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shyphonics · 5 months ago

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Salad Days, Chapter 8: Tell Me Now, and I Won't Ask Again

(Rodrick Heffley x reader)

chapter directory

hi hello I'm here and apologizing in advance for the turn this story took because I started having emotions while I was writing it lmao.

I have once again added a few secret songs to the playlist, so go and check that out if you're so inclined :) thank you so much to everyone who's read this. I'm having a time.

Life's an illusion, love is the dream

But I don't know what it is

Everyone's saying things to me

But I know it's okay, okay

Everybody's happy nowadays

Rodrick nods to Buck as he finishes loading up his truck, stretching his arms above his head and hopping into the driver’s seat. It’s been just short of a week since he’d last seen you. He sighs, looking at the dashboard, trying to shoo the thoughts of you away. He’d almost broken the night before and opened up his email account, taken a chance and said something, anything to you.

He’d ended up being too scared.

There’s no point.

Besides, he kind of likes his new job. He just drives around all day, does some light physical labor, and the people at the restaurants, or liquor stores, or wherever he is that day, smile and thank him. Tell him he’s a good, fast worker. He’d specifically requested no downtown bars on his route.

Buck had laughed and said I can’t blame ya. We’ll make Tony do it.

The engine roars to life, and he scans through the radio stations until it lands on a good-sounding song. The music is upbeat, with a high, meandering guitar riff.

Life's an illusion

Love is a dream

Life's the illusion

Love is the dream

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot. The words of the song prick his ears, and he ignores them, pretending they mean nothing to him as the song fades out.

Then he hears a voice.

An all too familiar voice.

This is 98.7, radio free Port Hanna. Buzzcocks, Singles Going Steady, 1979. Personally, it's in my top five. Sometimes, I just feel like-

Suddenly, he sees flashes of your apartment, the lights above your bed. Your kitchen counter. Your face, so close to his, praising him. You, on top of him. Your soft skin. The smell of your soap, and the tile of your bathroom.

I really, definitely like you.

He switches the station fast, to some lifeless buttrock. He leaves it there. This is… fine. A month or two ago, he might have even liked this song. He sighs, stopping at a red light and looking at the map in his passenger seat. He notices a red line veering off from his uptown stops. He picks up the map. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

That looks like The Strike.

As he gets closer, glancing down at the map, he realizes it’s not, but it’s close. He drives by, seeing the giant, boarded up window, which somebody has painted we’ll be back, fuckers! on. The front of the building is fenced off. He feels bile rise in his throat.

His delivery is 2 doors down, a liquor store on the corner, Phoenix Liquors. The guy inside is friendly, with red hair and a silver nose ring.

“Oh, hey! Are you my delivery guy?” He sounds excited.

“Y-yeah!” Rodrick stutters.

“Oh, thank god. It’s usually this guy named Terry, and he’s an asshole.” The man laughs.

Rodrick wracks his brain. Terry, Terry…

“Oh! Yeah, Terry’s weird. He has these pictures of, like, women in 80s aerobics clothes in his truck.” Rodrick laughs.

The man cackles, steadying himself with a hand on the counter.

“God, that makes so much sense.” He laughs, “I’m Joey, by the way. You look… really familiar.”

Rodrick panics, feeling sweat start to prick at his hairline.

“I, um, uh…” He pulls his hat down, trying to cover his face.

“You played at The Strike last Friday! That’s it. You’re a drummer, right?”

“No, I…” Rodrick laughs nervously.

“Yeah! You guys were fucking sick as hell! You played ‘Rise Above’! What was your band called again? Löded Diper?.”

“No, no,” Rodrick’s voice falls to a hushed tone, “I mean, yes, but no…”

“Dude. You guys were great. I’m in Put Down, I’d love to play a show with you guys sometime.”

“Really?” Rodrick’s eyes widen, “I- I mean, no I’m kinda… I don’t know when we’ll play again, y’know?”

