Chapter Text
“I’m clocking out now,” Aiden says into his phone, trying to keep his volume down to keep from annoying his coworkers who’re trying to eat in peace. “I’m going to change and then head over if you’re still sure it’s okay?” he says as he waves goodbye to the others.
“I wouldn’t have invited you if it wasn’t okay,” Lambert’s voice crackles through the speakers, “unless you don’t want to go.”
Aiden doesn’t like the hesitation- the barely concealed hurt- in his words.
“Of course I want to go- I want to meet all of your family, even your supposed ridiculously old-fashioned father,” he says quickly — assuredly. “I just wanted to make sure you still wanted me there,” he murmurs.
“If I ever say that I don’t want you- in any capacity- then I want you to call for an ambulance, because I must be having a fuckin’ stroke.”
He has to press his hand over his mouth to keep from cackling too-loud in the middle of a too-quiet hallway. Aiden must not be as quiet as he’d hoped, because he can hear snorting laughter in his ear and feel the judgmental stares of multiple onlookers.
“I hope you know that you’re making me look like a total asshole right now,” Aiden says as he sidesteps someone from the lab pushing a cart full of needles and tourniquets and bright color-topped vials. “I do appreciate the sentiment though,” he hums as he makes his way into the closest restroom.
He puts the phone on speaker as he locks himself in a stall, setting it down on the top of the toilet paper dispenser where it won’t fall. Aiden hangs his bag on the thin, metal hook and digs for his fresh change of clothes.
“I think you made yourself look like an asshole, but I guess I can take some of the credit,” Lambert huffs and it sends a burst of what sounds like static through the phone speakers.
“I think you could at least take half of the credit,” Aiden argues as he unclips his badge, tossing it in his bag before stripping out of his scrubs. He’s careful to step onto his scrubs when he kicks off his sneakers, his nose wrinkling at the sight if the dirty floor.
“If that’s what makes you happy, sure,” Lambert agrees. It’s silent for a beat too long and he frowns, glancing at his phone. “Whatcha wearing?” he asks, voice deep and low and Aiden laughs. Loudly.
“You’re such a bastard,” Aiden says after he catches his breath, wiping away the tears that had welled in the corners of his eyes. “I’m in my damn boxers,” he huffs as he grabs his leggings, wiggling them over his hips, “the purple ones.”
“I’m your bastard,” Lambert corrects immediately, and Aiden rolls his eyes at the man’s cushy tone. “Are they the plum-purple ones or the lavender-purple ones?” he asks, and Aiden can feel his cheeks heat-up at the notion that Lambert pays enough attention to his underwear that he knows what colors he has in his drawers.
Damn this lovable bastard.
“I don’t know why it matters,” Aiden huffs as he grabs his sweater, “but it’s the plum-purple pair.”
The speaker hisses and Aiden bites his lip to tamper down his grin, trying to imagine what Lambert looks like right now. Maybe he also stares at the phone as though if he looks hard enough, he’ll catch a glimpse of him.
“Fuck,” Lambert says eloquently, “that pair hugs your ass just right.”
The door opens and closes with a creak. Footsteps squeak against the floor where water has been trailed from the sinks and slung across the tile. The stall beside him opens and closes with a bang, and Aiden suddenly feels as though he needs to hurry up and get out of here while his dignity is still intact.
“Lambert, I’ve got to go,” Aiden says, lowering his voice a bit.
“The heart wants what it wants,” Lambert laments as though he hadn’t heard him, “and what this heart wants is you, your plum-purple boxers, and my fucking bed.”
“Lambert, I will hang up right now,” Aiden hisses and to his dismay, hears muffled laughter from the neighboring stall. His face burns as he stuffs his feet into his boots.
“Is someone embarrassed?”
“Someone isn’t alone, so embarrassed is just one of the many things that I’m currently feeling,” Aiden grits out from between clenched teeth, and he withers at the sound of a snort of laughter beside him.
“Oops,” Lambert says, but he doesn’t sound very sorry, “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“I’m sure you will,” Aiden says with a sigh, but he isn’t really upset. Just a bit exasperated. “Can you send me the address again?” he asks, “I just want to make sure that I go to the right place.”
His father lives well outside of town, down winding and twisted roads surrounded by woods and dilapidated structures that were once well-loved homes and farms. He has it on good authority that he does not want to go down the wrong driveway. Aiden doesn’t like being anxious- no one does, really- and Lambert’s flippant way of explaining the importance of noticing a ‘No Trespassing’ sign rattled him. Now he’s not just nervous about meeting his boyfriend’s entire family, but about trying to make it there in one piece.
