Chapter Text
You have to pick the perfect state to be able to sleep in your car—really pull some Goldilocks and The Three Bears-esque bullshit to keep yourself from dying overnight. You pick a state that is too far north then you shoot yourself in the foot for the entirety of autumn and winter; you risk freezing to death overnight or getting snowed in god wherever you parked your car. Well, picking a state too far south has the exact opposite problem; sleep for too long and cook yourself in your brand-new oven.
When it comes down to it Stanley would rather be woken up at the ass crack of dawn before the heat suffocates him, rather than freeze to death overnight in the snow to nothing but the sound of his teeth chattering together. On top of being banned in 32 states and counting, the options were drastically limited.
Stan has decided to park his car just outside the city limits of Albuquerque on a darkened residential street with plenty of abandoned-looking fields and buildings. This is a decent spot to park because it's away from the crime-filled center of the city, and not in a mediocre suburban neighborhood where the cops are likely to be called on a ‘suspicious vehicle’ loitering in the area.
Shutting off his headlights and locking the car doors preemptively, Stan begins to toss the wrappers from today's so-called meals into the back row of his vehicle. Candy wrappers and empty bags of chips leave crumbs all over his driver and passenger seat, but Stan half-assedly sweeps these to the floor while grumbling under his breath.
As he prepares for bed he removes his boots and zips up his jacket, cinching the hood tighter around his head. The days in the New Mexico desert were excruciatingly hot, but you know what they say about deserts at night—the cold could kill you and all that jazz.
Stan cranks the bench-style seat back in his car, aiming to fashion the driver's seat into a makeshift bed. He lays down, knees bent to fit on the seat, and throws his left arm over his eyes, the other dangling over the side of the none-too-wide car seat. Sighing deeply he has to, again, come to terms with the fact that there's not enough money in his pocket, or the pockets of any of his marks that day to afford a room at a crappy drive-up motel for the night.
Stan lies still with his eyes closed hoping eventually his mind will just tire him out and he’ll fall into another restless night of subpar sleep. He shifts slightly, trying to adjust to the cramped space of his car, his legs cramping from the uncomfortable position. The El Diablo may have been good to him in the past, but at this moment, it’s just a reminder of his many bad decisions– too many nights spent in its confined quarters, too many times he’s woken up with a stiff back and an empty wallet. He wonders, not for the first time if this is the life he wants, but the thought quickly gets pushed away. It always does.
He glances out of the windshield again, trying to get a better look at the street outside. A dim glow from a distant streetlight flickers, illuminating nothing but dust and cracked pavement. The road seems completely deserted, except for the occasional scurrying of an animal or the distant hum of a car passing by, but it feels eerily still. The kind of stillness that tells you something's coming.
Just as his breathing is beginning to even out into a deeper more settled state footsteps are clicking gently on the pavement walking towards his parked vehicle. They sound relaxed and leisurely, not in any kind of hurry, so Stanley decides it's not worth wasting a second thought on. Probably just some schmuck walking home in the dark, or some local looking for a place to sleep like him. The sound of the footsteps draws closer, the rhythmic click-clack now unmistakable. Stan’s eyes narrow. It doesn’t sound like someone’s just passing by. The pace is too deliberate, too drawn-out like they’re taking their time, carefully considering every step. Whoever it is, they’re definitely up to something.
His previous thoughts about ignoring the stranger fled his head when the footsteps, instead of continuing past his vehicle, paused just outside his driver-side door. A bit more concerned and cautious now Stan hears a rustling noise of this person shifting their hands around their clothing as if looking for something. Stan presses his back further into the seat, trying to make himself invisible, hoping whatever stranger is out there will just move on. But they don’t.
There’s a brief pause.
He holds his breath. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The footsteps stop just outside his door. He can hear the faint rustling of fabric as if the person is checking their pockets, maybe looking for something—keys, a pack of cigarettes, maybe even a weapon. The thought makes him shudder involuntarily.
He hopes that potentially this person is simply planning to light up a cigarette from the coat of their pocket and is planning to smoke the cigarette while leaning up against his car like an asshole. It couldn't have been more than a few hours that he's been parked here, yet Stan had neglected to check out the area for any kind of bars or some other dives providing nightlife in the area.
