#feelsask

FUUUUUUUH y u do me lyk dis

This is so hard bc tbh I really like men in their 40s (shhh don’t tell my parents lmao) but rob is such a fucking dorkball

BY “WE” DO YOU MEAN US, RORY

Those prompts were sovague. Like are we in the same car? Are we in different cars? Who’s driving ifwe’re in the same car? Whatever, let’s get this over with.

—–

Driving through Los Angeles is one of the most nerve-wrackingthings, at least for me. Traffic is the worst. It’s bad enough sitting throughthe traffic jams and all the irritating honks from the cars around you.

It’s so much worse when you’ve got terrible company.

I throw a side-eyed glance at my passenger. He may be hot, butman is he a dickhead. I wouldn’t be doing this if I had a choice, but I owethat asshole Newt Geiszler a favor and Marshall Hercules Hansen is such a niceand polite man. Sort of makes me wonder where he went wrong with his son.

Chuck Hansen reaches forward and slams his hand on the centerconsole, turning on the radio but also accidentally turning up the volume. Hemight have a bum arm, but damn are those some impressive arms. Surprised, Ijerk the steering wheel of my car to the right and nearly hit the little blackBeetle in the next lane. The young woman sitting inside honks at me a few timesand yells through her window. Chuck rolls his eyes and gives her the finger.

I get back into my lane, turn off the radio, and then punchChuck in the arm as hard as I can, all without taking my eyes off the road. Hegrunts with pain and glares at me.

“What the hell was that for?” he snarls, shaking his arm to tryand ease the pain.

“For being an asshole!” I shout back, resisting the urge to givehim another punch or six. “I almost hit that car back there, you fuckingdouche!”

Chuck peers down at his arm, not listening to a single thing I’msaying. “I can’t even rub it! And you’re wearing like six rings on thathand!” he says accusingly. He looks back up at me with a scowl. I can almostsee the wheels and cogs turning in his gorgeous head.

“Go on,” I reply quietly, trying to keep my voice even andcalm. “Call me whatever name it is you want. Go on. I dare you.”

He looks at me and hesitates, then drops back in hisseat. “Whatever,” he mutters. “How much longer till we get to thestupid conference?”

“Don’t know. Could be halfan hour. Could be an hour. LA traffic isn’t the most predictable.”

Chucksighs heavily, slumps down in his sleep, and closes his eyes. “I hate all thesestupid conferences,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Flying back and forthtalking to all these press morons who all have the exact same questions for me…I hate that they’re throwing me up on this bloody pedestal like I’m some hero.Just because I ended up alive and not dead like they all expected…”

Hepauses like he’s waiting for my input. I don’t know what to say, and he takesmy silence as some sort of encouragement to keep talking.

“Dadisn’t happy about all this, but even he can’t defy the authorities of theAustralian and US governments. I can’t even go for a coffee now without beingmobbing me, calling me a hero and shit. I’m no hero. Raleigh’s a hero. Mako’s ahero. Hell, even the nerds are bigger heroes than I am.” He stops and rubs hisface. “I’m just… so tired.”

Idon’t say anything. I hadn’t really thought about how it must feel for him tocome back when he thought he would die, but now that it’s in my head I feelsort of bad calling him a dickhead. We’ve been stuck behind an unnecessarilylarge Dodge Ram for a while now, so I take the time to turn my head and look athim.

Rightarm in a cast and slung up. Large patches of bruising and half-healed cuts andscrapes all over his body. A sizeable gash on his face, starting from his righttemple and curving slightly down to his jaw. And his leg—not broken, but hurt enoughto cause a limp. Temporary, the doctors told them. The cane he’s been usingjuts out from the backseat of my car and into the space between us. I push itout of the way. Chuck opens his eyes at the noise and we make eye contact for amoment. I don’t want to make this more awkward for either of us, so I speak upbefore he can even open his mouth.

“Listen,”I blurt out, “why don’t you take a nap right now? Traffic doesn’t look like it’lllighten up any time soon, so you might as well try and rest. I’ll wake you upwhen we get there. Then when you’re done, I’ll take you straight back to yourhotel room so you can rest and bring dinner back for you.”

Chuckjust looks at me. He doesn’t say anything, but I know we both understand eachother a little better than before. Finally he nods and squirms down in his seatto get comfy. A few short minutes pass in silence. Then, just when I think he’sfinally asleep, he pokes my elbow.

“Hey…thanks,” he says sleepily.

Ireach over and pet his finger. Guess tigers can change their stripes.

—-