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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

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Passenger / Chapter 2

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Two: NY -> IL

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Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.7k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, selling drugs, being held captive, handcuffs, swearing, lack of privacy and autonomy, food mention, urination mention, death threat, knife mention, gun mention, passive and massive aggression

Notes: Let me know what you think, thank you for reading!!

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about this guy in the day or so since he abducted you, it’s that he’s quiet.

Now, when you say he’s quiet, you don’t mean he shuts down your questions with one word answers, or that he’s timid, or anything like that. You mean he has not acknowledged your presence since locking you into the bucket seat in his sleeper cab yesterday.

He ignores everything you say. It’s not for lack of trying on your part, either. So far this morning, you’ve attempted:

“Is there a toilet in here?”

“I’m hungry.”

“What’s your name?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“It’s Portland, isn’t it?”

“I have to pee.”

“Do you have a radio?”

“Like a music radio, not the CB.”

“Don’t you get bored in here?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“What’s your dogs name?”

“Can I pet him?”

“I’m gonna pet him.”

“Seriously I think my bladder is gonna explode.”

In response? Nothing. Radio fucking silence. He has talked to his dog more than he has to you.

To be fair, his dog is very cute and lovable. Probably a better conversationalist than his human, too. The white French Bulldog has been your only source of entertainment and socialization since coming onboard.

Meanwhile, all of your other needs are being pointedly rejected.

You think that him keeping you locked in this five-point harness without access to food, water, or a bathroom might be punishment for your vitriol yesterday. At that point, you were still in the “anger” stage of grieving your freedom, and may or may not have spit at him after calling him a fascist fucking bootlicker.

In your defense, he fucking abducted you. You’re 99% sure he’s bringing you to Portland to collect a bounty on your head. What did he say yesterday?

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

Dead or alive.

If he doesn’t murder you before your arrival, that will come shortly after. You know it. All the people you went into that warehouse with are now unreachable.

The last one you talked to was Cheese, and that was over two weeks ago. They told you everyone else was gone. Plucked off, one by one. Some of them turned up dead of an overdose a few days after disappearing. Others are still missing. Probably in the lost and found bin of a morgue or rotting under a bridge somewhere.

If you don’t get the fuck out of here, that will be you.

The truck rapidly drops speed as your captor hits the brakes and starts downshifting gears. Only a small slice of the outside word is visible from your place behind the passenger’s seat, but you see signs off the exit he’s taking. You recognize one as New York State Route 400.

“Please tell me we’re stopping to use the bathroom.”

He doesn’t respond, so you stare daggers at his ear and cross your arms over your chest. Relief quickly melts your frustration when you see a Marathon gas station sign.

The man parks his rig on the furthest edge of the parking lot. When he swings his legs into the aisle between the driver and passenger seat and rises, your whole body tenses. His eyes are concealed by the mirrored lenses of his aviators, but you can feel his assessing gaze.

He takes a few steps towards you and crouches down, pulling the handcuffs from their case on his belt, then holds his hand out to you.

“What?”

His head tilts to the side. Like he’s fucking annoyed or something. A flash of red burns your vision.

“Oh my god I can’t with you,” you roll your eyes, then blink at him, “Just use your words, tell me what you want me t—hey!”

He wrestles your wrist away from you, closing one handcuff around it, the other around a bolted-down grab bar on the wall beside you. All you can do for a moment is stare at your wrist and think: He is going to kill me.

Before you can fully comprehend the thought, the man slides a key into the base of your seat and unlocks the harness, then stands.��

“Latrine under the seat,” he advises while clipping the dog’s leash onto his collar.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He doesn’t react. Just plucks his dog off the passenger’s seat and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

The second stillness settles in the cab, it dawns on you that you’re alone.

You jump to your feet and pull your weight against the handcuff, trying to yank yourself out. The metal ring crushes the bulk of your hand, digging hard into your skin. It refuses to budge.

If you break your hand, it could be possible, but you don’t want to resort to that just yet. You dig in your pockets and run your free hand through your hair, looking for bobby pins you could use to pick the lock, but don’t find any.

Next, you wrap your hands around the cool grab bar and pull as hard as you can. Nothing. Even when you prop a foot on the wall and yank violently, using your weight, it holds solid to the wall.

Your bladder aches from neglect and sends an urgent notice to you brain. With a frown of disdain, you open the drawer under the bucket seat. Just like he said, there’s a shiny metal latrine. An old-timey piss pot.

