one
This is how it starts: the sky, tired of being quiet, opens itself to you. Steadily the rain grows from a light sprinkle to heavy thuds of raindrops against your bare skin.
This is not where it is meant to start.
The world is alight with a thread of energy, and it pulses through your bones. University in Australia finishes at the end of November, but you can’t think of a better place to study than along the coast. Perched up in a little café, waves rolling in the background, summer sun beating down. There’s an element of distraction that comes with a “study holiday,” but with over two weeks until exams it feels like enough time to balance swimming and university with a finessed ease. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, and it’s unlikely to be the last.
So, with a flurry, you had packed your bags this morning, ready to get to the coast as soon as possible. Donning your most flowy sundress, checking for sunscreen and a hat, you climb into your little car and prepare for the holiday of a lifetime – or at least, the semester.
Hindsight is a cruel bedfellow. It comes without invitation, laughing at your misfortune and whispering that you should have listened – when there was nothing to hear in the first place. It has perched itself on the roof of your car, legs folded, giggling. “You should have had your car checked before you left.”
You feel stupid, humiliated by the voice in your head that won’t tick off. Because of course you meant to get the car checked. And, of course, you didn’t. You’re standing with the bonnet popped, staring down at the steaming engine as if a solution will simply jump out at you. But of course – it doesn’t. You know more about the inner mechanisms of a coffee maker than you do a vehicle.
It’s with a begrudging humph that you realise you can’t do this on your own. Because even if you knew what was wrong, your bags were wholly unequipped to handle an engine failure. Seven days of hot weather? Sorted. Enough skin care products to drown in? Of course. Protection for if a handsome surfer swept you off your feet? Naturally. But in the bags and bags that you had packed, this was a contingency plan that you hadn’t accounted for.
Your instincts are at war, fighting over whether you should stay or leave. The road you are stranded on is anything if busy, and you haven’t seen a car in over an hour. That’s what you get for taking the back roads, Hindsight sneers. You can’t help but begrudgingly agree.
Ahead, within your line of sight but only just, a road bisects the road that you have found yourself upon. While not busy by city standards, the dual lanes on each side that you can just make out fill your heart with hope. If I can just make it…
It’s a sentence you can’t complete, despite trying. The ache of anxiety has begun to take over, muddling your thoughts and actions. With a decisive head nod, you reach into your car – rifling through the luggage until you emerge with a semi-organised bag of essentials.
Purse. Laptop. Uni books. Water.
It seems like enough. Your eyes flit over the remainder of your car contents, trying to grip just think of anything else important. There’s that niggling feeling of forgetfulness, but you edge yourself down from a full panic attack.
I always feel like I’m forgetting something when I pack. You reason. You close the car door definitively, turning toward the road, and hopefully, your safety.
Hindsight stays seated, watching as you step-step-step forward. It giggles, and once again stays silent.
---
So, this is how it starts.
You’re in dead man’s land and you can feel it. Too far from your car, too far from the road. Desperately arguing with yourself about whether to turn around or to keep going. Each step, forward or back, escalates your heartbeat until you’re breathless, keeled over from the stress of it all. It’s all too much.
When it rains, it pours. And so, it begins to pour.
The first few drops are a welcome feeling. Time has lost meaning, but you’ve been walking for an hour or so at least. The stickiness of your skin from your sweat and anxiety is alleviated by the first few drops, and you slowly stand from your keeled position to face the sky.
Another drop has you smiling. Another, laughing. Finally, overcome with mania, you begin to sprint in the direction of the road, encouraged by the change in the season and the comfort of its touch.
Hindsight. It’s sitting in your car now, wrapped in your winter coat.
Because it’s cold, you realise with a start. Your sundress, destined for summer days and bright evenings, stands no chance against the wintry assault. It clings to you like a second skin and does nothing to protect against the howling wind. You wrap your arms around yourself and feel the strangulation of a sob burst through your chest. The tears, hot against your cold skin, blur your vision.
