"Uh... the one right up the street."
The cop reached into the pocket not containing cigarettes and pulled out an enormous cell phone reminiscent of the early 1990's. Roxas watched him, tight-lipped, as he swiftly scrolled through several dozen stored numbers and selected one. He coolly inquired about any lost objects on a recent bus from Vegas, lips pulled into a half-smile. Roxas felt like smacking him.
"Thanks, I'll be there shortly," he finished sweetly. The officer slid the phone back into his pocket. "Well, disease-boy, seems like your ass repels leather. Your wallet's at the station."
Relief flooded through the boy, followed closely by the sinking feeling of embarrassment and then complete horror. He could have just asked the guy at the bus station if anyone had turned anything in - but no, he had to go and get a cop involved in his business!
"Are you going to force me to go home?" Roxas asked, slumping back into his chair.
The cop shrugged. "Probably. I'd get in a lot of trouble if you turned out to be a drug dealer or something, smuggling shit over state lines and all that jazz."
The look Roxas shot the cop was a withering one, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do I look like a drug pusher to you?" he said angrily, lips forming a quite manly version of the pout.
The officer stared back, one eyebrow raised as he looked the blond over. "You look like a kid who managed to lose his wallet before even getting on the street. Now, do you want a ride to get it or not?"
"Sure, but tell me your name first," Roxas shot back. At the cop's quirked eyebrow, he blushed and added, "Just... so I'll know."
"You can call me Max," the redhead answered with a smirk.
"I guess by that you mean it's not your real name?"
"This is Los Angeles, not fucking Happy Days," Max laughed. "We should get going."
Max wouldn't let Roxas sit in the front seat of his car for regulatory reasons, so instead the teen had to be satisfied with a back seat. The bulletproof glass between himself and the officer was a little unsettling, and Roxas felt himself begin to sweat. Running away wasn't a criminal offense, was it?
Roxas pressed his lips against the few holes in the glass. "Hey, why did we have to drive? We could have walked to the bus station."
"Can't leave the department's car unattended," Max explained. He expertly maneuvered the car into a tight space next to the sidewalk of the depot, both bumpers mere inches from the cars in front and behind it.
Roxas immediately tried to open the door to get out, giving a little huff of protest when it stayed stubbornly shut. There was no lock, either, that he could see. "Hey," he said a little urgently, pressing his face to the window and looking with wide eyes at the cop standing there, who looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Let me out, asshole!" Roxas yelled, trying the door handle again.
Max let the kid struggle a little longer before stepping up to the car and pulling the handle suddenly, Roxas in turn coming tumbling out on to the ground. "You throw a pretty good temper tantrum, kiddo," he commented, fisting his hands in the embarrassed blond's shirt and helping him to his feet. "The doors are locked on the inside. We can't have criminals opening the door and running away, now can we?"
Roxas was extremely tempted to make a rude finger sign but resisted, figuring Max could use that against him, or at the very least tell his brother when they undoubtedly came in contact. The boy pushed the mental image of his brother's reaction to the whole situation to the back of his mind; such a thing was far too frightening to think about right now.
The same man at the desk was there. Max retrieved Roxas's wallet wordlessly, snatching it back when the boy tried to take it from him.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"Oh really? Because to me, it's evidence. This could be a federal offense we're talking about here," Max purred. "Tell me, do you come from an abusive home? Did someone on the bus on the way here touch you in a bad place?"
"Bitch! Give it back!" Roxas stood on his tiptoes in a sorry attempt to snatch the wallet back, to which Max merely laughed and pushed him back with one large hand against his forehead. With the other hand he opened Roxas's plain leather wallet and wriggled his identification card out, eyes darting over the words. For the briefest of seconds his eyes widened - perhaps it was at the metallic grin Roxas gave the camera in his picture, teeth gleaming with braces. He flicked the card back in his wallet and Roxas snatched it away, still glaring.