Joey looks at him in disbelief.

“What? Are you guys doing, like, a weird album release thing? Building hype? Because people loved you. You got a mention in The Eye this week. Alex Garcia, the music reporter, really liked you guys. Which is a big deal. Because he kinda hates everyone.” Joey smiles.

“What?” Rodrick perks up.

“Yeah! You gotta take your chance while you got it, man.”

Rodrick’s mind goes blank. Joey’s eyes are kind, and Rodrick feels like he can trust him.

“I, uh… I kinda…”

Joey cocks his head to the side.

“I kinda messed things up with somebody important.”

“Who?”

“Um, the lead singer of The Shrieks?” Rodrick’s voice sounds small, afraid.

“Oh.” Joey laughs, “Yeah, she doesn’t fuck around. We’re friends though, do you want me to ask about you? Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.”

“No!” Rodrick blurts out, then calms down, “No, no, I… it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I… I should start loading in.” Rodrick sighs, walking away from the counter.

He makes his way back to the truck out front, keeping his head down in case anyone from The Strike is outside.

He comes back to find that Joey has put a doorstop down, and smiles. What a nice guy. Rodrick gets to work, wheeling cases of bottles and cans into the store, stocking them, and starting over. A different song seems to be playing every time he comes back. Joey makes light conversation, and time seems to fly. Before he knows it, he only has one load of cans left. He wheels his dolly through the front door for the last time, loading the final empty shelf with a quirkily-labeled local beer, the can featuring a topless woman riding a dragon. He wheels the dolly back up to the counter.

“Hey, well, even if you don’t play, we should hang out, okay?” Joey smiles, “I’m always here, or at one of the bars. I kinda work everywhere."

Rodrick feels a pang of sadness in his chest, knowing he probably won’t make it out to hang out with Joey.

“Yeah… yeah, we totally should.”

“We’ve been around, like, if you guys wanna know where to tour when you’re ready, we’ve got a whole guide written up. I'll make you a copy."

Rodrick might as well have been slamming his head against the wall, like the idiot that he was. This guy is offering him tour advice, and he knows he’s not going to take it.

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

Joey holds his hand out for a high five, and Rodrick meets him halfway, smiling nervously. He freezes in the doorway as he hears your voice once more, low and stable over the store speakers.

Sorry for all the sap today, folks. It’s just one of those days.

Joey flashes him a sympathetic look, that he doesn’t stick around to see.

He makes his way back out to his truck, grabbing a copy of The Eye from a box outside. He sits in the driver's seat for a minute, bonking his head against the steering wheel. What is he doing? This is what he’s wanted, as long as he can remember, and he’s throwing it away, because…?

Because he’s a bad person.

He sits up, looking at himself in the rear view.

He’d forgotten to remind himself of that today.

Bad. Bad.

He stares into his own dark brown eyes, starting the truck and driving off, towards the other end of town. He can’t let himself forget. He did this to himself. No one else. It was him.

Tonight you’re mine completely

You give your love so sweetly

Tonight the light of love is in your eyes

But will you love me tomorrow?

It’s been a week since you saw Rodrick. Your radio plays are a little spiteful today, you’ll admit. All songs of scorn, or longing, and maybe a small part of you hopes that Rodrick is listening.

This is stupid. You’re strong. You should’ve forgotten him, written him off by now.

But you can’t.

Some part of you is still hoping he’ll call and apologize, have some magic excuse for leaving you hanging for a week. It doesn’t even have to be a good excuse. You really just want to hear his voice.

You hate that you’re so desperate to hear his voice.

You spin in your desk chair as a commercial break plays, a man yelling about discount tires. You’re tempted- so tempted- to send him another email. One with harsh words. One that will hurt him, maybe stick with him forever. You want him to feel just as bad as you do right now.

Something tells you this isn’t just him being a dumb guy, though.

Something tells you that something much bigger is at play.