The urge to curl into yourself, to ball yourself away from the world, blooms like a flower in your chest. Everything is hard. A reel of memories begins to play itself against your cerebrum, moments of sadness and heartache and betrayal.
It rains. It pours.
Through the blurred tears and settling dusk, your eyes catch sight of something. A glimmer of lights. Your head snaps in their direction – the direction of the road – and you feel it.
Hope.
Because, oh-fuck-oh-shit, someone is coming your way.
Initially, your mind jumps to car. But this mammoth of a vehicle is no car. It’s nothing short of a road train; you watch it’s three trailers follow behind its cockpit, barrelling toward you. It’s fast, but far enough away that you can get it to stop.
If you can get them to see you.
You run, thongs slapping against the bitumen, arms waving in the air like a madwoman. You’re standing directly in the throes of the truck’s headlights, and you pray, beg, that they can see you and will stop.
It’s within about 400 metres of you when you hear it – the tell-tale sound of the engine beginning to grind to a halt. It begins with a rush of air, followed by the gradual screech of tyres against the road’s surface. A smile has lit up your face, bright enough to see from the cockpit, you’re sure.
You hurry onto the side of the road as the truck approaches, giving it a wide berth. It stops, just before you, and you hurry the twenty or so metres to the driver’s side door to envelope this stranger with your gratitude and excitement.
Before you can reach the vehicle, however, you hear one, two doors open, and the thud of boots against steel rungs. You see the driver first – stocky and broad-shouldered, brown hair pulled into a bun. He reaches the ground and turns toward you, bright blue eyes wide.
Before he can speak, you’re rushing toward him. “Thank you, thank you for stopping!” The words are tumbling out of your mouth. You forget yourself, wrapping the man in a hug. He stiffens, then softens, wrapping his arms around you in turn.
“Where’s mine?” A voice, distinctly American, speaks behind you. You pull back from the driver, embarrassed and apologetic. “I stopped, too.”
The man before you is just as stocky and tall, if not more so. Scruffy, you think. That’s the word that would describe them both.
The passenger is close to you now, and you glance over his beard and long, blond hair. His arms are outstretched in anticipation.
“I, uh…” You think about refusing, already deathly embarrassed for hugging the first man, but the sincerity of the man before you softens your hesitation. You step forward and loosely hug the man before you, gasping as he pulls you in tightly against him.
You’re suddenly all too aware of how you must look. Drenched sundress, puffy eyes, throwing your wet self against these good Samaritans. You pulled back from the second man, stumbling slightly as you began to mumble your thanks.
“I’m – thank you! I’m so sorry, my car –“ your words are like dominoes. “It’s back there and it’s broken and I was so scared and –“
The blond man steps forward again, wrapping you against his warm, body once again. He strokes your hair, shushing against your temple. “It’s okay, darlin’,” he shushes, pulling you even closer to him with the hand against the small of your back.
The man behind you clears his throat, and you begin to pull against the warmth of your restraint. You turn to see the driver nodding – the two seemingly finishing a conversation you didn’t even know had begun.
“What’s your name, baby?” The man behind you is close, and you can’t help but feel slightly claustrophobic between the two broad men. Relax, you tell yourself. They’ve stopped to help me.
You whisper your name, and the driver rolls it around his mouth a few times. “I’m Bucky,” he says. “And this is Steve. We can talk more inside.”
Your face must have shown your confusion because Bucky laughs. “In the truck! Can’t keep a pretty thing like you in the rain all night, can we?”
The compliment flushes over you, and Steve pulls your forearm toward the passenger side of the truck. Effortlessly, he opens it, and waits expectantly for you to climb up.
You hesitate, deathly aware of your current attire, and he laughs. “Ever been in a truck before, sweetheart?” You shake your head. “The steps are slippery at the best of times, so I’ll be here to catch you if you fall. Make sure you have a good first time an’ all.” The words aren’t overtly sexual, but the implication hits you in the gut. You look at him, staring a beat too long, before turning towards the steps.