The look on Max's face was grave. He pursed his lips, nodding at the man behind the counter in silent thanks and grabbing Roxas by the arm. "Come on. My ass is on the line if I don't take you down to the station and make a formal call to your parent or legal guardian."
Roxas was stunned, but after following complacently for a few seconds, he started to struggle. "Let me go! You helped me get my wallet back, I don't need anything else," he growled, trying to pry Max's hand off of his upper arm as the officer tugged him out the door. "Fucking let me go!"
The cop practically threw Roxas in to the back seat, slamming the door and shooting a threatening look at the people passing by who'd stopped to watch. He climbed into the front seat and slammed the door, ignoring the insults Roxas was still shouting at him from the backseat. He pulled out into the street and silently began to weave through the many confusing streets of the city.
Roxas eventually stopped cussing, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the city float by before his eyes. So much for finding this Axel guy - but then again, it was a stupid idea anyway. He wouldn't have been able to save him, and it was doubtful he'd know what exactly was wrong with hid kidney. For all Roxas knew, he could be dead right now. After all, his other kidney couldn't be in much better shape either.
"You're awfully quiet," Roxas finally said, wanting to get his mind off what a failure this plan had been. He would probably ruin Cloud's whole vacation when his brother found out.
Max glanced in the rearview mirror at Roxas's face. "Yeah?"
"I mean, you seemed pretty talkative before. You sure liked patronizing me."
A smile tugged at the cop's lips. "Well, I'm a policeman. It's my job to intimidate people."
Roxas slid down a little in his seat, playing with the hem of his shirt. "You didn't have to be such an asshole about it," he muttered unhappily, looking out the window at the buildings they passed. As they came to a stop at a light, a pretty girl on the corner in shorts that barely counted and a halter top winked at him and put a hand on her hip, licking her lips.
Roxas stared back, about to say something when Max spoke up. "You see a lot of that around here," he explained flatly, pulling away when the light turned green. "She's new. The experienced ones know that a kid in the back of a cop car usually doesn't have any money."
"I have three hundred bucks!" Roxas snapped. Max was about to reply until his radio abruptly crackled to life.
"Car 44-0, you there?" The voice was female, but the crackling of the feedback made it hard to tell.
"Mhm. Whatcha need? Hit and run?"
"No, harassed celebrity. You know how it is."
Max sighed, flipping on his turn signal to move onto another avenue that would take him to the ritzier side of town. The woman on the radio relayed where the celebrity was located, and Max gave her gruff replies as he headed for a job he undoubtedly disliked.
"Are celebrities mean?" Roxas asked suddenly from the backseat.
Max shrugged. "Depends. Most are just kinda frantic."
"You got someone with you, McCormick?" the woman on the radio asked. "You need someone else to take on the paparazzi?"
"Yeah, thanks. I just have a kid I have to return to his parents," Max said, and switched off the radio. He glanced into the rearview mirror again. "That was Elena. She's pretty nice, never busts me for fucking around when I'm on duty."
Roxas didn't reply.
"Kid? You okay?"
Roxas stared straight ahead, telling himself it was a coincidence, how it was impossible, there were at least a million people in this city. But the sacred word that had crackled over the radio still rang in his ears, and he felt himself begin to shake.
McCormick.
Genre: AU - Romance/Mystery
Summary: With just six months to live, Roxas makes a desperate attempt to find the mysterious man from his past - his last chance to survive a fatal disease.
Rating: M (eventual)
Pairing: Axel/Roxas
Warnings: Language / Violence / Sex
Comments: Huge thanks to reversiblelove for helping me with this because I was having SO many issues with the middle. School started and I totally lost my momentum, so thanks to her I'm back on track. Unfortunately this chapter is fairly un-beta'd, so constructive criticism is very much encouraged. I like knowing people like my stuff, but I like knowing how to improve even more! So without further ado, here’s chapter three of Anodyne.
