Born to Run (Part 1/29)
Title: Born to Run
Part: 1/29 (here we go again!)
Pairings: none yet, but as far as characters we have Fernando Torres, Sergio Ramos, and Iker Casillas
Rating: R for language right now
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
soundtrack.
"Fuck you!"
"Just fuckin' sit still and shut yer trap, you little queer. I don't wanna hear another goddamn peep out of you 'til we get to the station."
Fernando scowls to himself, his pretty little mouth in a tiny line. He sniffs loudly, curling down to wipe some of the white powder that was still under his nose.
"Peep."
The cop slams on the break so fast that Fernando goes flying into the floorboard, his legs in a ridiculous sprawl, feet against the window. He kicks at it hard while the cop is distracted by his yowling.
"You fuckin' asshole! You just broke my arms!"
"Get up, you little shit! No more disappearin' acts outta you. I'm sick of your games. You think it's funny that you snorted coke offa the hood of my car? You think it's okay?! You think you're gonna get away with this?!"
"YOU DARED ME TO DO IT."
"What, you gotta do everything someone tells you to? You don't have a mind of your own? I'm saving you, you little fucker. You'll be thankin' me for this when you're outta rehab."
Fernando growls again, slamming his feet over and over against the window. They come to a rough stop in front of the police station and the cop is out of the car in a flash, yanking the back door open and ripping Fernando up out of the floorboard. He jerks against him and earns a shove into the door of the station.
"Why you got me double cuffed anyway?"
"You don't think I learned my fuckin' lesson last month when you shimmied out of those cuffs like a fuckin' whore in a miniskirt? I'll break your wrists 'f you try that again."
Fernando sighs as he's shoved against the wall inside the station and patted down roughly but thoroughly. He wriggles against his hands and wrinkles his nose.
"Ugh, you better not be getting hard over this. You better pay me first."
The cop sneers and grabs him by the scruff of his collar, spinning him around.
"Take off your jewelry, fag."
"You already know what I'm gonna say."
"I'll rip it out, don't try me, kid!"
"I just got my lip done last week! It'll grow up!"
"You don't need that shit in your face anyway. Gross little punk." Fernando tries to fight as the cop shoves a hand in his mouth and unscrews the stud in his lip, giving a sharp cry of pain when he yanks it out of the still tender wound. He bites down on his finger and the cop slaps his face.
"Shit! Police brutality!" He turns toward the innermost part of the station through the next set of double doors, his voice growing shrill in fake panic. "POLICE BRUTALITY."
"You're lucky I'm one-a the nice ones. The rest of 'em would beat yer fuckin' face in. Get that shit out of your cheeks! Now!"
"I'M CUFFED, GENIUS."
"I swear to Christ, I'm gonna--" The cop cuts himself off and growls up into Fernando's face, the disgust in it so strong that Fernando actually winces, long, skinny fingers tangling together at his back. He still fights as the cop shoves his meaty fingers into his mouth and unscrews his dimple piercings, collecting each piece of steel in his calloused palm. Fernando frowns at him fully now, licking angrily at the inside of his mouth.
"I ain't scared of you."
"Good. You haven't met Rodney yet." The cop goes about taking off the rest of Fernando's jewelry, pulling off chain after chain and spiked cuffs and worn pieces of leather until he looks rather naked and quite upset. The cop smiles, satisfied that he'd stripped him of his vanity. "You got anymore piercings I don't know about?"
Fernando absolutely grins.
"Why, you wanna see my hot young cock, officer?"
The cop steps up until he's face-to-face with Fernando and he shoves his finger hard against one of his freckled cheeks. He's shaking with hatred.
"I'm gonna put you in a cell with the guy that sends pretty boys like you to the infirmary. He'll rip your ass apart."
"Mm. Just my type."
The cop reaches up and grabs Fernando by his mohawk, pulling him down and shoving him through the final doors that led into the busy station. Everyday was busy in Camden, New Jersey.