“Sure,” Lambert says, and he can distinctly hear the sound of fingers pressing too close to the speakers. “My service is shit here, so let me know when it comes through,” he murmurs as he taps on the screen.
“Thanks babe,” Aiden puts emphasis on that term, and he gets to laugh now at the choked-out noise Lambert makes. “Should I bring anything?” he asks absentmindedly as he stuff his dirtied clothes into the depths of his bag.
“Just your fine self, honey,” Lambert teases back.
“Are you sure?” Aiden asks a bit more seriously.
“I’m positive,” Lambert states firmly.
“Are you positive-positive?” Aiden asks again, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Aiden- yes, I’m positive-positive,” Lambert says, and now he sounds a bit exasperated. “It’s going to be fine,” he assures him.
“Just fine doesn’t sound good, Lambert,” Aiden huffs as he stalks his way out of the restroom, the tips of his ears burning at the bellowing laughter that echoes behind him as soon as the door shuts.
He takes the phone off of speaker, bringing it back up to his ear. Aiden waves goodbye to the security sitting behind the front-desks, flashing a quick smile as he heads out through the sliding doors of the main entrance.
“I know you’re nervous, but you really don’t need to be,” Lambert sighs into his ear, “I promise you that my dad’s going to love you.”
“I can’t help it,” Aiden says- whines - as he begins making his way down the sidewalk. “What if he doesn’t like me?” he asks hesitantly, scuffing the toe of his boot across the concrete.
“I know you can’t,” Lambert murmurs, and it soothes the part of Aiden’s brain that’s telling him he’s being ridiculously irrational and difficult. “Even if he doesn’t like you- which, again, is not even within the realm of possibility- it isn’t going to change anything, okay?” he says patiently- firmly. “He’s my dad, and I love him… but he doesn’t dictate what I do with my life or who I have in my life,” he says slowly, weighing each word on tongue, “so it doesn’t matter what he likes or doesn’t, because what matters is that I do.”
He hadn’t even noticed that he’d slowed his pace, not until he comes to a stop in the middle of the walkway and his shoulder is knocked into hard.
Aiden stumbles, but it isn’t because of the harsh shove. It’s because his mind is running Lambert’s words on repeat. His eyes sting and he has to cover his nose with the back of his hand to silence the wet sniffle that comes when he inhales deeply.
“ Damnit ,” he whispers and pretends that it isn’t wobbly and thick with unshed tears.
Lambert is many things. He’s only known him for a couple of months- some could argue that isn’t much time at all in the grand scheme of things- but he’s learned a lot about him in that short amount of time. He knows that he likes his steak well-done and that his favorite color is green. He knows that he likes to read, but only if it’s science-fiction.
Aiden also knows that, more than anything, Lambert loves his family.
He was raised on frustration and anger. Lambert was too, in the beginning, but then he found Vesemir — or rather, Vesemir found him. Aiden remembers lying in bed, tracing the pad of his finger gently over a purple, raised scar on Lambert’s arm. It was from a broken bottle, he had said. It was from his father; that went unspoken.
Vesemir saw a bleeding boy made out of steel and took him in. He gave him a home when his own was full of pain and nightmares. He have him two brothers and a chance. His family means everything to him — a concept that is wholly unfamiliar to Aiden.
It’s foreign- alien- to him, but he isn’t an idiot. He knows that it would probably break Lambert’s heart if his father didn’t like him, and that’s what ties his stomach into knots. He’s not stupid. Aiden knows the depths of what Lambert’s just said to him. He understands that it isn’t just their relationship on the line.
“Okay,” he says, but his voice is weak and his words come out as a whisper, “okay, Lambert , thank you.”
He’s lucky. He knows he is. He’s never met someone like Lambert. Someone so willing to put others before himself, even if it could hurt him. Aiden knows all of this. Because he knows this, he also knows that he will not let Lambert lose what he loves- what he values- most in this world. His family.
Aiden wouldn’t be able to forgive himself, not for that.
“There’s no need to thank me,” Lambert says gently, but there’s a strange lilt to his words, “but if you really wanna thank me, let me take those plum-purple boxers off later and give you a great time tonight.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Aiden snorts, laughing away the ache that had begun to take root in his chest, “but I suppose that can be arranged, you incorrigible brute.”
The whooping cheer on the other side of the line makes him shake his head, grinning all the while.
