false lights for the sun (1/2) rpf. I'd say you're better than this, but we both know that's not true. bana/weisz(/crudup/watts).
"Rachel. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. You're the only one I can trust. I...I know it's a long way and you've got another life now, but just wait, just wait, just-just-just...hear me out. I'm begging you, Rachel. I'm begging you not to delete this message. Try and make believe that this is not me trying to pull you back in again. You're out, I know. But this is me asking for one last favor. After this, you can pretend I'm a stranger. Rachel, I fucked up. I fucked up and I need your help."
It should worry Rachel that she slips back into the life as gracefully as she left it, each footprint left perfectly in step as she falls into practiced rhythms as familiar to her as Eric's heartbeat. They sit among blueprints and stolen safe codes in Eric's rundown fourth floor walk up like they have a hundred times before, the tap-tap of her pencil on his oak coffee table the only sound heard during the brief pauses between diversionary brainstorming sessions. Rachel takes a sip of his coffee - always too strong and too bitter with just a hint of Splenda offered up as a peace offering - and starts to go over the plan again.
"I think you missed this, Weisz," he says with a wagging finger when she pauses to chip away at their weak transition from looping security tapes to getting into the bank vault. Eric grins like he's caught her in a lie. Off her stone-faced silence, Eric sighs, "I really do appreciate this."
"I'd say you're better than this, Eric," Rachel starts, gesturing around them, "but we both know that's not true."
They don't account for the additional trigger-happy guard getting trained that night. It is Eric's job to make sure the final count is correct, but it's Rachel's fault for not remembering his tendency to drop the ball so it's fitting that she's the one who gets a bullet through her shoulder as punishment for piss poor strategizing. They barely manage to make it out of the bank and into the getaway car, her blood smeared all over the driver's side as Eric tries to steer with one hand and tamponade her wound with the other. There's so much red that Rachel vaguely wonders if she'll exsanguinate before they get to the warehouse.
"It's fine. I swear you'll be fine," Eric keeps repeating between sharp turns and an utter disregard for speed limits. It's probably meant to be comforting, but Rachel finds the mere sound of his voice infuriating in that moment.
"Bana, you incompetent prick," she spits back. "What kind of bank robber doesn't know how to count?"
Eric laughs. She can practically feel the worry seep out of him.
rpf. I'd say you're better than this, but we both know that's not true. bana/weisz(/crudup/watts).
"Rachel. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. You're the only one I can trust. I...I know it's a long way and you've got another life now, but just wait, just wait, just-just-just...hear me out. I'm begging you, Rachel. I'm begging you not to delete this message. Try and make believe that this is not me trying to pull you back in again. You're out, I know. But this is me asking for one last favor. After this, you can pretend I'm a stranger. Rachel, I fucked up. I fucked up and I need your help."
It should worry Rachel that she slips back into the life as gracefully as she left it, each footprint left perfectly in step as she falls into practiced rhythms as familiar to her as Eric's heartbeat. They sit among blueprints and stolen safe codes in Eric's rundown fourth floor walk up like they have a hundred times before, the tap-tap of her pencil on his oak coffee table the only sound heard during the brief pauses between diversionary brainstorming sessions. Rachel takes a sip of his coffee - always too strong and too bitter with just a hint of Splenda offered up as a peace offering - and starts to go over the plan again.
"I think you missed this, Weisz," he says with a wagging finger when she pauses to chip away at their weak transition from looping security tapes to getting into the bank vault. Eric grins like he's caught her in a lie. Off her stone-faced silence, Eric sighs, "I really do appreciate this."
"I'd say you're better than this, Eric," Rachel starts, gesturing around them, "but we both know that's not true."
They don't account for the additional trigger-happy guard getting trained that night. It is Eric's job to make sure the final count is correct, but it's Rachel's fault for not remembering his tendency to drop the ball so it's fitting that she's the one who gets a bullet through her shoulder as punishment for piss poor strategizing. They barely manage to make it out of the bank and into the getaway car, her blood smeared all over the driver's side as Eric tries to steer with one hand and tamponade her wound with the other. There's so much red that Rachel vaguely wonders if she'll exsanguinate before they get to the warehouse.
"It's fine. I swear you'll be fine," Eric keeps repeating between sharp turns and an utter disregard for speed limits. It's probably meant to be comforting, but Rachel finds the mere sound of his voice infuriating in that moment.
"Bana, you incompetent prick," she spits back. "What kind of bank robber doesn't know how to count?"
Eric laughs. She can practically feel the worry seep out of him.
"Yeah, you'll be okay."
(cont.)
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