Anodyne
Chapter Three: Wheels on the Bus
Cloud never noticed the growing stash of money under his little brother's pillow and if he did, he was certainly too busy with wedding preparations to take much notice of it. Roxas was fine with sitting back and watching his brother lose his mind, like any groom would. Have the flowers come in? Were the invitations stamped? Bronchitis or no bronchitis, that priest sure as hell wasn't going to be absent on the big day!
The wedding itself was a rather quiet event in Roxas's opinion. Random family members continued to nag him about his sickness, his parents, and oh, how's that baseball coming along? Roxas knew that if he were to inform them of his countdown to death, a good half would probably faint on the spot. And as interesting a hysterical spectacle would be, Roxas was unable to let himself ruin his brother's wedding like that. And so the wedding came and went, and Roxas remained a quiet cameo in Cloud's Big Day.
Roxas's quiet take on the whole wedding weekend was shattered when Cloud barged into his room clutching a half-packed suitcase.
"What do you want?" Roxas groaned, rolling over. "Come to give me the juicy details about the devirginization of your blushing bride?"
Cloud whacked him with the suitcase. Roxas swore loudly.
"Language. And I leave in half an hour, figured I'd go over some rules before I left."
"Whatever," Roxas said. He folded his arms behind his head and looked up at his brother, smiling. "You've got one hell of a hickey on your neck, by the way."
Cloud ignored the remark. "No parties. No blasting music. No dying. Call grandma every day. If you feel sick, even just a little bit, go to the hospital. Period."
"I feel sick every day."
"Well, more sick than usual then," Cloud said, running a hand through his hair. I'm doing this against my better judgment, you know. With you in such bad shape."
"I'll be fine, Cloud," Roxas whined. "Now go finish packing and get out of here!"
Cloud leaned down and kissed Roxas on the top of his head, then returned to packing. The boy laid in bed at least an hour after the front door finally closed, waiting for Cloud to come barging in at any moment to retrieve a forgotten hair brush, cell phone, or wallet.
Finally sure his brother was gone, Roxas leapt out of bed. He dressed quickly, throwing on a green shirt from Pac Sun and a clean pair of blue jeans. He pulled an old baseball duffel bag out from under his bed, already stuffed with clothes.
Shaking from excitement, Roxas stuffed his bus pass in his pocket and hurried out the front door of the condo. He fumbled to lock the door behind him, sprinting down the stairs of the building while his duffel bag flopped at his side.
The bus station was a run-down brown building five blocks from Roxas's condominium. His chest heaving from the sprint, Roxas plopped down on the metal bench in front of the building. He licked his lips and anxiously checked his watch, internally pleading the bus to hurry up. The online schedule had said the bus was coming to Vegas from Oklahoma - what if the pilgrims or whoever the hell it was that lived there were holding the bus hostage? What if the driver had been taken as a corn-husking prisoner, doomed for eternity? Roxas shuddered at the thought.
Roxas was already halfway through his dreamed-up bus rescue mission by the time the vehicle in question thundered up to the station. Heart beating rapidly in his chest, Roxas stumbled up the steps, showing his pass to the overweight, cheerful driver.
"Admit one to Los Angeles. Take a seat, kiddo."
His ears ringing, Roxas slid into the seat directly behind the driver. He set his head against the window and inhaled slowly, already beginning to dream about his mysterious savior.
Roxas awoke three hours later and was content to watch the dry, flat terrain as the bus moved into California. Five hours into the trip greeted him with the beginnings of civilization, passing through the expansive Southern California suburban towns. Roxas pressed his face against the glass and squinted, trying to catch and tall buildings that would signify his arrival in Los Angeles, or perhaps the crooked Hollywood sign on those famous rolling green hills.
On the other hand, traffic changed drastically. Roxas noticed the bus had pulled into a six-lane highway as it approached downtown L.A. while the population of buildings and people on sidewalks increased dramatically. After about twenty perilous minutes on the highway the bus took a sudden exit that would ease it slowly into the city. Roxas observed the other passengers collecting their things and waking their children.