If you don’t relieve yourself soon, you’ll have to pee your pants or pop a squat in front of the fucking lunatic keeping you captive.

So… you piss in the pot.

When he returns, he wordlessly trades the dog for the latrine and empties it on the asphalt, then slides it across the floor to you and slams the door shut. You put it away and plop down in the bucket seat with a huff.

The pocket knife in your bra pokes into you, as if to remind you of its presence. It’s a fucking miracle he didn’t find it while searching you. You could try to pick the handcuff lock with its blade, but don’t know where he is and when he’ll be back.

If you’re going to make it out of this alive, you have to play it smart. You have to be patient and wait for the right opportunity.

The dog, who was busy whining for a bit after his person left, eventually joins you in the sleeper cab.

“He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?”

His big satellite ears perk up. He jumps on the bed and looks at you.

“You seem nice, though,” you smirk, holding your hand out to the little bug-eyed pup, who sniffs you enthusiastically, “What’re you doing with a maniac like him?”

He lets out a huffy sneeze, then stretches his hind legs out behind him, flopping down onto the the thin mattress.

“Are you being held against your will, too?”

He grumbles and rolls onto his back. His floppy jowls sag from gravity, pink tongue hanging out the side. You snort at him and scratch his belly. His hind leg start kicking and his eyes squint with delight.

You fawn over him for a few minutes before the driver’s door swings open. Upon seeing him, the dog flips over and springs into the passenger’s seat, spinning in circles, letting out little sneezes of excitement.

Your captor pulls himself up into the truck and swings the door shut. He makes his way back to the sleeper portion of the trailer and drops a grease-stained fast food bag on the bed. While he moves about the cabin, rummaging through overhead storage for a gallon jug of water and a dog bowl, you eye his broad frame.

Sure, he’s stronger than you and faster than you, but if you had the element of surprise on your side, you might be able to take him down and escape. Maybe you could hit him in the head with the piss pot and knock him out. Or stab him.

Your skin tingles where the pocket knife is hidden, and you think: I really could stab him.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

The idea makes you shudder. It goes on the back burner for now.

The dog jumps down to the floor and starts lapping at the water his person pours into the dog bowl. You stare at the water and suddenly remember how fucking thirsty you are.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

The man rises and looks from you, to the gallon jug, then holds it out to you.

You raise an eyebrow, “Straight outta the jug?”

He doesn’t acknowledge the question, so you shrug and take it from him, muttering, “You know, usually when someone says something to you, it’s customary to respond. That’s how conversations work.”

Once again, he ignores you.

You roll your eyes and bring the jug to your lips with your free hand. The water is tepid and stale, but you guzzle it down like it’s the most refreshing beverage you’ve ever encountered. It streams down the corners of your mouth, but you don’t care.

Panting, you hand it back to him. His dark eyebrow raise from over the frame of his sunglasses as grabs it from you. Before twisting the cap back on and returning it to the overhead compartment, he takes a few deep swigs.

“Not afraid of my cooties?” you joke.

Nothing.

He snatches the fast food bag off the bed and lowers himself onto the mattress, pulling out a stack of napkins, then a few cheeseburgers.

Another thing you’ve noticed about him is the way he carries himself. His rigid posture and concise movements. Everything he does seems practiced, competent, and strangely… proper, almost?

It’s fascinating.

The dog hops up next to your captor and stomps unceremoniously across his lap, diving headfirst into the crinkly bag.

“Hey!” he tucks the dog into his side like a football and chastises him, “Just wait.”

He pulls two boxes of fries out of the bag, slides one towards you, followed by a cheeseburger, then places the dog on the ground, “Sit.”

The dog perks up and complies, his little tail stub wiggling against the rubber mat.

Your captor unwraps a cheeseburger, gives it to the dog, then takes his food and moves to the head of the bed, leaning against the wall opposite you.

“I don’t eat meat,” you inform him, “So if you want my burger, go for it.”

The man seems to consider this for a moment before he leans forward and grabs it, splitting it with the dog while you eat a few fries and try not to be completely obvious about your watching him. The dog whines while watching him eat.

“Do you have dog food?” you ask.

He looks up and says, “Dog food has meat in it.”

You jerk back, shaking your head, “For the dog, not for me.”

He stares at you.

“Oh,” you blink, then scoff, “You’re trying to be funny. That was a joke. Hilarious. Ok. Well, your dog probably shouldn’t just eat cheeseburgers, it’s not good for him.”