“You love me,” Lambert teases, and Aiden can’t find the argument there.
“Yeah, yeah,” Aiden scoffs. He flinches as a heavy, wet droplet lands on his cheek, and he reflexively tilts his head back to look at the grey clouds that loom ominously above him. He picks up his pace, hurrying to hide himself away inside the safety of the parking garage before the rain has a chance to truly begin to come down.
“Why’re you breathing so hard?” Lambert asks, and it’s so quiet that Aiden figures it was more-so a slip of the tongue.
“It’s starting to rain and I don’t want to get soaked,” Aiden huffs into the phone as he runs his hand through his hair, shaking the water out of it. “Is it raining there?” he asks as he shifts his keys into his hand.
“Mhm,” Lambert sighs, but he sounds far away. The phone’s likely on speaker. “It looks like a storm’s headed our way,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a colorful curse.
Aiden grunts a miserable sort of sound and rolls his eyes at the chuckles on the other end of the line.
He’s never been one to use the word hate lightly, but he hates driving in the rain. It isn’t that he can’t do it, he just gets nervous — unsettled, especially when the rain smacks into the asphalt so hard that white and yellow lines disappear and windshield wipers can’t seem to keep up with the downpour.
It’s unsafe and he despises it, but it’s a necessary evil.
“Are you good to drive?” Lambert asks, because they’ve had this discussion before.
“I’ll be fine,” Aiden assures him, “I just might have to drive like a little old lady.”
Because they’ve had this talk before, he already knows what Lambert’s going to say. As long as you’re safe, I don’t give a shit what you do. He’s, admittedly, been late to several dates due to his aversion to driving when it rains, but Lambert never once held it against him.
He understood, never questioned it, and didn’t ask him to change his surely frustrating habit.
“Your text went through,” Aiden says as his phone chimes. He unlocks his car and practically throws his door open, tossing his bag haphazardly into the passengers seat. Aiden plops into the driver’s seat and closes the door behind him, locking it as he starts the car.
“How long does it says it’ll take?” Lambert asks, except now his voice comes out through his car’s speakers. He copies and pastes the address into one of the many apps on his phone, and finds himself cursing internally.
“An hour-and-a-half, not counting how slow the roads are going to be with this weather,” Aiden sighs as he buckles himself in.
“If it gets too bad, just pull over and wait it out, okay?” Lambert’s voice has a lilt to it that makes it almost sound like he’s asking, but he’s really just telling him. It makes Aiden smile.
“Yes, mom,” Aiden teases as he puts the car in reverse, backing carefully out of his spot. “I’ve only been driving since I was sixteen,” he points out offhandedly.
“I know, I know,” Lambert grunts, “can you really blame me for wanting to make sure that you make it here in one piece?”
No… no, he can’t.
“I’ll be safe, I promise,” Aiden swears and it comes as easy to him as breathing does. He grimaces at the high-pitched voice of the GPS telling him to go. He hadn’t realized he’d pressed his foot firmly against the break, sitting still from where he’d backed up.
Aiden listens to the innocuous sounds of Lambert moving around. He can almost pretend that he’s there, with him, watching him. It’s almost soothing as he drives out from under the relative safety of the parking garage. He flicks on his wipers and narrows his eyes as water streaks down his windshield.
“Is everyone else already there?” Aiden asks idly, relaxing as much as he can in his seat with his two hands on the steering wheel.
“Nah,” Lambert grumbles, “these bastards wouldn’t know what being ‘on time’ means if it slapped them in the face… they just show up when they show up.”
“Who all did you say was going to be there?” He asks as he follows the outlined path. “I know you said your brothers,” he starts, trailing off into uncertainty.
“Yeah, Dumb and Dumber, of course,” Lambert laughs and it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out that he’s talking about Geralt and Eskel. “I’m sure Eskel will be bringing his ‘friend’ Letho,” he says, because he suspects that there is more than a mere friendship going on between the two. That means that Aiden is still the only one privy to the fact that they’re much more than friends — newly married. “Where Geralt goes, Jaskier goes, and Geralt doesn’t go anywhere without his spawn,” he continues as though calling a child someone’s spawn was a normal thing to do.
“Your father normally stays there by himself?” Aiden wheedles a bit in an attempt to find out a bit more about the man before he meets him.
“Yeah… he says it doesn’t bother him, but I don’t know,” Lambert trails off, and Aiden can understand his concern to a certain degree.