It happened so fast. One minute Roxas was in his comfortable seat and the next he was shuffling down the steps of the bus with a dozen impatient passengers behind him, duffel back clutched tightly in his sweaty hand. He retreated to a nearby bench as the other passengers jostled one another down the steps. He watched them one by one either duck into the bus station or hail a taxi and disappear into the city. To his surprise the streets weren't as packed as he would have expected.
Finally Roxas trudged through the bus station door where a wrinkled old man was working at the front desk. The boy's eyes fell upon a stack of laminated maps on the desk and, still shaking, he approached the front and picked one up to flip through the smooth pages where each street within L.A. had been labeled neatly. Even the bus schedule was featured on the back.
"Three dollar fifty," the man suddenly grumbled from beneath his wrinkles. Startled, Roxas reached for his back pocket. A map was certainly a worthwhile investment, especially considering how big the city seemed.
But his wallet wasn't in his back pocket. Or his front pocket, or the pocket of his jacket, or in his shoes or in his hair or his duffel bag or anywhere.
Roxas stared blankly at the front desk, his mind racing. His wallet had been in his pocket upon boarding the bus, he knew that for sure. Maybe someone had stolen it? He considered the people that had sat near him - a pair of middle-aged women behind him and an old man dozing in a seat across the aisle. He also remembered a young marine sitting in a seat directly diagonal from him. Depressingly, none of those people seemed like possible suspects.
Perhaps someone nicked his wallet while he had slept? It was possible. But had he really been so sleepy that the feeling of someone sitting next to him and cupping a hand under his backside to slide his wallet out would go completely unnoticed?
The boy wandered back outside the bus station and slumped down on his bench. A quick, desperate search through his duffel bag revealed that, no doubt about it, his wallet was definitely gone. Meaning there was only one thing he could do.
Roxas shrugged his bag over his shoulder and began walking down the wide L.A. sidewalk. He ignored the cars that flew past him on the beautiful girls that strode by like high fashion models. His searching eyes finally fell upon a Dunkin' Donuts. Bingo.
Hoping the cartoon were right, Roxas slid inside the front door. He took a few seconds to revel in the cool air conditioning that lovingly blew upon his face. One thing was for sure, Los Angeles and Vegas both shared unbearably hot climates.
Roxas scanned the small, dirty donut shop. A bored-looking Hispanic woman was slouching behind the register and for the most part, the place was pretty much empty. An old woman was quietly reading a newspaper and sipping her coffee at one of the booths, while some rock star wannabe in a blue shirt fiddled with an iPhone.
Wait.
The boy hurried over to the young man, whose wild red hair fanned out from the back of his head like a Triceratops's frill. His lean face was pale and tattooed below both acid-green eyes. The letters "LAPD," beautiful to Roxas's eyes, were printed in white on his shirt.
"Uh, excuse me," Roxas squeaked. The man's eyes shot up in his direction like bullets. Roxas squirmed. "Look, I'm not from around here and I think my wallet got sto-"
"How old are you?" His speech was drawled, almost in a sarcastic way, and somewhat nasal. The man leaned back in his chair and threw one skinny arm over the back of it so he was twisted halfway in Roxas's direction. He looked dreadfully thin to Roxas, even more so from this angle than from the back.
"I'm seventeen," Roxas answered honestly. "And if you're about to ask for my parents, they're not around."
"Fair enough," to cop said. He looked somewhat annoyed, and Roxas deduced that he must have been on his lunch break.
"I just got off a bus from Vegas and... I think someone riding near me took it."
"Take a seat, kid." Despite the numerous 'NO SMOKING' signs posted around the shop, the policeman fished a cigarette out of a half-empty box in his pocket. Roxas noticed the lighter he used bore a cheerful picture of Mickey Mouse.
"First thing's first - what's your name, and what the fuck were you doing hopping a bus from Vegas to L.A.?"