"You sit the fuck down and lay low until Estelle can get to you. You'd better not move or you're gonna be our new punching bag." He throws Fernando down into a hard plastic chair, giving his thin chest a shove for emphasis before stalking away. Fernando slumps back in the chair, pouting to the fullest extent that his mouth can allow (which is quite a lot), his legs sprawled out. He taps his boots annoyingly on the dingy tile, staring down at them with blank eyes, watching his ratty laces tiptaptip on the floor, the soles of his shoes flap where they're falling apart. He glances around to make sure he's annoying at least someone and when he looks to the right, his eyes catch and stick on a long, curled figure. He sits up immediately, his skin jittery with curiosity. When the boy looks over at him, he looks away immediately, his face falling dull with disinterest. He counts to ten under his breath and looks back over, startled when those huge dark eyes are still on him. He ruffles for the attention, faking a scowl as he sits up, throwing one ankle up onto his knee. The boy looks away politely and Fernando takes the chance to look him over.
He's almost as tall as Fernando himself, if not exactly the same height. He's all sinew and exaggerated features, eyes too big, nose too hooked, mouth too full. His hair is tortured with thick and thin dreaded strands, nested, gutter-brown dreadlocks tumbling down over his softly squared shoulders. Thin strips of fabric are tied into the jungle of his hair, some ended with dirty coins. He's dressed in layers upon layers, more layers than even Fernando is wearing, he notices in grudging respect, dark layers that are dusty with time, with stubborn wear, that are tied back together where they're ripped, that are covering maybe another shirt underneath that is too full of holes to wear alone. His feet are covered in chelsea boots, ones maybe worn by John Lennon himself once, if their appearance told their age correctly. He looked every bit the part of a tramp, of a gutter-gaunt gypsy, right down to the curled almonds of his eyes and the dusky honey of his skin and the belt of coins around his tapered waist. Fernando is unabashedly staring when those eyes find him again. He tries to push brightness into his own eyes to keep his gaze but the boy looks away almost shyly. Fernando watches him wrap an arm around a beat-up guitar case beside him and he makes his decision immediately.
"Psst."
He licks his lips, eyes darting back and forth furtively to make sure they aren't been watched. When the boy doesn't look over on his hissed command, he clears his throat obviously and tries again.
"Psst."
Fernando watches his shoulders tense and then there are those eyes again. He locks his gaze and tries to nod him over.
"C'mere."
The gypsy looks behind him just like in the movies and then looks back at Fernando, his eyes wide with incredulity. He lifts his long, tanned hand from his guitar and touches his own chest with it.
"...Me?"
"Yes, you! Who the fuck else would I be--" Fernando stops, takes a deep breath, tries again. "Come here."
The boy pauses, clearly hesitant and going against his instincts but he scoots over the couple of seats separating him from Fernando. He looks over at him expectantly, eyebrows arched and expressive. He's almost pretty. Fernando thinks, anyway. But he's high, so he makes a mental note to consider it later.
"Help me get these cuffs off."
He turns his back to the boy and shows him the two pairs of handcuffs crossed and twisted over each other on his bony wrists. The boy's eyes widen and he gasps softly.
"Why are there two pairs?"
"Because. The fucker knows I can get out of just one. C'mon, hurry up. Rodney's on his way and he does not like me."
"Who's Rodney?"
Fernando shakes his arms frantically and the boy reaches down and runs his fingers over Fernando's wrists and the cold steel of the cuffs. He glances up nervously at Fernando's back.
"Um. How?"
Fernando growls impatiently.
"You don't have a fuckin' bobby pin on you or somethin'?! Or a... I don't know. What ever it is you people carry around."
The boy's hands leave Fernando.
"'You people'?"
"You fuckin' gypsies!"
The boy's face lights up with a smile.
"You can tell I'm a gypsy?"
"Can't we talk about this later?! Oh. Shit." Fernando freezes when he sees Rodney's large frame lumbering down the hallway toward them. He wriggles and tries to shove his hands through the cuffs, whimpering when it only pushed the bones of his wrists apart. "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit."
"What? What is it?" The boy looks up and spies the man immediately. Fernando can hear him suck in a sharp breath. "Is... is that Rodney?"
"On the count of three, you fuckin' book it to the door. Ready?"
"Wait, no! What?" He looks up at Fernando in terror, pushing back across the seats to reach for his guitar case like it's his child.
"One."
"Oh, god." The gypsy reaches down and laces his fingers through the handle, pressing the tips of his boots into the tile.