The man raised not one- not two- but three sons. His home was likely full of footsteps beating across the floor and rough-housing and milestones. A house full of life and love. To have it suddenly void of such things would be difficult to handle, to say the least.
“I don’t know your father, but I have the feeling that he’s the kind of man who speaks his mind,” Aiden says with a considering hum, “is he the one who proposed the idea of these get-togethers?”
“If ‘speaks his mind’ is a synonym for being an asshole, you’re not wrong,” Lambert says with a hum of his own, “but he was the one who brought them up originally.”
“Maybe that’s enough for him?” Aiden suggests with a shrug that Lambert cannot see. “There’s no doubt that he loves all of you and wants to see you more, but maybe this keeps him content?”
“Maybe,” Lambert sighs. “Why d’you have to make so much sense?”
“It comes with lots of practice,” Aiden says solemnly, which has the intended effect of making Lambert laugh what can only be a full-bellied laugh.
As he drives, he’s lulled into a comfortable quiet. He listens to the wind blow, pelting the rain against his car with soft smacking noises. Aiden listens to Lambert as he rambled about anything and everything. It’s calm inside of the car while the outside world is swallowed by the storm.
He hums when the conversation allows it, chuckling when it calls for it. Lambert rambles, really, to make up for the silence. He talks about how Eskel drives a ‘mom van’ and Geralt drives like he doesn’t have a child-and-a-half in the car. He talks about how if you ask his father, they didn’t grow up on a farm, but the rest swear that they did. Apparently chickens and goats were a staple of the Morhen household.
“I remember when Geralt brought home a kitten,” Lambert says softly. “He didn’t want Vesemir to know, because he knew he wouldn’t let him keep it,” he explains, “he hid it in our room for three days before he finally got caught.”
“How’d he get caught?” Aiden asks as he takes a right down a road that doesn’t quite look as though it should be one.
“I think Vesemir knew all along,” Lambert admits. “He swears, though, that it was the smell of cat piss that did it,” he cackles, “we were just boys and we didn’t know what the hell a litter-box was.”
Aiden snorts so hard that it burns his nose a bit.
“Did Geralt get to keep the cat?” Aiden asks the important question.
“Of course he did,” Lambert says with an accompanying eye-roll. “The damn thing became our own barn cat,” he sighs, “the amount of dead moles and snakes left on our doorstep was astounding.”
He can only imagine, and he tells him so. He never had any pets growing up, and he never had the pleasure of finding any to sneak home.
Aiden is reminded, once again, of how differently they grew up.
Recalculating… Recalculating…
He curses under his breath as the GPS decides that now is the time to act out. Aiden must be louder than he thinks he is, though, because Lambert is quick to ask him what’s wrong.
Aiden wonders, idly, if it’s a combination of the weather, shoddy service, and being in what looks like the middle of nowhere. He relays his thoughts to Lambert, and frowns as he’s met with complete silence.
Beep- beep- beep.
His lips part in shock as the call disconnects, his phone switching into SOS mode as his car begins to play the last song he’d been listening to. Strange Days drifts out of his speakers, and he curses a bit more violently as his fingers drum against his steering wheel. He’s got no clue whatsoever where he is.
“Fuck,” he says emphatically as he channels his inner-Lambert.
He’s got a road map in his glovebox, somewhere beneath all of the fast-food napkins and straws he’s hoarded over time. Aiden can’t exactly use it, not while trying to navigate in the rain. He needs to find somewhere to pull over.
Aiden doesn’t pay attention to how long he drives — he just drives, searching for somewhere safe to stop. Common sense rules over him, keeping him from pulling over on a two-lane country road.
He never thought he’d be so happy to see the bright, illuminated sign of a gas station.
It’s second nature to flick on his turn signal, the green arrow pointing left on his dash. He starts breaking gently, all-too aware of the water that covers the rough, pot-hole laden asphalt. He breaks, only, the car doesn’t slow down.
His hands tighten on the wheel, and it all happens very quickly after that.
“Strange days have found us…”
The speakers continue to play as his car comes to an abrupt stop. He’s thrown forward, the seatbelt catching him in a painful hug. His hands are still clutching at the steering wheel.
A glance in his rearview mirror shows a car behind his own, the entire front dented in while their headlights shine into his eyes. His hands shake as he pushes the hair out of his eyes, grabbing onto the handle as he pushes his door open. He tries to get out before remembering that he’s buckled in, so he unbuckles as fast as he can, noting worriedly that the driver in the other car has yet to move to exit their own vehicle.