Stan blinks his eyes rapidly trying to adjust to the lack of light, alert as he holds his breath and sinks even lower into the leather of the seat if that was even possible by now, knowing that if he sits up or moves too vigorously whoever is outside will know that he's in the car. He analyzes the figure outside the window of his vehicle, but the windows are reflecting too much of the inside of the car to make out whoever the schmuck is plastered to the outside of it. He is still unsure of the person's motive for stopping outside his car, but this late at night in a mostly residential area he doubts that it's anything good.
They haven't yet touched the car or deigned to lean on it yet, but their hovering just outside the car slowly makes the hair on his arms stand on end. Deciding that this might come down to a fight, either defending his beloved baby or keeping his life out of Rico's hands he begins to contemplate all of his options. His hand instinctively moves toward his coat pocket. He feels the cool metal of his knuckle braces pressing against his fingers, a small comfort in the otherwise uncertain situation. It’s not much, but it’s something. As the person outside continues to hover outside the driver's door he darts his eyes to the floorboards where his boots had previously been discarded. His fingers brush against the outline of the switchblade tucked into his boot, but he doesn’t make any sudden movements yet. He’s waiting, calculating. There’s a certain calm before the storm, the moment when the situation could go either way.
As much as he hates it, Stan can’t help but feel a sliver of excitement underneath his fear. Maybe he’s just so damn bored he’ll welcome whatever happens next—maybe he’s just craving the adrenaline. It’s a terrible habit, but it’s his. He’ll take whatever chaos the night brings. As he lies in wait the door handle to the El Diablo cranks slowly as whoever the hell is trying to open the door casually but also quietly to keep from alerting anyone else in the area. Little does this fucker know that Stan is well aware of someone trying to get into and probably commandeer his vehicle. Stan pauses his thoughts for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows to consider ‘who the hell would try to open the door nicely instead of just’–
The door handle obviously doesn't release the latch to the door, because Stanley, the street-smart planner that he is, (disregarding the present situation) locked the doors earlier before preparing to go to sleep. Just as Stanley is about to let out a deep sigh, hoping this person will cut their losses after realizing the doors are so smartly locked, they pull a goddamn slim jim out of the sleeve of their coat. A slim jim. Of course.
“Son of a—Oh hell no .” Stanley grumbles under his breath. He’s decided that if this fucker wants to play ‘who’s the better criminal tonight’ Stan’s gonna win a game for the first time in his life. He watches through the reflection in the window as the figure slips the tool between the door and the window, trying to unlock it. It’s a skill Stan’s seen before. Not just any amateur would do something like that—this person knows what they’re doing. The person outside of the vehicle, but not for long, skillfully unlocks his car. This Stan does sigh at—great something else he’s gonna have to fix later.
The moment the handle moves again, this time successfully, Stan snaps into action. Without thinking, his foot kicks the door open with all the force he can muster, the metal of the door slamming into the would-be thief and sending them crashing to the pavement. The slim jim clatters away as the person lets out a startled grunt. He hasn't got a lot going for him at the moment and he’ll be damned if he lets some rando wack job in the middle of fuck all nowhere steal his car.
They didn't sound that big as they didn't seem to hit the ground too hard and their sound of surprise was drastically muffled. Stan’s heart races, but he’s not about to waste the opportunity. The adrenaline is pumping now, the fear mixed with the rush of winning for once. Stan throws his body into an upwards position quickly and makes to exit the car to get a look at whoever is about to get a swift sucker punch to the jaw. His sock-clad feet make contact with the still-warm sidewalk and he stands, leaning over the door of his car confidently. His arms are crossed as he smirks down at the person laying back on their elbows with a horrified look on their face.
For a moment Stan feels himself lose composure as he takes in the person on the ground—it's a woman. She looks about his age, mid to late twenties, and she seems pretty short in stature but it's hard to tell from this angle he can't make out any greater features on the dark street and the shadows seem to cover her face almost deliberately. Stanley can tell she's been slumming it around New Mexico too. She’s got that rough-around-the-edges look like she’s been living hard and fast for a while now just like him. Turns out Stan was just her unlucky mark for the night. Or, he supposed, he was the unlucky wrench in her plan of grand theft auto. Who doesn't scope out the car for people living in them before stealing it anyway?
He watches her scramble to her feet, looking far less graceful than the thief he expected. Anger flares across her face, but it’s not just fury—it’s embarrassment, too. She’d been caught off guard. Once she came to her feet, he could further tell that his previous assessment was correct and that she was particularly short, and particularly angry, shooting him a withering glare.