"I have a terminal disease," Roxas answered coldly. Why wasn't he filling out a report? Where was his car, his reinforcements, his gun?! "I wanted to see L.A. before I kicked the bucket for good."
The cop threw back his head and laughed a reaction that startled Roxas to the point of nearly falling out of his plastic seat. This only got him all the more flustered, his cheeks reddening from anger and frustration.
"Jesus, kid. If you knew how many times I got that fucking sob story." He took another drag on his cigarette, purposely blowing the smoke in Roxas's direction. The boy waved a hand in front of his face wildly, his eyes watering partly from irritation and partly from outright anger.
"Y-you're an asshole! Are you even a real cop?!" Roxas snapped, glowering across the sticky table.
"Which bus station?" the cop asked calmly.
"Uh... the one right up the street."
The cop reached into the pocket not containing cigarettes and pulled out an enormous cell phone reminiscent of the early 1990's. Roxas watched him, tight-lipped, as he swiftly scrolled through several dozen stored numbers and selected one. He coolly inquired about any lost objects on a recent bus from Vegas, lips pulled into a half-smile. Roxas felt like smacking him.
"Thanks, I'll be there shortly," he finished sweetly. The officer slid the phone back into his pocket. "Well, disease-boy, seems like your ass repels leather. Your wallet's at the station."
Relief flooded through the boy, followed closely by the sinking feeling of embarrassment and then complete horror. He could have just asked the guy at the bus station if anyone had turned anything in - but no, he had to go and get a cop involved in his business!
"Are you going to force me to go home?" Roxas asked, slumping back into his chair.
The cop shrugged. "Probably. I'd get in a lot of trouble if you turned out to be a drug dealer or something, smuggling shit over state lines and all that jazz."
The look Roxas shot the cop was a withering one, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do I look like a drug pusher to you?" he said angrily, lips forming a quite manly version of the pout.
The officer stared back, one eyebrow raised as he looked the blond over. "You look like a kid who managed to lose his wallet before even getting on the street. Now, do you want a ride to get it or not?"
"Sure, but tell me your name first," Roxas shot back. At the cop's quirked eyebrow, he blushed and added, "Just... so I'll know."
"You can call me Max," the redhead answered with a smirk.
"I guess by that you mean it's not your real name?"
"This is Los Angeles, not fucking Happy Days," Max laughed. "We should get going."
Max wouldn't let Roxas sit in the front seat of his car for regulatory reasons, so instead the teen had to be satisfied with a back seat. The bulletproof glass between himself and the officer was a little unsettling, and Roxas felt himself begin to sweat. Running away wasn't a criminal offense, was it?
Roxas pressed his lips against the few holes in the glass. "Hey, why did we have to drive? We could have walked to the bus station."
"Can't leave the department's car unattended," Max explained. He expertly maneuvered the car into a tight space next to the sidewalk of the depot, both bumpers mere inches from the cars in front and behind it.
Roxas immediately tried to open the door to get out, giving a little huff of protest when it stayed stubbornly shut. There was no lock, either, that he could see. "Hey," he said a little urgently, pressing his face to the window and looking with wide eyes at the cop standing there, who looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Let me out, asshole!" Roxas yelled, trying the door handle again.
Max let the kid struggle a little longer before stepping up to the car and pulling the handle suddenly, Roxas in turn coming tumbling out on to the ground. "You throw a pretty good temper tantrum, kiddo," he commented, fisting his hands in the embarrassed blond's shirt and helping him to his feet. "The doors are locked on the inside. We can't have criminals opening the door and running away, now can we?"
Roxas was extremely tempted to make a rude finger sign but resisted, figuring Max could use that against him, or at the very least tell his brother when they undoubtedly came in contact. The boy pushed the mental image of his brother's reaction to the whole situation to the back of his mind; such a thing was far too frightening to think about right now.