You instinctively take the mic as the commercial break ends, your mind unfocused, running on pure routine. You barely even hear the words you say.

“98.7, radio free Port Hanna. Listen up, folks. Repairs are delayed. The city sent the fire marshal after us, and we’re on cable control duty until they say we’re good to go. I’m sure you can imagine the nightmare that guy walked into- power strips as far as the eye can see. But the window will be back tomorrow. Why don’t you come up and drive past us sometime?”

You sigh, preparing to hit play on your next pick.

“Stay strong, folks. You never know when the man is out to get’cha.”

The next song plays, and you stare into the grainy little screen of your cell phone. Then just like that, it's ringing. An unknown number. Your eyes nearly jump out of your skull.

You do have a rule with unknown numbers, though. You always let them talk first.

You answer the phone, bringing it to your ear, and squeeze your eyes shut, hoping against all hope that it's Rodrick.

The voice on the line is familiar, but in a way that makes your blood run cold. There's no way… it can't be.

It sounds like your dad. He's laughing, in a smug, awful tone.

“We found you,” he says, the laughter coming to a halt, “We finally found you.”

Your jaw drops, and your hands shake as you hang up as fast as you possibly can, the phone falling out of your hand and onto the floor.

No way. No fucking way. He's bluffing.

Then you remember… you were on TV last week. There's a good chance that news piece made it back to your hometown. You put your head in your hands, cursing yourself. Shit! Free access to what you look like and where you work got broadcasted straight to the man you've been trying to hide from for nearly 6 years. You don't know how much he's capable of on his own, but you should clearly be cautious if he found your fucking phone number.

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind, you'd just been so angry about what happened. Part of you had hoped he just wouldn't care anymore.

You check the clock. You're on air for another hour, and then it's straight to the bar for more work on repairs. You cross the studio and double check the lock on the door. Checking the window, you see that the parking lot is as empty as it should be on a day like this.

Cautiously, you pick your phone up and see several new texts.

You ungrateful brat.

You thought you could hide? You think you're smarter than us?

You're still sick. You need help.

I'll be waiting outside of that horrible bar to collect you and bring you home.

Your hands shake so hard, you can barely read what he's sent. You feel your breaths coming fast and ragged, trying to come up with any plan at all.

You have one beam of hope left. You hadn't said anything on the phone. He may know where you work, and what you look like, but he doesn't know for a fact that this is your phone.

You unlock the studio, rushing downstairs and giving the receptionist a frightened look.

“Bonnie…?”

She smiles, looking up from her knitting.

Bonnie is a woman who proudly describes herself as “funky.” She's in her mid 70s, and she dresses like she's in a Deee-Lite video. Her orange hair is tied back in a floral scarf, her eyes are lined in bright turquoise, and her lipstick is a jarring shade of coral. You smile back. She's one of the sweetest people you've ever met.

There is a reason that she's trusted to man the front door, though.

Bonnie doesn't take shit from anyone.

Not a lot of people know about your past, but you have had a few late night talks with Bonnie in the studio, and she knows your dad is not a man you want to see.

“Can you do me a huge favor?” You smile sheepishly, clasping your hands together to keep them from shaking.

She nods, putting the knitting aside, “Oh, please! I'm so bored.”

You laugh, despite the situation, and take your cell phone out of your pocket.

“Well, I'm getting these harassing phone calls,” You start, frowning down at the little screen.

“From who?” She looks devastated.

“My, um… my dad. Remember how I said he's kind of a bad guy?”

She nods fiercely.

“He found me, and he called me, but he never heard my voice, so he doesn't know for sure that it's me.” You frown down at the phone, then look back up at her, “Bonnie, will you record a voicemail message on my phone?”

She leans back and laughs, nodding and reaching her hand out for the phone.

“Oh, this will be fun!” Her tone is devious.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

You burst into laughter the second she’s done.

“That’s perfect.” You grin as she hands you your phone back, feeling a sense of relief wash over you.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.” She winks.