"Two."
"Maybe we can just talk to him. He doesn't seem t--"
"Three."
"Oh, god." The gypsy launches himself at the door without thinking about it, his heart pounding in his chest as his shoulder impacts the door and it opens. Fernando jumps over the seats and, against all reason, toward the police desk. Estelle raises her eyebrows at him, her painted mouth opening to say something but when she sees the look in Fernando's eyes she stops.
"Oh, you better not. Ooooh, boy! You better not!"
Fernando leans down over the counter and snatches the bag of his jewelry from in front of her with his teeth, giving her a shit-eating grin around the plastic before he's gone, flying over the chairs again and bursting through both sets of double doors, grabbed almost immediately by the gypsy who is shaking hard. The sudden hands on him make Fernando jump and he screams so girlishly that he actually blushes, dropping the bag on the ground which Sergio picks up and shoves into his pocket.
"Goddamnit, don't fuckin' do that to me! Come on, hurry up!" Commotion suddenly sounds from inside the building and they bolt away from the station, the boy's guitar case swaying in his clenched fist. They head for dumpsters and a small gathering of scraggly trees, darting through them until they're convinced no one is behind them. They slow to a jog, completely out of breath by the time they reach the end and find themselves in the parkinglot of a shady gas station. They stop and try to catch their breath, tucking close against the grey cement building.
"Go... shit." Fernando pants, wheezes, coughs. Fuckin' cigarettes. "Go call someone. You know somebody that can get us outta here?"
The boy stares at him in disbelief.
"Well. I... yeah, I mean, I know someone who... but. He won't be happy about this. At all."
"Go call him, you can offer him sexual favors later."
"B... but--"
"HURRY UP. They probably have the entire squad out lookin' for our asses!"
The gypsy dashes toward the phone, still shaky as he digs around in his pockets, not coming up with any change at all.
"In my front right pocket. Got a few quarters. Hurry!"
He reaches down into Fernando's front pocket and wiggles his fingers until he can latch onto a few coins. He pulls them out and pushes them into the slot. The dialtone sounds in the his ear and he nervously dials a phone number. He closes his eyes when he hears a voice.
"...Iker?"
"Sergio? Are you okay? Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm alright." He licks his lips, opening his eyes and finding Fernando's eyes on him, wide and hopeful like Sergio's reading lottery numbers. He closes his eyes again. "Listen, um. You know that gas station across from Wal-Mart? The one Cowboy Bob worked at last summer?"
"The one next to the police station?"
Sergio's stomach flips.
"...Yeah. Can you come pick me up? Please?"
Iker's pause is barely detectable.
"I'll be right there."
Sergio lets out a breath of relief and they both hang up without another word. Fernando nudges Sergio with his shoulder and nods toward the hidden side of the building. Sergio follows because he has no choice. They sink down to the concrete and let out simultaneous sighs. Fernando pushes his hips up, offering his pockets again.
"You wanna cigarette?"
Sergio just stares at him.
--
Iker finds the gas station easily enough, his radio off, trying to keep the sentence he'd abandoned at home in his head so he could get right back into his paper when he returned. He rolls to a stop and peers around, worrying immediately when he doesn't see Sergio. He squints and wrinkles his nose to edge his glasses up higher on it. He jumps when the backdoor of his Volvo suddenly flies open and a dirty, unruly blonde mohawk appears and then immediately disappears down into the floorboard. Sergio follows, appearing as if by magic (like he usually does), carefully setting his guitar case in the seat and then sinking in, minding Fernando at his feet. He looks up at Iker and his eyes are absolutely massive with apology. Iker shoots up to crane around and look down in the floor of the backseat, gasping when he sees the blonde's wrists trapped in a knot of handcuffs. He looks back at Sergio in horror.
"Who the fuck is that?!"
Fernando shoves his head up and meets Iker face-to-face, undaunted by the fury in his eyes.
"FUCKIN' DRIVE."
Iker stammers and huffs and finally turns back around, shoving his car down into reverse and backing up, glaring into his rearview mirror.
"Son of a bitch motherfucker! Fucking criminal in my car, shit, what the fuck have I gotten into? What the fuck is going on!?"
Fernando scowls up at Sergio.
"Is he gonna be this mouthy all the time?"
chapter two.