His boots squelch in the muddied grass, and he nearly slips, having to catch himself against the roof of his car. Aiden stumbles on legs that wobble like a newborn calf’s. He hurries to the other car, watching their window- as cracked and splintered as it is- roll down slowly.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice quiet in his own ears as a loud ringing sound overwhelms him.
“Yeah- yeah, I’m okay,” the woman mutters. “My arm hurts,” she says after a moment, and Aiden pushes the airbag off of her, exposing the arm.
He schools his face into something calm, but he winces inwardly at the large contusion on the middle of her forearm. It’s spotted red with blood and he wonders if it’s a direct result of the force of the airbag going off. He doesn’t say any of this, though.
“Other than your arm, are you feeling alright?” Aiden asks.
“Yeah,” she says with a frown, tapping away at her phone.
He can feel a frown pulling at his own face, but he doesn’t say anything. Aiden steps slowly back to his car. The entire rear-end of his car is crushed inwards, and he sighs at the idea that all of the randomness stuffed back there is probably going to end up tossed in the trash. The side of his car is dented in, and he catches sight of a couple of signs knocked over and pressed into the wet ground.
The front bumper is kissing the base of a large oak tree, and he’s insanely grateful for his seatbelt. Bright red and blue lights catch his attention as a police car pulls up behind them.
“Is everyone okay?” the policeman asks. Aiden nods, but the woman quickly changes her mind. Her arm is increasingly painful, and he wonders now if perhaps her arm’s fractured in some way. “Would either of you like an ambulance?” he asks, but both shake their heads no.
Aiden doesn’t want an ambulance, nor does he wish to pay for one.
Things move slowly now.
The policeman tells him that he works with the county and happened to be passing by. He also informs him that the state police need to be called. It’s their jurisdiction, apparently. While the man makes the necessary calls, Aiden crawls back into his drivers seat. His knees, soaking wet, dig into the cloth as he digs around for his license, registration, and proof of insurance.
It’s the one thing that television gets right, he thinks, as he hands it over to the policeman. The man had introduced himself, but Aiden already can’t remember it. His mind is muddled and in a thousand other places right now. He’s not about to ask him again.
He sits sideways in his seat, his legs planted firmly against the ground. Aiden’s temple presses against the headrest, his eyes downcast as he watches the rain pelt his leggings. Water droplets trickle slowly down the brown leather of his boots.
“Can you describe to me, in your own words, what took place?” the state trooper asks, and Aiden startles. He hadn’t realized that the man arrived, but a quick glance shows a second black-and-white vehicle with flashing lights.
Aiden tells him in short, clipped sentences. He was looking for somewhere to pull over. He saw the gas station ahead and turned on his turn signal. He started to slow down, when the car behind him plowed into him. His car was pushed across the road, through the ditch, and into the tree-line.
The state trooper doesn’t give any indication that he heard him at all. He just hands him a clipboard and a pen, telling him to write a statement that details what just occurred.
Of course the pen doesn’t work, because why would it?
He curses under his breath in frustration, searching through his center console for a pen that actually works. Aiden is, for once, grateful for his habit of hoarding pens. He writes as legibly as he can, despite his trembling hands. His name, the date, the time of the accident? How is he supposed to know? He can feel a headache coming on as he works on filling out the form.
“Why today?” Aiden mutters under his breath, “of all the fucking days, why today?”
His frustration is mounting, as he hands the trooper the clipboard, tossing his pen back in the car. The rain is coming down harder now. They have him turn the car on. He has to prove his turn signals work — the left and then the right. He has to prove that his break-lights work too.
He can only nod along as they tell him that the other driver is at fault. He could’ve told them that, he thinks.
“Are you sure you don’t want an ambulance?” the first policeman asks, a concerned furrow between his brows, “I’d feel much better if you got your neck looked at.”
Aiden… well, he doesn’t know what the man is talking about.
“I’m sure… I’m a nurse,” he says instead, which is apparently good enough for him. His frown smooths out and he gives the barest of smiles.
His neck and shoulders twinge with discomfort as he lifts his arms to his sun-visor. Aiden pulls it down and squints into the small mirror. His heart pounds in his chest and his ribcage feels too-tight as he stares at the long, bruising cut that goes across his throat and neck and down his collarbone. He prods at it with cautious fingers, wincing at the flare of pain. It’s from the seatbelt.
Aiden slumps back against the seat as the trooper tells him that his car isn’t going anywhere. He can’t tell him if it’s totaled or not, but what he can tell him is that it isn’t road-safe now. The car’s going to be towed to the collision center, and that’s that. He barely has enough time to gather his things from where they’d been thrown in the accident before the tow-truck pulls in.
