"We can stay here until you feel better. I don't mind."
Chef has to fight the urge to lash out. He isn’t doing anything wrong, but every one of their nerves is on edge, so much so that even the soft voice of the teenager sitting next to them is close to sending Chef over the edge.
It was supposed to be fine, things were supposed to be normal. Functional, functional, Chef was supposed to be functional, and they were. He wanted to get out, just for lunch.
Two police cars in less than 15 minutes. Chef has seen two, and they’re not even close to the city yet.
Pulled over on the side of the road, they’re still gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, and staring, panicked at the expanse of desert. Chef can’t spare a look towards him, not when he’d see it in their eyes-
–Kidnapping. That’s what they’re gonna say. They’re gonna say you snatched him up, and then they’ll get you, because now they have a reason, probable cause, there’s nowhere to hide and you don’t even have a gun–
Chef shouldn’t have done this, they should have put him on a bus to Los Angeles. A mistake, no–
–He isn’t who he says he is. That’s why…That’s why he won’t say what’s happened to him, because they sent him. He’s gonna turn you in—This kid is gonna hand you over on a silver platter because they knew you could never hurt a lost kid like him, because you’re fucking soft now–
They screw their eyes shut, as if that might make the noise stop, and only open them when the silence outside of their head becomes unbearable.
“—-we need to——-go,” Chef’s voice is barely above mumbling, and they’re clearly speaking through clenched teeth.