This is, predictably, met with no response. He raises his eyebrows and returns his attention to his food.

When the man finishes eating, he opens the overhead compartment, pulling out a bag of dry dog food and another bowl. He makes a point to look up at you as he pours the kibble into the bowl. Your cheeks burn and you deflate for a moment before crossing your arms over your chest and muttering, “Good.”

He moves up to the driver’s seat and starts tapping the screen of a tablet mounted to his dash.

Din selects a southbound pickup approximately 30 miles out, drop off Nebraska. Off-course, but it pays enough.

“Can I sit up there?”

His jaw clenches.

That’s if he can stand being in the same vehicle as you for that long.

Normally when he picks up bounties, they’re either too scared to talk to him or get the hint after the first few unanswered questions.

But not you.

No, you are tenacious.

And noisy. So noisy.

It’s irritating enough that you ask him a question every five minutes, but on top of that, you make all these other sounds that never seem to cease. Toes tap-tap-tapping on the floor. Fingertips thrumming against the wall or the grab bar or your body. You hum and sing to yourself constantly.

It is driving him crazy.

He sets course for the pickup site and pats the passenger’s seat, “Come on.”

“Are you talking to me or him?”

You’re sitting there with this smart aleck look on your face, one arm dangling from a handcuff, the other splayed out on your thigh. Two fingers alternate pat-pat-pat-pat against your leg like you’re some kind of human metronome.

The dog hops down off of Din’s bed and climbs into the passenger’s seat, spinning around a few times before curling into a ball with a hmph.

“Buckle up,” he tells you.

“How do you propose I do that, big guy? I have one hand.”

Din sighs, then gets to his feet. While he’s hovering there, fastening you into the five-point harness, your breath scatters across his face. Your intense gaze burns his skin.

He reaches for the buckle between your legs and you spread them further apart. Heat flickers at the base of his spine when he goes to snap the belt in place and his knuckles brush against your thigh.

You say nothing.

You don’t move.

For once, you’re still.

He clicks the seatbelt in place and locks it, then unfastens the handcuffs and returns them to their place on his belt.

You wring your wrist, cussing under your breath, and ask, “Can I have my guitar?”

“No.”

“Why not?” you stare up at him, chocolate brown eyes flicking around his face. Your sharp, almost boyish, features pinching up into a fierce expression.

Din bites his tongue and returns to his seat, while you let out an exasperated huff of, “Fucking asshole,” and cross your arms, scowling at the headrest in front of you.

He stomps down on the clutch twice and shifts the truck into first gear. Tension melts from his muscles when he realizes the cab is finally quiet. Just the comforting roar of the engine struggling to generate torque as he slides from one gear to the next.

When he gets to the highway and hits a sweet spot to cruise, the truck calms to a purr. Then he hears it.

Tap tap tap tap tap

The next exit your captor takes comes much sooner than you expected.

You crane your neck to get a better view out the massive windshield and frown, “Where are we going?”

Silence.

You glare at the side of the man’s head and exhale a big sigh like you’re annoyed by his lack of response.

But the truth is, your insides are humming. This is it. Your opportunity to get the fuck out of here.

He’s picking up some kind of freight, you’re sure of it. Which means he’s probably going to get out of the vehicle to hook up the trailer. On the off chance that someone might peak into the cab, he likely won't handcuff you. You guess he’ll issue some kind of threat once the destination draws near in an attempt to intimidate you into not causing a ruckus.

You check to make sure the blade hasn’t somehow disappeared and release a quiet, relieved sigh when your fingers rub against the hard object. The metal presses into your skin. That will stay put until you’re sure he’s occupied.

You scratch the woven polyester of the harness strap. Throughout the years, you’ve found yourself in a variety of precarious situations, but have never needed to cut a seatbelt. Your mind buzzes with excitement.

Do you stab it and let it rip? Or saw through the material? If you go with the saw technique, is it more effective to slide the blade against the flat plane of the strap, or go in at the edge?

The truck drops a few gears in rapid, but smooth, succession, then turns into a factory parking lot.

“It’s in your best interest to keep quiet while I do this.”

So predictable.

Out of curiosity, wanting to see if he has the balls to make his implicit threat explicit, you ask him, “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning if you talk to anyone, or try anything, I will kill you.”

There’s no hesitation.

You raise an eyebrow and scoff, but your mouth goes dry. Your throat gulps on its own accord. For a moment, you try to talk yourself out of this. Bargaining to try another route of escape. Another more concrete opportunity might present itself. Something that could give you more wiggle room.