Part: 1/29 (here we go again!)
Pairings: none yet, but as far as characters we have Fernando Torres, Sergio Ramos, and Iker Casillas
Rating: R for language right now
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
soundtrack.
"Fuck you!"
"Just fuckin' sit still and shut yer trap, you little queer. I don't wanna hear another goddamn peep out of you 'til we get to the station."
Fernando scowls to himself, his pretty little mouth in a tiny line. He sniffs loudly, curling down to wipe some of the white powder that was still under his nose.
"Peep."
The cop slams on the break so fast that Fernando goes flying into the floorboard, his legs in a ridiculous sprawl, feet against the window. He kicks at it hard while the cop is distracted by his yowling.
"You fuckin' asshole! You just broke my arms!"
"Get up, you little shit! No more disappearin' acts outta you. I'm sick of your games. You think it's funny that you snorted coke offa the hood of my car? You think it's okay?! You think you're gonna get away with this?!"
"YOU DARED ME TO DO IT."
"What, you gotta do everything someone tells you to? You don't have a mind of your own? I'm saving you, you little fucker. You'll be thankin' me for this when you're outta rehab."
Fernando growls again, slamming his feet over and over against the window. They come to a rough stop in front of the police station and the cop is out of the car in a flash, yanking the back door open and ripping Fernando up out of the floorboard. He jerks against him and earns a shove into the door of the station.
"Why you got me double cuffed anyway?"
"You don't think I learned my fuckin' lesson last month when you shimmied out of those cuffs like a fuckin' whore in a miniskirt? I'll break your wrists 'f you try that again."
Fernando sighs as he's shoved against the wall inside the station and patted down roughly but thoroughly. He wriggles against his hands and wrinkles his nose.
"Ugh, you better not be getting hard over this. You better pay me first."
The cop sneers and grabs him by the scruff of his collar, spinning him around.
"Take off your jewelry, fag."
"You already know what I'm gonna say."
"I'll rip it out, don't try me, kid!"
"I just got my lip done last week! It'll grow up!"
"You don't need that shit in your face anyway. Gross little punk." Fernando tries to fight as the cop shoves a hand in his mouth and unscrews the stud in his lip, giving a sharp cry of pain when he yanks it out of the still tender wound. He bites down on his finger and the cop slaps his face.
"Shit! Police brutality!" He turns toward the innermost part of the station through the next set of double doors, his voice growing shrill in fake panic. "POLICE BRUTALITY."
"You're lucky I'm one-a the nice ones. The rest of 'em would beat yer fuckin' face in. Get that shit out of your cheeks! Now!"
"I'M CUFFED, GENIUS."
"I swear to Christ, I'm gonna--" The cop cuts himself off and growls up into Fernando's face, the disgust in it so strong that Fernando actually winces, long, skinny fingers tangling together at his back. He still fights as the cop shoves his meaty fingers into his mouth and unscrews his dimple piercings, collecting each piece of steel in his calloused palm. Fernando frowns at him fully now, licking angrily at the inside of his mouth.
"I ain't scared of you."
"Good. You haven't met Rodney yet." The cop goes about taking off the rest of Fernando's jewelry, pulling off chain after chain and spiked cuffs and worn pieces of leather until he looks rather naked and quite upset. The cop smiles, satisfied that he'd stripped him of his vanity. "You got anymore piercings I don't know about?"
Fernando absolutely grins.
"Why, you wanna see my hot young cock, officer?"
The cop steps up until he's face-to-face with Fernando and he shoves his finger hard against one of his freckled cheeks. He's shaking with hatred.
"I'm gonna put you in a cell with the guy that sends pretty boys like you to the infirmary. He'll rip your ass apart."
"Mm. Just my type."
The cop reaches up and grabs Fernando by his mohawk, pulling him down and shoving him through the final doors that led into the busy station. Everyday was busy in Camden, New Jersey.
