Chapter Eight

They roll into Kansas around dusk, road-weary and hungry. Reid stretches and twists, groaning, the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans flashing for a moment until he stands, his shirt falling back into place.

Nate is silent and stiff as they walk off the bus, across the blacktop, and into a waiting cab.

Reid slams the car door and taps on the scratched plastic divider behind the driver, leaning forward to talk into the small money slot.

"Closest place with burgers and a drive-up, dude."

So seven minutes later they're both tearing into double cheeseburgers, their hands battling for fistfuls of fries from the grease-soaked paper sack on the seat between them. Reid pauses just long enough to get the driver's attention again, mumbling their destination's address around a mouthful of cow before going back to moaning in delight as he chews.

And as they're waiting to pull back out onto the road, the meter slowly ticking higher, Reid glances over at Nate. His profile is lit by the neon glow of the McDonald's sign, a drop of ketchup shining where it's caught on the corner of his mouth.

Before he can think any better of it, Reid reaches over to wipe it away with his thumb.

A second later they both realize how so-far-beyond-the-bounds-of-their-current-relationship the gesture was and they freeze, the pink tip of Nate's tongue poking out where Reid had touched, Reid still sucking the ketchup from his finger.

Nate opens his mouth to say something and Reid's mind races in panic.

Jesus, Reid, what in the everloving fuck did you just-

And then the driver, who Reid immediately decides is some sort of angel in disguise, chooses that moment to blare some fast-tempo music in a language neither of them understands. He sings along loudly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

And so the moment breaks; they look away, go back to eating, and try to ignore their pounding hearts.

******

Nate is licking the salt from his fingers when the cab slows and stops. Reid pays the driver with the last of his cash, staining the bills with the grease on his hands.

They adjust their waistbands when they climb out, their stuffed stomachs stretching against the fabric. And Nate is in such a blissed-out food coma that it takes him a moment to figure out where they are.

When he does, he feels his happiness give way to familiar irritation.

"Marshal, I'm trying to control my criticism, but, really? Your big plan hinges on a questionably maintained self-storage facility in Gardner?"

Reid glares, his expression torn somewhere between don't take me for an amateur, dude, and fuck off, you condescending douchenozzle. He steps up to the closed gate and punches a code into the keypad, the gate sliding open with a metallic screech.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you that if you can't say anything nice, you're supposed to keep your damn mouth - or hands, or whatever - shut?"

"My mother taught me to speak my mind and permanently silence anyone who dared to differ."

And there it is again, that scary-as-hell reminder that the grumpy, rumpled man Reid has tied himself to is actually a nearly all-powerful killer. He forgets that more often than he should.

Reid turns away, rubbing at his forehead as he walks down the row of orange rolling doors, keeping his voice light as he calls back over his shoulder.

"Come on, Nate, not much further now. Also, I've told you a thousand times not to call me 'Marshal.' It's gonna be really weird sleeping in the same room with someone who's so goddamned formal all the time."

Reid stops at a large unit on the far end and twists the dials on the lock until it pops open. Nate bends down to help roll the door up but stands back as Reid rushes forward. The unit is dark and empty except for a large, tarp-covered shape in the center.

"Ah, baby, it's good to see you. It's been too damn long."

Reid tugs at the cover to reveal an old blue car, one that Nate would probably be able to identify if he was remotely a car person, but he's not.

It doesn't matter. Reid's like a proud parent, chattering on without any prodding from his companion.

"1969 Camaro, perfectly restored, and totally untraceable to me. God, isn't she beautiful?"

Nate nods, because it is, but he's distracted. There's a part of that statement that caught his attention far more than the make and model.

"Untraceable? But it's in your storage unit, and it has what appear to be perfectly legal Ohio plates. Surely there's some way to track that?"

Reid shakes his head, his eyes sparkling with something like pride.

"There you go, underestimating me again. I stole this car when I was 16."

Nate's normal frown deepens, him eyes narrowing suspiciously. "So if there's a criminal record of it, of course it's traceable-"

"If there was a record of it, I wouldn't still have her and I wouldn't be able to be a marshal. I stole it - and a whole bunch of other ones that I sold - and I never got caught." Reid preens a bit, happy to see a look of surprise - and maybe even respect - on Nate's usually stoney face.

Reid pops the trunk, pulls out two faded t-shirts and tosses one at Nate. It smells like motor oil and has a picture of a mouth with a giant tongue sticking out plastered on the front, but it's still a hell of a lot better than the busted shirt he's been wearing for two days straight.

Reid's already grabbed his shirt by the back of the neck and tugged it over his head. Nate's eyes drift unconsciously over the curve of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the fine hair that trails down until it disappears under the low-slung waist of his jeans. His shoulders bunch as he struggles to pull on the clean shirt, the neck catching across his face and muffling his voice.

"But then, you know, I grew up. Four years in the Army and two tours to the Middle East will sure as hell straighten a man out, and it made me want to find a way to serve my country that didn't involve the constant presence of sand in my ass crack. So I moved back here when I got out, made a friend - Jill - who was at Kansas State studying criminal justice, and decided that sounded like as good an idea as any." Reid scratches at the back of his neck and looks down for a moment. "And, you know, of course I felt bad about the things I'd done, wanted to make amends to the guy I stole the car from, but I knew that if I ever had a record I wouldn't be able to do what I do. He was a rich fucker; I'm sure he had it insured. Anyway, I hid it here, in a unit I rented under a false ID I had a friend make for me. That's also how I've got current plates." Reid faces the car, spreads his arms wide. "This whole thing belongs to one perfectly respectable Mr. David Cutter of Cincinnati."

And then he opens the driver's door, the hinges squeaking, and leans over to pop open the glove box. Inside is a small stack of cash, a prepaid cell phone, and a driver's license and credit card in his new identity.  He'd never intended to actually use this little escape hatch he'd created for himself, but his job had taught him to have a back-up plan.

Besides, Andy always preached the virtue of being a paranoid bastard. Reid decides right then that if he actually manages to get out of this alive he's going to buy the old man at least a case of that shitty whiskey he keeps hidden in his desk drawer.

Absently, Reid tosses the cell phone to Nate. "Here. Once we get this charged up again, you can download your type-to-talk app so we can talk while I drive." And then he gets busy fussing with the car cover, folding it and stowing it in the trunk, so it takes him a long moment to realize that Nate is just standing there. Staring at Reid, his old Rolling Stones t-shirt hanging a bit loosely on Nate's more compact frame and a look of complete confusion on his face.

"You're a criminal, Reid."

"Was a criminal." Reid licks his lips, flicks his eyes to the side. "It's why I do what I do, Nate. I get how people can do things they regret, and then want to make amends." He slides behind the wheel, fishes the car keys out from beneath the seat. "Besides, I don't think it matters so much where you start out." And Reid's jaw clenches, but he makes himself meet that intense stare as he says, "It's what you do with it. It's where you end up."

And then he has to look away, turn the engine over and fill the silence with the Camaro's rumble.

Nate's chest warms, his eyes watering a bit as his mouth softens into something like a smile, but Reid doesn't see it. He's thrown the car in reverse and rolled the windows down, his foot itching to put the gas pedal into the floorboard.

"Hop in, Nate. We've gotta get the fuck out of Gardner; I grew up here."