The same man at the desk was there. Max retrieved Roxas's wallet wordlessly, snatching it back when the boy tried to take it from him.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"Oh really? Because to me, it's evidence. This could be a federal offense we're talking about here," Max purred. "Tell me, do you come from an abusive home? Did someone on the bus on the way here touch you in a bad place?"
"Bitch! Give it back!" Roxas stood on his tiptoes in a sorry attempt to snatch the wallet back, to which Max merely laughed and pushed him back with one large hand against his forehead. With the other hand he opened Roxas's plain leather wallet and wriggled his identification card out, eyes darting over the words. For the briefest of seconds his eyes widened - perhaps it was at the metallic grin Roxas gave the camera in his picture, teeth gleaming with braces. He flicked the card back in his wallet and Roxas snatched it away, still glaring.
The look on Max's face was grave. He pursed his lips, nodding at the man behind the counter in silent thanks and grabbing Roxas by the arm. "Come on. My ass is on the line if I don't take you down to the station and make a formal call to your parent or legal guardian."
Roxas was stunned, but after following complacently for a few seconds, he started to struggle. "Let me go! You helped me get my wallet back, I don't need anything else," he growled, trying to pry Max's hand off of his upper arm as the officer tugged him out the door. "Fucking let me go!"
The cop practically threw Roxas in to the back seat, slamming the door and shooting a threatening look at the people passing by who'd stopped to watch. He climbed into the front seat and slammed the door, ignoring the insults Roxas was still shouting at him from the backseat. He pulled out into the street and silently began to weave through the many confusing streets of the city.
Roxas eventually stopped cussing, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the city float by before his eyes. So much for finding this Axel guy - but then again, it was a stupid idea anyway. He wouldn't have been able to save him, and it was doubtful he'd know what exactly was wrong with hid kidney. For all Roxas knew, he could be dead right now. After all, his other kidney couldn't be in much better shape either.
"You're awfully quiet," Roxas finally said, wanting to get his mind off what a failure this plan had been. He would probably ruin Cloud's whole vacation when his brother found out.
Max glanced in the rearview mirror at Roxas's face. "Yeah?"
"I mean, you seemed pretty talkative before. You sure liked patronizing me."
A smile tugged at the cop's lips. "Well, I'm a policeman. It's my job to intimidate people."
Roxas slid down a little in his seat, playing with the hem of his shirt. "You didn't have to be such an asshole about it," he muttered unhappily, looking out the window at the buildings they passed. As they came to a stop at a light, a pretty girl on the corner in shorts that barely counted and a halter top winked at him and put a hand on her hip, licking her lips.
Roxas stared back, about to say something when Max spoke up. "You see a lot of that around here," he explained flatly, pulling away when the light turned green. "She's new. The experienced ones know that a kid in the back of a cop car usually doesn't have any money."
"I have three hundred bucks!" Roxas snapped. Max was about to reply until his radio abruptly crackled to life.
"Car 44-0, you there?" The voice was female, but the crackling of the feedback made it hard to tell.
"Mhm. Whatcha need? Hit and run?"
"No, harassed celebrity. You know how it is."
Max sighed, flipping on his turn signal to move onto another avenue that would take him to the ritzier side of town. The woman on the radio relayed where the celebrity was located, and Max gave her gruff replies as he headed for a job he undoubtedly disliked.
"Are celebrities mean?" Roxas asked suddenly from the backseat.
Max shrugged. "Depends. Most are just kinda frantic."
"You got someone with you, McCormick?" the woman on the radio asked. "You need someone else to take on the paparazzi?"
"Yeah, thanks. I just have a kid I have to return to his parents," Max said, and switched off the radio. He glanced into the rearview mirror again. "That was Elena. She's pretty nice, never busts me for fucking around when I'm on duty."
Roxas didn't reply.
"Kid? You okay?"
Roxas stared straight ahead, telling himself it was a coincidence, how it was impossible, there were at least a million people in this city. But the sacred word that had crackled over the radio still rang in his ears, and he felt himself begin to shake.
McCormick.