her name arrives across the dull, π―πΉππ²-ππΌπ»π²π± light of his phone screen. & fezco, who has survived many sharper things than a text message ... who knows the precise, ugly temperature of danger still finds himself staring at it for half a second too long. maybe, you could recognize something that's akin to nervousness beneath the breastbone. [ morerather, no. ] nervous is a cruiser easing past the store in the middle of the night, nervous is somebody knocking after midnight with their hands hidden and voice nauseatingly polite. it's all sharp teeth and survival instincts. AND THIS ISN'T THAT. this is warmer, settles low beneath the sternum. it's inconvenient. it's really a lot more annoying than anything, actually. come get me it reads. not a question, not a plead. rain moves over the windshield in slow, slanted tributaries, blurring the city lights into bruised and aqueous molten gold. fez is on the way, one hand loose on the wheel, fingers tapping absent rhythms against the worn-in leather. a greasy, brown paper bag in his lap. maddy tells him to come and apparently, that's all it takes now. because three words from maddy perez at damn near one in the morning is rarely just three words. and maybe that shouldn't matter as much as it did. jesus christ. [ fez spots her before she'd spot him. ] she's pindropped outside the apartment complex like somebody had dropped something particularly expensive in the middle of the neighborhood & hadn't come back for it. heels are abandoned beside her, earrings catching brief gold flashes. fez exhales slow through his nose, something like annoyance moving through him. it's not at her, truly. not really. it's the arrangement of it all: maddy, maddy in the rain, the rain, the curb, whatever the fuck happened before his headlights found her. car rolls closer with a soft hiss through past rainwater and he rolls the window down. β yo. what you doin', πππ§πππ ? β voice low. rough with tiredness. his gaze flicks over her once: a quick inventory, automatic and silent. no blood. no bruises he can see. that's good. β you be hitchhikin' ? β instead he leans across the console and shoves the passenger door open from inside, rain-speckled streetlight sliding over the rings on his fingers while the paper bag crinkles softly beneath his wrist. β c'mon. β // @madelent