"You sit the fuck down and lay low until Estelle can get to you. You'd better not move or you're gonna be our new punching bag." He throws Fernando down into a hard plastic chair, giving his thin chest a shove for emphasis before stalking away. Fernando slumps back in the chair, pouting to the fullest extent that his mouth can allow (which is quite a lot), his legs sprawled out. He taps his boots annoyingly on the dingy tile, staring down at them with blank eyes, watching his ratty laces tiptaptip on the floor, the soles of his shoes flap where they're falling apart. He glances around to make sure he's annoying at least someone and when he looks to the right, his eyes catch and stick on a long, curled figure. He sits up immediately, his skin jittery with curiosity. When the boy looks over at him, he looks away immediately, his face falling dull with disinterest. He counts to ten under his breath and looks back over, startled when those huge dark eyes are still on him. He ruffles for the attention, faking a scowl as he sits up, throwing one ankle up onto his knee. The boy looks away politely and Fernando takes the chance to look him over.
He's almost as tall as Fernando himself, if not exactly the same height. He's all sinew and exaggerated features, eyes too big, nose too hooked, mouth too full. His hair is tortured with thick and thin dreaded strands, nested, gutter-brown dreadlocks tumbling down over his softly squared shoulders. Thin strips of fabric are tied into the jungle of his hair, some ended with dirty coins. He's dressed in layers upon layers, more layers than even Fernando is wearing, he notices in grudging respect, dark layers that are dusty with time, with stubborn wear, that are tied back together where they're ripped, that are covering maybe another shirt underneath that is too full of holes to wear alone. His feet are covered in chelsea boots, ones maybe worn by John Lennon himself once, if their appearance told their age correctly. He looked every bit the part of a tramp, of a gutter-gaunt gypsy, right down to the curled almonds of his eyes and the dusky honey of his skin and the belt of coins around his tapered waist. Fernando is unabashedly staring when those eyes find him again. He tries to push brightness into his own eyes to keep his gaze but the boy looks away almost shyly. Fernando watches him wrap an arm around a beat-up guitar case beside him and he makes his decision immediately.
"Psst."
He licks his lips, eyes darting back and forth furtively to make sure they aren't been watched. When the boy doesn't look over on his hissed command, he clears his throat obviously and tries again.
"Psst."
Fernando watches his shoulders tense and then there are those eyes again. He locks his gaze and tries to nod him over.
"C'mere."
The gypsy looks behind him just like in the movies and then looks back at Fernando, his eyes wide with incredulity. He lifts his long, tanned hand from his guitar and touches his own chest with it.
"...Me?"
"Yes, you! Who the fuck else would I be--" Fernando stops, takes a deep breath, tries again. "Come here."
The boy pauses, clearly hesitant and going against his instincts but he scoots over the couple of seats separating him from Fernando. He looks over at him expectantly, eyebrows arched and expressive. He's almost pretty. Fernando thinks, anyway. But he's high, so he makes a mental note to consider it later.
"Help me get these cuffs off."
He turns his back to the boy and shows him the two pairs of handcuffs crossed and twisted over each other on his bony wrists. The boy's eyes widen and he gasps softly.
"Why are there two pairs?"
"Because. The fucker knows I can get out of just one. C'mon, hurry up. Rodney's on his way and he does not like me."
"Who's Rodney?"
Fernando shakes his arms frantically and the boy reaches down and runs his fingers over Fernando's wrists and the cold steel of the cuffs. He glances up nervously at Fernando's back.
"Um. How?"
Fernando growls impatiently.
"You don't have a fuckin' bobby pin on you or somethin'?! Or a... I don't know. What ever it is you people carry around."
The boy's hands leave Fernando.
"'You people'?"
"You fuckin' gypsies!"
The boy's face lights up with a smile.
"You can tell I'm a gypsy?"
"Can't we talk about this later?! Oh. Shit." Fernando freezes when he sees Rodney's large frame lumbering down the hallway toward them. He wriggles and tries to shove his hands through the cuffs, whimpering when it only pushed the bones of his wrists apart. "Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit."
"What? What is it?" The boy looks up and spies the man immediately. Fernando can hear him suck in a sharp breath. "Is... is that Rodney?"
"On the count of three, you fuckin' book it to the door. Ready?"
"Wait, no! What?" He looks up at Fernando in terror, pushing back across the seats to reach for his guitar case like it's his child.
"One."
"Oh, god." The gypsy reaches down and laces his fingers through the handle, pressing the tips of his boots into the tile.
"Two."