You make a mental note to bring her flowers or something on your next shift.

She picks up her needles and waves as you go back up to the studio. Songs are still playing from your CD queue, and you decide to call Mike before commercial.

“Perfect timing, kid,” he answers, “You ready to check 28 power strips?”

You sigh.

“Mike… is there a car parked outside the bar? One that looks out of place, maybe? A white BMW?”

You're not sure if your dad is still driving his stupid vanity car, but you wouldn't doubt it.

You hear his footsteps.

“Yup, white BMW. Yuck. Why? Are you psychic? Have you been hiding that from me this whole time? Do you know how useful that would've been?”

A laugh almost escapes, but the dread of the situation is just too consuming.

“That's my dad. I don't know if you remember, but-”

“Your dad?” Mike's tone is hushed, panicked, “The one who-”

“Yes!” You interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying not to let any stray memories come in.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” You hear Mike pacing.

“He found me, I don't know. I have to assume he saw me on the news last week and tracked me down. I thought he would've stopped caring by this point!” You lean against the wall, hand on your chest, in some effort to comfort yourself.

“Should I go out there and say something?” Mike asks, “I’ll make something up! Tell him we forgot to paint the curb red.”

“He already knows I work there, Mike. There’s no point. He said he'd wait at the bar to ‘collect’ me.” You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Collect you?” Mike scoffs, “You’re a fucking adult!”

You sniffle, shaking your head, your voice starting to break, “What if he's got a court order or something? What if he can collect me, Mike?”

Mike is quiet.

“You're right. Don't come in, lay low. Finish your shift, and then go home.”

“Should I go home?” You feel yourself unraveling completely, your heart beating fast, your eyes twitching, “What if he knows where I live?”

“I'm watching his car. I'll let you know if the fucker moves. Just keep your door locked, and let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, wiping your eyes, “Thanks, Mike. I'm… I'm so sorry.”

“He should be fucking sorry. I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hang up, collapsing into the rolling chair just in time to play a commercial break. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was never supposed to find you. He wasn’t supposed to give a shit anymore. You turn the playback volume as high as you can handle, trying to get him out of your head. Trying not to remember.

You feel like a zombie for the rest of your shift, finishing out your queue and waiting for Nick to come in for his shift.

You hear the doorknob rattling behind you and spin around, your eyes wide in fear. Nick puts his hands up in surrender.

You let him in, sighing in relief.

“Hey, paranoid, what's gotten into you?” He smiles, hanging up his jacket. His face drops when he looks at you.

“My dad is here. He's at the bar waiting for me.” Your voice comes out small, pitiful. You hold your elbows, slouching over.

“Your dad? Oh, fuck,” He whispers, “What are you going to do?”

“Run and hide,” you shrug, “Wouldn't be the first time.”

You grab your stuff and turn to face him, forcing an uneasy smile.

He sits in the chair, putting the headphones around his neck, and returns your uneasy look.

“Well, if you need help, you know where to find me."

"I know."

My eyes feel like they're gonna bleed

Dried up and bulging out my skull

My mouth is dry, my face is numb

Fucked up and spun out in my room

On my own, here we go

Rodrick sits in his usual stool at Jimmy's, a mug of beer in his hand, staring down at the bar. The top is smooth, clear plastic, with ads and business cards slipped underneath. Used cars, chiropractors, nail salons, and so many little concert fliers.

Most seem to be for smaller country, tribute, or solo acts, people that play in places like this.

Currently, a man sits in the corner with an electric guitar, playing a simple riff, with no rhythm to be found. His off-key crooning makes Rodrick want to cover his ears, but the guys from the plant are watching him closely, cheering him on.

He hates it here.

He opens his copy of The Eye, flipping through to the music section.