All he has is his bag and his phone, and he can feel his eyes burning with tears. But who cares if he cries? They won’t be able to tell a tear from the rain that pours over him, soaking him right down to the bone.
He inhales deeply and tries to exhale as slowly as he can, but it stutters in his chest and comes out as a broken sob. With vision blurred from unshed tears, he glances down at his phone, forcing the tears that welled to finally spill over. His phone is useless, as SOS mocks him from the upper right-hand corner of the screen.
“Damnit,” he hisses, pressing is palms against his eyelids until he sees dancing spots of white. He’s fucked. Truly, and utterly fucked. “It’s fine- this is fine,” he mumbles to himself, turning on his heel and walking stiltedly towards the gas station.
The age of pay-phones might be over, but he knows that even run down gas stations have a landline. It’s just a matter of convincing them to let him use it.
Aiden reaches the front of the building, tucking himself beneath the overhang. A flash of lightning and the deep, growling rumbles of thunder doesn’t exactly bode well for him. His hands- still trembling- reach for the door, but it’s pushed open before he has a chance to take ahold of it.
“Excuse me,” he says quietly, shifting to the side to better hold the door open for the older man who juggles several shopping bags in his arms. “Can I help you?” Aiden asks after a moment, not particularly enjoying watching him struggle to dig out his keys while holding far-too-many bags.
“If you don’t mind,” the man grumbles, but Aiden doesn’t think that he sounds offended or upset. He wonders if that’s just how the man sounds.
Aiden takes the majority of the bags into his own arms, ignoring the flare of pain that rockets sharply down his spine. He follows him like a lost child, all the way across the parking lot where an old truck sits. The rain doesn’t seem to bother the old man, who had the wherewithal to get a rain jacket and made sure that he wore it.
He waits patiently as the man unlocks his truck, pulling open the back door and gesturing for him to unload. Aiden piles the bags inside as carefully as he can, setting them down on conveniently placed towels to keep from soaking the seats.
The man closes the door with a loud slam and splattering of water. Aiden expects that to be it, already readying himself to march himself inside the gas station. The old man beats him to the punch, stopping him with a question.
“You need a ride, kid?”
Aiden has to bite his lip to keep from voicing his displeasure at being called a kid. He hasn’t been a kid for a very, very long time. After a beat or two, the man’s question truly sets in. He was taught to never accept a ride from a stranger, but what choice does he really have?
“Ah- yes, sir, if you don’t mind,” he stammers.
“I wouldn’t’ve offered if I minded,” the old man points out, and Aiden feels thoroughly cowed. “Hop on in,” he says gruffly before rounding the truck.
He doesn’t want to make the man wait, so he hurries to open the passenger’s door and climb into the seat. Aiden pulls the door shut as gently as he can, but he still winces at the loud thunking sound that it makes.
The man doesn’t say a word as he takes a seat and puts his key in the ignition. The truck cranks and runs with what Aiden can only consider to be a gravelly purr.
“Where’re you trying to get to?” the old man asks after a moment of fiddling with the dials and knobs beside the dash.
Aides rattles off the address, reading it precisely off of his phone. He doesn’t notice the man’s raised brows. He doesn’t notice the way that the man’s old eyes narrow and seem to inspect him. Aiden doesn’t notice any of this, because he’s too busy looking at his phone and buckling in.
“If it’s too far- or in the opposite direction you’re going, I can figure something else out,” Aiden’s rambling. He knows he is. He can’t seem to stop, though.
“It’s fine, kid,” the man interrupts his train of thought, “it’s on my way.”
“Ah- okay, thank you,” Aiden stammers, but whether it’s due to nerves or the chill that’s overtaking him, he can’t be certain.
He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. Goosebumps break out across his flesh and no matter how hard he grinds his teeth together, they still seem to clack in his mouth. His clothes are sopping wet, clinging to him like a second skin. It’s freezing cold.
“You look like a drowned rat,” the old man huffs with a sideways glance at him. “There’s towels in the back you can use to dry off some,” he continues. He kicks the defroster on to stave off the fog that begins to overtake his windshield, letting warm air flow into the truck.
Aiden twists as much as he can with the restraint of the seatbelt and his rapidly aching body. He snags a towel and pulls it into his lap, wiping at the water he’s trailed in on the seat and down the side of the door.