But a not-so-gentle reminder trickles down your spine: he’s delivering you to a fate worse than death. Under no fucking circumstances will you go there without a fight. This could be the only chance.

You rub the knife through your clothes and eye the handle of the overhead compartment, mapping out where your pack and guitar are stuffed, contemplating whether or not you’ll even have time to get them before you bail.

The man makes quick work of backing the truck up to the facility. He flips a few switches and shifts into park, then turns to face you, “Are you going to behave?”

His voice is low and serious. The question, regrettably, makes something flutter at your core. Part of you wants to tell him no, just to see what he’d do.

“Yes,” you lie.

He tilts his head and stares at you for a moment, then holds out his hand, “Give me your knife.”

Fuck.

“What knife?”

“The pocket knife in your bra.”

You snort and shake your head, “Pocket knife in my bra?”

“I’ll give it back to you. But for now, I need you to give it to me.”

You clench your jaw and cross your arms.

“Do not make me take it myself,” he warns, “Neither of us want that.”

Blood rushes to your head with a hot wave of anger.

“Fuck you,” you spit, “Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself fucking lucky.”

The man doesn’t even flinch. His outstretched hand holds steady. Expectant.

“Fucking piece of shit goon,” you mutter, but slip a hand under your shirt, under the elastic of your sports bra, and fish out your blade. With a flick of your wrist, you toss it on the floor, “I fucking hate you.”

He picks the knife off the ground, slides it in his front pocket, then turns and opens the door.

For what it’s worth, he returned the knife like he said he would.

And the next time he stopped for food, after handcuffing you to the grab bar and giving you some private piss pot time, he brought you protein bars, french fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

It’s not enough to make up for your complete lack of autonomy, but it’s more consideration than you were expecting.

The sun set a while ago. Your sense of time is totally fucked, so you’re not sure exactly how long it’s been dark out, just that it feels like forever, and every time you try to look out the windshield or side windows, all you see is a a black void or the red glow of taillights. Sometimes you spot signs that give you clues to your location: Cleveland, Toledo, Chicago.

The last one you saw was Davenport, shortly after you were ripped from sleep when the 18-wheeler hit a rumble strip off the road’s shoulder. Your captor jerked the wheel, then regained control, steadying his course.

“Did you just fall asleep?” you asked him.

He didn’t respond.

“Hey,” you called, tossing a protein bar at his shoulder, “If you’re tired, you need to pull over and sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Silence.

So now you’re wide awake, unable to move or do anything about the fact that the mad man driving this giant fucking machine might drift off into dreamland at any moment. All you can do is watch him.

It’s hard to be sure, with the cab being so dark, but eventually you swear you see his head drooping.

“You know, if you’re really insistent on driving, I have some uppers in my bag,” you tell him, “Rather have you a little too alert than falling asleep at the wheel.”

“If you wanted me to get you your fix, you should have asked at the last stop.”

You snap your head back and scoff, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t respond, but you see his backlit hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel.

“I don’t need a ‘fix’, jackass.”

“So, what, you just deal speed out of the goodness of your heart?”

His tone is snarky. You bristle even more.

“I deal speed because, as you probably know, I happened upon a fuck ton of speed back in Oregon. I sell it for dirt cheap, just enough to get what I need, never in large quantities, and only when I have no other options for money. I rarely even—” you stop for a moment, tempted to drive into this man about the obvious flaws in his moral compass, but shake your head, “No, you know what? I don’t owe you, of all people, an explanation. So fuck you, man. Get off the fucking road and sleep before you hurt someone.”

Silence falls over the cab, except for a brief stint of whining from the dog.

When the man comes up on the next exit, he takes it.

Din finds a place to park for the night.

After giving everyone a bathroom break, he secures the cabin by fastening a ratchet strap to each door’s hand hold, tightening until the strap is taut, then locking it in place. He tucks the key in his front pocket and turns to face the sleeper cab.

The dog is laying on the mattress, propped up against the back wall with paws curled up in the air. Din looks at you, only to find you already staring at him. Well, actually, glaring might be more accurate.

Between that and the way you’re strapped into the five-point harness, arms crossed tight over your small frame, you remind him of a sulking child.

He approaches the overhead storage and pulls out your backpack. For a moment, he considers handing it over without further investigation. The bag is plumb full, and it’s apparent from a glance that you developed a particular system to get all your equipment to fit inside.

