#axb

An average day at BB's Apartment From Hell

The rain falls in torrents. A relentless curtain that blurs the world beyond A’s windshield. His sedan hums along the deserted highway, the abandoned mill’s skeletal silhouette fading in his rearview mirror.

He is sits idly in the driver’s seat; one hand loose on the wheel while the other drumming absentmindedly on his thigh. His dark hair is mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble after a long week at the agency.

A drug bust from last week still clings to his thoughts, a mess of names, faces, and threats he can’t quite shake. They’d taken down a mid-level dealer. It was a small victory, but the ripples of it felt wrong. Like a pebble dropped into a pond, disturbing something much scarier in its depths. 

Something tells him that it’s connected to other seemingly unrelated cases; he just can’t prove it yet. 

He’s alone tonight. The road stretching almost endlessly before him, the city’s neon glow is distant noise. The wipers slap rhythmically, fighting a losing battle against the fierce downpour. A’s mind drifts to B, his partner against crime. Her mind as sharp as a blade, her eyes always catching the little details he’d miss. God, she’s incredible. She’s probably back at home—he thinks to himself—hunched over another lame detective show, her hot coco and nine mini marshmallows gone cold and soggy. Her apartment warm. He smiles fondly, picturing her scowl as the characters do something too unrealistic for even her to ignore. A stupid grin spreads across his face. 

Then a flicker of unease. But it’s just enough to make him glance at his rearview mirror. Nothing but rain and darkness. No cars. No people. He shakes his head, blaming the paranoia on too many late nights and too many cups of cheap coffee. The radio swells, a saxophone wailing like a wandering soul, he leans forward to twist the dial—

The world explodes.

A truck—massive, black as oil, no headlights, no plates—slams into the driver’s side with the force of a thunderclap. The airbags deploy.

Metal screams, glass shatters, and A’s body jerks violently against his seatbelt, his head snaps sideways, the force of it all slams his temple back into the shattered window. A’s vehicle spins, tires screeching, until it comes to an abrupt halt against a guardrail with a deafening metallic crunch. 

The air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline, the rain hissing as it meets the crumpled hood. The attacker’s truck revs. Its taillights vanish into the storm.

A’s breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps, each one feels like a blade stabbing through his chest.

Pain claws at him from every angle. His legs—God, his legs—are trapped, the dash collapsed into a jagged cage around his thighs. The metal bites deep, and he can feel the warmth of blood—his blood—soaking his pants, pooling on the seat. His every breath a fresh betrayal. A gash on his head weeps blood into his eyes, blurring the world into a haze of red. His left arm hangs uselessly, he can’t feel his fingers there, his shoulder screaming whenever he tries to move even slightly.

Everything hurts. His body feels so wrong.

His thoughts are a scattered mess, slipping like water through his fingers.

He should call 911. He knows this. But somewhere in the fog of his mind, the number feels distant—such a useless and clinical thing. 

Instead, his heart reaches for B.

Her voice, her steadiness, the way she tethers him to reality when it feels like everything is moving too fast for him to keep up. 

If he’s going to die, pinned in this wreck like some animal caught in a snare, he needs her to know what she means to him. He needs her to hear it.

His free hand shakes as he fumbles for his phone, the cracked screen hurts his eyes. Blood smears across the glass, his fingers are clumsy. He finds her caller ID. Madam Poirot ♥. Each ring an eternity.

His heartbeat feels like a countdown.

His vision swims, the edges darkening, but he clings to the sound, praying that she’d answer.

“A?” She sounds so sleepy. She was probably just getting ready for bed, he can hear Winnie—her old golden—snoring loudly in the background. “What’s wrong?”

“B…” His voice is a ghost, swallowed by the pain. He coughs, the taste of metal floods his mouth, coppery and sickeningly warm. “I… I messed up. Someone hit my car. I can’t… it hurts.”

“A, where are you?” Her tone shifts immediately, concern taking over, all focus and steel. She bolts upright, her wavy hair brushing her shoulders, her hand already reaching for her keys. “Give me a location. Now.”

“I…” His head lolls against the headrest, the world tilting. The rain is colder now, seeping through the shattered windshield, soaking his shirt. A soft whine slipping past his lips. “Not sure. Highway… past the old mill. I think. B, I…” Another cough, wet and awful, steals his breath. “I don’t think—“

“No. Stop it, A. You’re not dying.” Her voice breaks, a crack in her calm, and he can hear the fear she’s trying so desperately to bury. “Stay awake. I promise I’ll call back, but I’m calling 911 first.”

“Wait… please, just… please, listen to me.” The words are heavy, each one a struggle. His chest tightens, the air feels so much thinner now. 

It feels like he’s drowning. 

“B, you’re the best thing th-that’s ever happened to me. Best partner. Best friend.” He tries to take a breath. “I’m—“ then a shaky groan. 

Speaking hurts.

Breathing hurts.

“Fuck. B, I’m so sorry… for everything. For dragging you into all of this. I just… I just needed you to know how much you meant to me.”

“A, don’t you dare—” her voice quivers, raw and desperate, but to him, it’s fading, slipping away like the rain into the gutters. 

The phone slips from A’s hand, clattering to the floorboard. His vision narrows to a pinprick, the world reduced to the sound of the storm, the fading echo of B’s frantic voice, the dull ringing in his ears. Or are those sirens? He doesn’t know.

till death do us part

The close up images of keyboards are amusing. I guess in this world they don't use as many letters.