Hey, Friday Night's Alright for Fighting, Too

by Alex Garcia

A brawl broke out last Friday at The Strike, just a day before the vandalism took place. I personally think that the raw power of all 5 bands was too much for the local frat boys to handle, and their little brains just straight-up exploded.

Newcomers Löded Diper burst onto the the scene for the first time. Ignore their name, and go see them as soon as you can. With a powerful rhythm section, and a palpable friendship between the members, these guys are definitely one to watch. The chemistry was off the charts.

Dammit. That's a good review. That's a really good review. Rodrick leans forward, his elbow on the bar, his head in his hand.

The bartender is the same one as usual, Caitlin. She's about his age, with flat ironed hair and an eyebrow ring.

“This sucks.” She slumps down on her elbows in front of him.

“I know,” he shakes his head, taking a long drink of his beer. He feels a slight smile on his face. At least someone gets it.

“I'm going to this tonight,” She points down at the counter, to a small, square flier advertising a show at one of the bars downtown, Dime Store. His heart sinks, remembering that you'd said he could probably get a show there. “You wanna come with?”

He looks up. She's smiling sweetly, with one of her eyebrows raised. Is she… flirting with him? Rodrick swallows hard, his mouth falling open, but no words come out.

Caitlin is pretty, and nice, and tough as hell for working in a horrible place like this.

He can't say he's interested in her, though. She's not you. He's still thinking about you, even if he's accepted that he's completely ruined his chance.

Not to mention, he can't show his face down there, even if he was interested.

“I…” he looks down, “I can't, I'm sorry. I'm really busy.”

He looks up, sheepish, knowing that was a shitty lie.

Caitlin looks disappointed.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. I get it.” She stands up straight, grabbing a rag and wiping down the empty side of the bar.

Rodrick lets his head fall with a thunk. Dumbass.

“Y'know, if you have a girlfriend or something, you can just say it. It's better than some lame ‘I’m busy’ bullshit.” She looks down at him, mocking him with a deep, dopey voice as she repeats his words.

He picks his head up, eyes still down towards the bar, focusing on an ad for a dog groomer. The picture is old and warped, and the dog looks like some sort of monster.

“I don't have a girlfriend, I just…” He sighs.

“Oh, you like someone.” She teases.

“Sure, you could say that.”

“And you screwed it up, because you're a dumb guy?” She laughs, but her face is sympathetic when he looks at her.

He nods. That’s a pretty good way to put it.

“You should call her or something, it can't be that bad.” She comes back to stand in front of him.

“It's that bad. I'm that bad. I'm a bad guy.” He sulks.

“You? C’mon,” She laughs, “You’re not a bad guy. You're the only one of these assholes who's actually nice to me.”

Rodrick turns to look at his horrible coworkers. Buck is singing with the guitar guy. They’re doing a Creed song. Fucking Creed. Buck is crying. He rolls his eyes, turning back to Caitlin.

“Yeah, they’re pretty fucking horrible. I don’t mean that I’m mean, though. Like, I’m not rude or anything. More like… sometimes I think I was just born bad. I do bad things, and I don’t even realize they’re bad. Or that I’m doing them! I try my best, but I just spread… badness. Everywhere I go. I’m a bad person.” He shrinks back in the barstool.

Caitlin gives him a look of absolute pity. It makes him want to disappear.

“Jesus. What the hell did you do to this girl to make you think that?” She laughs softly, shaking her head.

“I got into a stupid fight with a stupid asshole at her bar, and the stupid asshole went and vandalized the bar, so it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have even given him a second look.”

“How… exactly is what happened to The Strike your fault?” She looks unimpressed, “Sure, bar fights are fucking stupid, but did you start the fight? Or did he?”

“Well,” Rodrick thinks back, “He pushed me, I pushed him, he sucker punched me in the face.”

“Buddy,” Caitlin laughs, “That is not your fault.”

“But…” Rodrick looks down, “You should’ve seen the way she looked at me when it happened, and when she figured out it was the guy who punched me who did it.”