“Hey, what the hell, man?” she spits, dusting herself off and glaring up at him, hands planted firmly on her hips.
Stan smirks. “Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly being subtle, sweetheart. You’re lucky I didn’t leave you there in a heap.” She looks him up and down, sizing him up as if trying to decide whether to run or go on the offensive. The silence between them stretches. Neither of them is backing down. She’s stubborn, he can tell.
“Not so fast, huh? Think I’m just gonna let you walk away after you try to steal my car?” Stanley sneers, crossing his arms.
She narrows her eyes at him, clearly not buying his bravado. “How am I supposed to know you weren’t the one stealing it?”
Stan throws up his hands, feigning exasperation. “Oh, sure, because clearly, I look like someone who’d just steal a car in the middle of nowhere and then sleep in it . Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” He leans against the side of the car casually, trying to get a read on her.
The woman stands there for a moment, considering him. She’s no fool. She doesn’t back off, doesn’t immediately bolt for the hills like he expected. Maybe she’s figuring out if she can take him or if there’s a better way out of this situation.
“I wasn’t gonna steal your damn car,” she says, crossing her arms. “Just needed a way out of this hellhole. You wouldn’t understand.”
Stan blinks, surprised by the audacity. Maybe there’s more to this girl than he thought. He’d been planning on tossing her aside as soon as the fun ended, but something about the way she speaks, the bitterness in her tone, tells him she’s not just some random car thief.
Stan throws his hand out in a placating manner, “Now toots before ya get rocks off by yelling at me for throwing you to the ground like I did, you don’t have to lie to me… You were absolutely gonna steal my car.”
Stanley has decided to play into the situation a little more, after all a night's worth of curiosity makes for a good story and the bar tomorrow night. Keeps people distracted enough for him to lift some wallets from some drunk suckers enthralled by his silver tongue. “Either way, I don't think you're leaving with this particular one… Since… Ya know… I’m in it.” He pats the roof of his car before finally stepping away from the door to close it and lean against his vehicle. He pulls a pack of cigs out of his other pocket, throws one in his mouth, and goes patting around his jeans for his lighter.
Stan can't find his goddamn lighter in his pocket, the unlit cigarette hanging from his lip, and he is preparing to dig through the seats of his car for his lighter. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, as he turns to open the door to his El Diablo again, little Miss Car Thief whips a Bic out of her jacket pocket and throws it towards him. He snatches it from the air, cupping his left hand around the cig and his right lighting it with the cheap lighter before tossing it back. Stanley takes a deep drag savoring the nicotine in his system, waking him up a bit more from the grogginess of earlier, and nods his head toward the passenger side of his car. “I can offer you a cup of coffee at some 24/7 diner down the road. Ladies choice…”
She looks back and forth from him to his car, carefully taking in his entire appearance before spitting venomously, “I do not need your charity. Or to get murdered in your car .” She emphasizes ‘your car’ with air quotes; sassy thing. Taking another puff of his cigarette before finishing off and stomping it out on the pavement, he shrugs his shoulders casually, putting his hands in his pockets and crossing his legs.
“Consider it an apology for throwing your ass on the ground then.” Why is he trying so hard? Is he that desperate for company, human contact, and genuine conversation? He doesn't want to keep that line of thought, and open up a whole other can of worms he doesn't want to deal with right now. He just knows somehow that he should keep talking with her, at least for the night.
Stanley isn't even sure he has enough money to buy an actual cup of coffee let alone two, but seeing as she was stealing his car she can’t be above a little dine-and-dash.
Stan watches her take one step off the pavement and into the street, he can tell she's made her decision already, but he can't tell if she's headed to the passenger side of the car or down the street the way she came. She clicks her tongue before asking him the question they're both thinking at this moment. “Why bother offering? You don't know me.”
Stanley stands up and spins to open his car door before glancing at her in the soft light the car emits from having the door open. “Misery loves company, right? Why the hell not, it's not like we've got anything better to do.”
With this remark, her shoulders seem to slump in acceptance and she pads her way from the front of the vehicle to the passenger door—opening it to climb inside. With both of them in the vehicle he places his keys in the ignition. Stan’s lips curl into a grin, but inside, he can’t shake the feeling that something's about to change—something irreversible. Whatever it is, though, he’s ready for it.