“Kid,” the man says, and his voice is full of exasperation, now. “I told you to dry off, not to clean the damn truck,” he gripes, “you don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”
No. No, he does not.
“Sorry,” he mumbles under his breath as he begins to scrunch his hair with the worn towel, squeezing the still-dripping water out of it. His clothes are soaked through and it’s clearly a lost cause, but he tries his best to dry them.
“Don’t apologize,” the man mutters. “There should be a clean set of clothes under the seat,” he says with a grunt, “there’s no use in sitting in wet clothes.”
“Okay,” Aiden whispers, “okay.”
He bends forward, feeling around on the floorboard until his fingers catch on the straps of a string bag. Aiden pries it open and pulls out what looks like an old, worn pair of sweatpants and what was once maybe a high-school or college sweatshirt, but the writing on it has faded with time and he can’t make out what it once said.
“They’re gonna be big, but it’s better than nothing,” the man says with the barest shrugging of his shoulders.
“That- that’s fine, thank you,” Aiden says with a small smile, setting the clothes on the seat beside him as he works in kicking off his boots. It’s as his hands hover over the waistband of his leggings that it finally strikes him that he’s undressing in front of a complete and total stranger. His face flushes all the way to the tips of his ears.
The man casts another sidewards look in his direction and seems to catch on to his current predicament.
“I won’t look, kid,” the old man promises, and what choice does Aiden have but to take him at his word?
He shimmies his leggings down his legs, hissing under his breath as they seem to want to stick to him. It gives way after what feels like an eternity of fighting with the sopping wet fabric, and it hits the floor with a vile splatting noise. He snatches the towel again, wiping his legs down before pulling the too-large sweatpants up and over his hips. Before he relaxes back into the seat, he swipes the rapidly dampening towel over the seat beneath him. He’d be less than pleased if he sat back down in a puddle.
“You can just stick the wet clothes in the bag,” the man says. His eyes are still firmly fixed in the road ahead, and Aiden can’t contain a shaky sigh.
He doesn’t respond verbally; he just does as the man said to do.
Aiden moves to remove his sweater, next. He slips his arm out from under the seatbelt, grabbing the end of his shirt and tugging upwards. A strangled noise- not a whine- builds in the back of his throat as his body violently protests. It aches. Badly.
The soaked sweater quickly ends up with his leggings, tucked down in the bottom of that old string bag.
He takes the towel to his abdomen and chest, wiping away the wetness that lingered there. Aiden’s forgets about the wound on his front, his mind in a million other places, and he drags the fabric painfully across it. A hiss escapes him before he can stop it, and that immediately draws the man’s attention as tears well in his eyes.
“You’re hurt,” the man says as opposed to asking.
“It’s nothing,” Aiden croaks with a telling sniffle, “I’m fine.”
“You’re a bad liar,” the old man says pointedly. “I can drive you to the hospital, it’s not that far,” he says, as though a pit of dread hasn’t just settled inside of Aiden’s stomach. He can’t go to the hospital- he won’t. He’s not about to let Lambert down.
“No,” Aiden says and cringes at how hard the word sounds coming out of his mouth. “I’m not going to the hospital,” he says firmly, “I don’t need to. It- it’s just a scratch is all.”
The old man is silent for a beat, giving Aiden time to shrug on the oversized sweatshirt. He tries desperately to ignore how the material rubs against the cut.
“You were in that car accident, right?” the man asks, only it doesn’t really sound like a question.
Aiden nods, a small and hesitant movement.
“Are you okay?” the old man asks next, and for some reason- some reason unbeknownst to him- that is what finally does Aiden in.
He doesn’t feel the first tear fall, but he feels every single one after that. They cascade down his face; an almost mirror image of the rain that pours just outside. Aiden sobs, and he hates himself for it. He clasps his hands over his mouth, hunching over as he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to cry, but he can’t seem to stop.
Aiden’s body trembles, but whether it’s from the force of his cries or the cold that he can’t seem to escape, he can’t be sure. He doesn’t think about how the sweatshirt isn’t his before using it to wipe vigorously at his cheeks.
“I- I’m s’posed to meet my boyfriend’s dad today,” Aiden stutters out between his gasping breaths. “I just- I’m ruining it,” he whines, pressing the sleeves over his eyes, “he’s gonna hate me.”
“Why do you think that?” the old man asks.
“I can’t do ‘nything right!” Aiden’s voice is shrill before another harsh sob chokes him. “All I had t’do is show up, an’ I couldn’t even do that,” he cries, pressing a little harder against his eyes.