He isn’t wrong about the steps being slippery. On the second step, your thong catches on the metal frame and you let out a squeal, throwing yourself upward in an attempt to stop from falling.
From beneath you, you hear a low chuckle, and you pray that you haven’t just exposed yourself to a complete stranger. Pride prevents you from looking down at him to quell your concerns, choosing ignorance over confirmation.
With a hmmph, you pull yourself into the cab of the truck, and your eyes flash over the interior. It’s not exactly roomy – two seats, separated from the back by a curtain. There’s enough room for you all to stand, but you’re confused about where you’ll sit.
Steve slams the door behind you, breaking your reverie.
“Welcome to the abode,” Bucky mutters drily, lips pulled into a smirk. He obviously caught you looking around, and you duck your head in embarrassment.
“I-“ The words get stuck in your throat again. “Thank you so much for picking me up. Seriously. I was on the verge of a breakdown.”
“Couldn’t leave a dame out in the rain, could we Stevie?”
“’Course not,” Steve reaches behind the seat and pulls out a towel, passing it to you before sharing a meaningful look with Bucky. “But…”
The word sends a shockwave down your system. “But what?”
Bucky sighs, sitting heavily in the driver’s chair and turning on the engine. It purrs to life, and he turns back to you. “It’s just – we’re really far behind on our trip – “
“And the boss’ll kill us if we’re late again – “
“And we were already gonna be driving all night – “
“And day –“
Your hand shoots up in a panic. “But what!”
“We can’t stop to look at your car. By the time the truck starts moving, and we stop, and we fix your car, and drive again it’ll screw us.” Steve admits.
“The best we can do is call a mechanic when we get closer to the next town, and have him sort it out.” Bucky finishes. “But we’re miles from the next town. If we left you here, especially all wet like you are, you’d be finished.”
Your breath catches slightly. “But… where – “ a deep breath. “Where will I sit?”
“You can just sit on my lap,” Steve’s sitting now, and pats his thigh. “We’d let you on the bed but you’re dripping.”
“I – I don’t know – ,” the words are leaving your mouth when Bucky lifts his foot off the break, causing you to lose your footing. You glance at him, shock bleeding into indignation
“Tight schedule.” He shrugs. “Stevie doesn’t mind.”
With no choice, and a heavy dose of swallowed pride, you perch yourself on Steve’s lap, desperate for this trip from hell to end.
---
You’re sitting as far down Steve’s thighs as you can trying to stem the anxiety that was blooming in your chest. The men were chatting casually between themselves, barely aware of your presence.
You shift slightly on the man’s lap, distinctly aware of the uncomfortable position your butt is in.
“Slide back a bit, baby,” Steve drawls, hand resting on your side. “If you keep moving, your going to hurt the both of us.”
You reluctantly concede, shifting until you’re more firmly placed on the stranger’s lap. His arm slides forward, resting heavily on your knee.
You press your legs together as swiftly and subtly as you can. The men are nice, and they’re helping you. But they’re also men. You were biologically programmed to find them intimidating.
“This your car up here?”
You turn toward Bucky’s direction, catching a glimpse of your broken-down vehicle. The heavy rain seemed to have stopped the plumage of smoke, and a glimmer of hope resting against your rib cage.
“Oh, look, she’s stopped smoking!” You exclaim, failing to keep the nervousness out of your throat. “I think, maybe, I could get her working if you just stop- “
“Can’t stop.” Steve presses firmly against your knee.
Thump.
“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to fix it! I’ll just wait for the mechanic you’ll call for me.”
“Can’t let you do that,” Bucky’s eyes don’t leave the road.
Thump. Thump.
“Please?”
The word falls from your mouth, but it’s impact is explosive. Steve’s grip tightens until you gasp, and Bucky reaches one hand from the steering wheel to grip your chin. He forces you to look at him, eyes flitting between you and the road.
“You don’t get it,” he growls. “We’re not stopping.”