what excellent boiled potatoes

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