“You can’t help it if you’ve been in an accident,” the man says with a frown, “I’m sure they’d understand.”
“I don’t want ‘em to know,” Aiden says and his voice is full of defeat. “It’ll be a whole thing when the point was t’meet his family,” he sniffs only to grimace at the unpleasant sound it makes.
The old man lets him wallow in his pity for a few moments before reaching out a hand and setting it gently on the vinyl seat beside him.
“Sometimes even the best planned things don’t turn out like we wanted,” the man says with a slight intonation in his voice- as though he were speaking to an actual child. Rather than it upsetting him further, it calms him a bit. “No one can begrudge you that, kid,” he says strictly, “not your boyfriend or his family, understood?”
“Understood,” Aiden says quietly, placing his hand atop the old man’s. He curls his fingers instinctively over his, giving them a soft squeeze. “I just don’t…” he starts only to hesitate, biting his lip hard.
“You don’t…” the old man urges him gently to continue.
“I don’t want to let Lambert down,” he says quietly, gritting his teeth at the sharp pang in his chest- close to where his hear lies and beats.
There’s a pregnant pause.
“Lambert is your boyfriend?” the man asks, and upon seeing Aiden’s hesitant nod, he hums. “Tell me about him.”
Aiden flounders for a moment, but he finds himself smiling despite the still-wet tear tracks that stain his cheeks and the redness that rims his eyelids.
“Where do I even start?” he asks, laughing shortly. Aiden tells him. He talks about how other people would be of the opinion that Lambert’s a right bastard. That he’s crude and disrespectful to most- if not all. Aiden talks about how they aren’t wrong, but that his abrasiveness doesn’t bother him. That Lambert is sweet in his own ways.
He’s honest to a fault, he’s considerate, and selfless. These are traits that most wouldn’t see at first, second, or third glance. Others would have to look past his stony facade, but most don’t manage to do so. They see him as an aggravating asshole, and never try to get to know him.
Aiden tells the old man that one of the best things he ever did was get to know him better. To discover the ‘real’ Lambert. The one hidden behind large muscles and frowns.
“He’s a good man,” he says, wiping away what he hopes to be the last of his tears. He doesn’t know how long he’s talked, rambled really, about Lambert. Aiden just talks, and he gushes. “No one’s perfect, but to me he’s as close to it as someone can be.”
“If he’s as good a man as you say he is,” the man says slowly, “then you won’t be letting him down.” The old man grunts as he flips his hand over, squeezing Aiden’s hand back. “If he’s a good man, then he’ll understand,” he says simply.
Aiden takes a moment to look at the man before smiling.
“You’re right- of course you’re right,” Aiden laughs, mostly at himself for doubting Lambert and himself. “Thank you… I’m so sorry that I just unloaded all of that onto you,” he says, the blush returning to his face as he’s hit with a fresh wave of embarrassment. “I never even introduced myself,” he says as he claps his hand against his cheek, shaking his head, “I’m Aiden.”
The truck jostles up-and-down, startling Aiden who whips his head around- wincing all the way- to look out the window. It looks like an old road, lined with trees so thick that Aiden feels dwarfed even inside a tall truck such as this one. He catches sight of signs nailed to the trees, and determines that it’s a driveway with potholes so deep that you have to drive around them and gravel lining the road.
“There’s no reason to be sorry, kid,” the man says as he swerves the car as carefully as he can to avoid a dip in the road. “Are you going to tell Lambert about your accident?” he asks.
Aiden doesn’t have a good answer to that question.
“I’ll tell him eventually,” he says after realizing he’s been sitting in silence. “After the dinner is over,” Aiden says with a slow nod. These get-togethers are for family-time and he isn’t going to take away from that. He can tell Lambert afterwards.
“Good, because I don’t make it a habit of lying to my boys,” the old man says.
The truck comes to a stop and Aiden feels a flutter in his chest, as though his heart skipped a beat. The man puts the truck in park and cuts the engine off.
“The name’s Vesemir,” the old man says with a raised brow. He doesn’t seem to notice Aiden’s internal turmoil. Or, he just doesn’t care. “I suggest you come up with a story quick on how you got here without a car,” he continues, “then you can grab some bags and help me carry them in.”
The old man- Vesemir- opens his door and jumps out, slamming it shut with a bang. Aiden’s heart pounds against his ribs brutally as he stares where the man had been sitting. Where his boyfriend’s father was sitting.
Aiden groans.
Of course, he thinks, because this is just his luck.
Why not?