“How did she look at you? Show me.”

“Like… like…” Rodrick frowns, and shakes his head, doing his best impression, trying to match the rage that had been in your eyes. Caitlin covers her mouth as she laughs.

“Okay, that just looks generally pissed off. Did she say anything?”

“She said,” Rodrick thinks, “She… she said… ‘don’t feel bad, it’s not your fault, I’m just pissed off’.”

Caitlin looks at Rodrick like he is the dumbest man in the world.

“...what?” Rodrick asks quietly, after a moment of silence.

“She said it’s not your fault!”

“She didn’t mean it, it’s totally my fault.” Rodrick groans.

“She would’ve told you if it were your fault. So, what you’re telling me is, this girl had her workplace vandalized and a guy she presumably liked completely stop talking to her on the same day?”

“See?” Rodrick blurts out, “Even if the bar wasn’t my fault, that’s not good either! Either way, I suck!”

“Do you know what you can do about that?” Caitlin gets closer to him, smiling.

Rodrick is quiet.

“Call her!” She enunciates carefully.

Rodrick stutters, starting and abandoning several sentences, finally landing on, “I can’t.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes.

“She probably doesn’t even like me anymore! She probably just wanted it to be a one night stand after all! She was probably just being nice when she said she wanted to see me again! She’s, like, hardcore!”

Caitlin’s eyes go wide.

“One night stand?! Rodrick!”

“What?!”

“You slept with her?” She yells.

The music stops. Rodrick’s coworkers all look at him, and start hooting and hollering as they always do.

Yeah, alright, Ricky! Atta boy!

Rodrick puts his head down in shame.

Caitlin lowers her head, whispering.

“Okay, dude, I do not think you’re a bad guy, but you seriously need to call this girl. Like, right now.”

“I… I don’t have her number.” He admits.

Caitlin puts her face in her hands, rubbing her temples.

“You can not be serious! Okay,” Caitlin flips her phone open, “I have everybody’s numbers, what’s her name?”

She scrolls through her contact list, and fuck. There you are. Caitlin keeps an iron grip on his arm as he dials, and he takes deep breaths as it rings.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

Rodrick stares, dumbfounded, at the phone.

“She didn't answer?” Caitlin releases his arm, leaning over the bar.

“It was… an old lady's voicemail.”

She looks at him, confused. He dials again, this time putting it on speakerphone.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

“She changed her number.” Rodrick murmurs, looking down.

“No, no,” Caitlin looks at her own phone, her eyebrows hitched in worry, “I met her, like, 2 years ago, she's probably just changed it since then. Or I took it down wrong!”

Rodrick crumples onto the bar, groaning.

Caitlin grimaces, putting a tentative hand on his back.

“Hey, hey. This doesn't mean anything.”

“It means fucking everything,” his mouth pulls into a frown, “It means she hates me.”

It's quiet for a while. Caitlin slowly takes her hand off his back, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“Well,” she finally says, “Come out with me, then.”

He lifts his head.

“As friends! Just as friends.” She clarifies, waving her hands, “C'mon, I'm off in 20 minutes. Let's have a good time at a bar for once.”

He looks at her for a while, before finally agreeing.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You don’t want me anymore

So I just walk right out that door

Played a game right from the start

I trust you, you use me, now my heart’s torn apart

So I'm sailin’, yeah I'm sailin’ on

I'm movin’, yeah I'm movin’ on

Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on

Your cell phone rings once again, and you debate snapping it right in half. You sit, curled on your couch, staring at it in fear. This is a new number. Probably your mom's phone. You consider yourself lucky that Bonnie had been there to help you out. The message will at least throw them off your scent a little.

You've received one text from Mike, ugly car is at Motel 6 on Coal Ave.

That's a relief, at least.

You feel like you're going crazy.

A thunderstorm rages outside your apartment, and you're suddenly hating how many windows you have inside. The entire outside-facing wall is essentially just one big window. Every time lightning strikes, you find yourself thinking, that's it. He saw me.