But he has a hunch you’re carrying more than a pocket knife. The road can be ruthless to pretty women like you, regardless of how ferocious you actually are. Considering how adapted you seem to be to this lifestyle, he’s positive you know that and pack accordingly.

As Din sorts your green rucksack’s carefully organized contents into two piles, he sees you out the corner of his eye, shifting in your seat and pursing your lips. Your rage is palpable. It’s mildly amusing.

In one side pocket, there are dozens of small ziplock baggies, each containing 6 blue tablets. They go into the things he will keep for now pile. Everything from the other side pocket goes into the things you can keep pile: a few guitar picks, a pen, and a wallet. The wallet contains $54, a faded photo of a little girl and boy hugging each other, and an Iowa Driver License. He’s surprised to see the name Charlie Wanderlust printed on the ID.

From the main compartment, he puts the following in the things you can keep pile: a tightly-rolled tent and similarly condensed sleeping bag, a few changes of clothes, a small bag of personal hygiene items, two notebooks, camping supplies, a tarp, and a bundle of dirty nylon rope.

All the way at the bottom of the bag, he finds a pistol and some 9mm clips. He holds the gun up to examine it. GLOCK G19, semi-auto. It looks to be in good condition and well-maintained.

Like he was with much of the rucksack’s contents, he’s surprised you’re carrying something so high-quality. The few hitchhikers he has encountered seem to be living off threadbare, secondhand equipment. But not you.

It piques his curiosity.

He releases the loaded magazine and tosses it to the side, along with the clips, in the things he’ll keep for now pile. The gun itself goes in the things you can keep pile.

Once satisfied with his search, Din crouches down and puts the ammunition, pills, and ratchet strap keys in the safe under his bed, then slams it shut.

He turns his attention back to you and finds your gaze still locked on him, dark eyes narrowed to slits.

In his experience bounty hunting, he exclusively deals with men.

Most bounties put out on women in the private sector are malicious in nature. Posted by jilted, often violent, men, looking to take back what they think is theirs. Even when there seems to be a morally acceptable reason for the bounty, it rouses his suspicion and leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He supposes there’s always an exception. From the information he was given, you are that exception. A lucrative one, at that.

Some of the things you told him today are nibbling at the edges of his mind, though.

“Do you know what they’re going to do to me? Do you have any fucking idea what kind of a death march you’re leading me down? If you kill me before we get there, I’ll consider myself fucking lucky.”

Granted, bounties tend to make a number of outlandish claims while trying to negotiate their release from custody. He has heard almost every sob story in the book. Lame attempts to appeal to his sense of humanity.

He’s trying not to lend it too much credibility, but you seemed so genuine, so righteous, in your anger.

Then there was the outburst that preceded him stopping for the night.

Part of him feels guilty for making assumptions about you. Another part of him knows you might be lying, given the circumstances. But it seemed to come from deep within you, dredged up with a sense of disdain, like you didn’t even want to tell him.

It was contrary to every experience he’s had with bounties trying to talk their way into freedom.

After taking everything into consideration, he determined you are not likely a threat. A flight risk, sure, but not a threat.

He unlocks and unbuckles your harness, then goes about his nighttime routine. You narrow your eyes and watch him.

“What are you doing?” you ask eventually, the question bursting out of you like you can’t hold it in any longer, “What is this?”

Din squeezes a line of toothpaste on his toothbrush, “Take the bed.”

“I’m keeping my knife.”

“I know.”

He thrusts the toothbrush in his mouth and starts scrubbing in vigorous, concentric motions.

You huff, then turn to your pile of worldly possessions and dig out the toiletry bag, asking him, “What makes you think I won’t stab you in the middle of the night?”

Din spits blue foam into an empty bottle, then says, “You don’t seem like the type.”

“Hell of an assumption,” you raise an eyebrow as you unzip your toiletry bag and fish out two elastic hair ties, sliding them around your wrist, “What if you’re wrong?”

“If you try to kill me, you won’t succeed,” he stares you down to make sure he’s understood, “But I will.”

“Ok, pal,” you snort in condescension, pulling half of your white blonde hair over one shoulder. As you start to weave the long strands into a braid, you say, “I don’t want to kill you. But,” your eyes snap to his, “If you try to touch me while I’m sleeping—or at any point in time, for that matter—I will sink that fucking blade into your eyeball without hesitation.”

He nods.

“Good,” you smile, “Then we understand each other.”

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