"Maybe we can just talk to him. He doesn't seem t--"
"Three."
"Oh, god." The gypsy launches himself at the door without thinking about it, his heart pounding in his chest as his shoulder impacts the door and it opens. Fernando jumps over the seats and, against all reason, toward the police desk. Estelle raises her eyebrows at him, her painted mouth opening to say something but when she sees the look in Fernando's eyes she stops.
"Oh, you better not. Ooooh, boy! You better not!"
Fernando leans down over the counter and snatches the bag of his jewelry from in front of her with his teeth, giving her a shit-eating grin around the plastic before he's gone, flying over the chairs again and bursting through both sets of double doors, grabbed almost immediately by the gypsy who is shaking hard. The sudden hands on him make Fernando jump and he screams so girlishly that he actually blushes, dropping the bag on the ground which Sergio picks up and shoves into his pocket.
"Goddamnit, don't fuckin' do that to me! Come on, hurry up!" Commotion suddenly sounds from inside the building and they bolt away from the station, the boy's guitar case swaying in his clenched fist. They head for dumpsters and a small gathering of scraggly trees, darting through them until they're convinced no one is behind them. They slow to a jog, completely out of breath by the time they reach the end and find themselves in the parkinglot of a shady gas station. They stop and try to catch their breath, tucking close against the grey cement building.
"Go... shit." Fernando pants, wheezes, coughs. Fuckin' cigarettes. "Go call someone. You know somebody that can get us outta here?"
The boy stares at him in disbelief.
"Well. I... yeah, I mean, I know someone who... but. He won't be happy about this. At all."
"Go call him, you can offer him sexual favors later."
"B... but--"
"HURRY UP. They probably have the entire squad out lookin' for our asses!"
The gypsy dashes toward the phone, still shaky as he digs around in his pockets, not coming up with any change at all.
"In my front right pocket. Got a few quarters. Hurry!"
He reaches down into Fernando's front pocket and wiggles his fingers until he can latch onto a few coins. He pulls them out and pushes them into the slot. The dialtone sounds in the his ear and he nervously dials a phone number. He closes his eyes when he hears a voice.
"...Iker?"
"Sergio? Are you okay? Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm alright." He licks his lips, opening his eyes and finding Fernando's eyes on him, wide and hopeful like Sergio's reading lottery numbers. He closes his eyes again. "Listen, um. You know that gas station across from Wal-Mart? The one Cowboy Bob worked at last summer?"
"The one next to the police station?"
Sergio's stomach flips.
"...Yeah. Can you come pick me up? Please?"
Iker's pause is barely detectable.
"I'll be right there."
Sergio lets out a breath of relief and they both hang up without another word. Fernando nudges Sergio with his shoulder and nods toward the hidden side of the building. Sergio follows because he has no choice. They sink down to the concrete and let out simultaneous sighs. Fernando pushes his hips up, offering his pockets again.
"You wanna cigarette?"
Sergio just stares at him.
--
Iker finds the gas station easily enough, his radio off, trying to keep the sentence he'd abandoned at home in his head so he could get right back into his paper when he returned. He rolls to a stop and peers around, worrying immediately when he doesn't see Sergio. He squints and wrinkles his nose to edge his glasses up higher on it. He jumps when the backdoor of his Volvo suddenly flies open and a dirty, unruly blonde mohawk appears and then immediately disappears down into the floorboard. Sergio follows, appearing as if by magic (like he usually does), carefully setting his guitar case in the seat and then sinking in, minding Fernando at his feet. He looks up at Iker and his eyes are absolutely massive with apology. Iker shoots up to crane around and look down in the floor of the backseat, gasping when he sees the blonde's wrists trapped in a knot of handcuffs. He looks back at Sergio in horror.
"Who the fuck is that?!"
Fernando shoves his head up and meets Iker face-to-face, undaunted by the fury in his eyes.
"FUCKIN' DRIVE."
Iker stammers and huffs and finally turns back around, shoving his car down into reverse and backing up, glaring into his rearview mirror.
"Son of a bitch motherfucker! Fucking criminal in my car, shit, what the fuck have I gotten into? What the fuck is going on!?"
Fernando scowls up at Sergio.
"Is he gonna be this mouthy all the time?"
chapter two.