Yet, when you check the window, nobody unusual is parked on the street below.

You're struck with a passing thought as a clap of thunder rattles your windows.

What if…?

No way.

Why would Rodrick call now?

You carefully pick up your phone, looking at 2 missed calls. You'd bet good money on that being your mom's cell phone, or even your dad having a backup number.

You'd really like to hear from Rodrick, though. Now more than ever.

As pathetic as that may be.

You take a deep breath. If you don't talk, nobody will know it's you.

You dial. It rings for what seems like forever.

I'm sorry, but the person you have dialed has a voicemail box that hasn't been-

You hang up quickly. Dammit. Now you have no idea.

You eye your laptop for a second before opening it.

Rodrick hasn't emailed you. You decide to send another one to him.

Not to hurt him. Not to destroy him. Just to see.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected], [email protected]

Subject: Did you call me?

Rodrick.

Are you calling me? I assume the ship has sailed and I don't know why you would be. Dick move, by the way.

Let me know if that was you who called me twice in a row tonight and I'll answer. I can't answer mystery numbers right now. I don't want to explain and you probably don't care anyway.

Just please let me know.

You drop your head as you hit send.

You doubt he'll answer. You doubt it was him.

But the chance is enough to make you wonder.

Enough to make you miss him.

You know he wouldn't have some grand plan to save you from this situation, but that's not what you need, anyway. You have a feeling that Rodrick’s form of support would just be sitting on the couch with you until you could fix things yourself.

That's what you need.

You stare at your inbox for a while, refreshing over and over, feeling more helpless. You wonder where he is. If he's even thought about you once.

You feel so weak.

You feel so angry.

No person should make you feel like this. You're better than this.

A knock at your door scares you within an inch of your life, and you cover your mouth to stifle any sound you might make. You creep towards the door, peeking through the peephole.

It’s Nick, with his hands shoved in his jacket pocket. You open the door and let him in.

“Hey,” He closes the door behind him, locking the deadbolt, “Any word?”

“Nothing. I got 2 calls, but it might be… someone else.”

He eyes you strangely, then takes his hands out of his pockets.

“I had this crazy idea,” He reveals what he’s got to you.

2 plane tickets from the nearby regional airport to LAX. You take them, staring up at him in disbelief.

“It’s crazy, I know,” He scratches the back of his head, “I just thought, if you’re gonna run, you might as well go far, far away. Somewhere exciting.”

You keep your eyes on him, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“And I’d wanna go with you.”

“What? Like, run away together?” You hand him the tickets back.

He looks at the floor.

“Look. Ever since I met you, I…”

“Don’t, Nick. I know you feel bad for me, but don’t say anything you don’t mean, okay?”

You walk to your couch, sitting with your hands in your lap.

“I mean it,” He appears in front of you. He looks so sincere, “I love you. In whatever way you want me to.”

You don’t really know what you feel for Nick. He’s been there, with you, since the beginning, but…

Do you love him? As a friend, maybe. You decide to shelve those feelings for now.

“I can’t leave, Nick.”

His face drops when you don’t respond to his confession.

“I have too many things here worth fighting for. I can’t leave. Plus, who’s to say my dad can’t find me wherever I go? I have to stay here and fix this.” You look out the window as another flash of lightning strikes.

Nick looks at you for a long time, head down, shoulders slouched. He finally speaks.

“Just think about it, okay?”

(tag list: @crumpets-are-better-with-jam @stargurl-01)

#im determined to finish this #i have ideas #I love deee-lite #world clique is a no skipper #also I'm sorry but creed kinda fucks #my irl hxc friends did a creed cover and and now I can't deny the power of higher #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick heffley #rodrick x reader #rodrick rules #rodrick heffley fanfic #doawk rodrick #doawk rodrick fanfic #rodrick fanfic #devon bostick

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