Idiosyncrasy
Humanformer!Bus Driver!Tarn x reader. There's an explanation for this, I swear. The explanation lies in the fact that I can often remember what I dream, and that I have free will. Especially that I have free will. Unpolished, unproofread and unbetaed, just me and my unhingedness. TW: suggestive at the end, fem-presenting reader. Tarn comes as a content warning per se.
Second row, window seat. Either right or left column, no particular preference. Air blower closed, curtain as far from peripheral view as possible.
6.45 AM. Sharp.
He shouldn’t know these things. Shouldn’t care, shouldn’t notice. Instead, he had memorized each and every detail within the few months in which his shift became coincidental with your trips. At first, he despised you. Like he despised everybody else. Mask high over his nose, covering his ever-present scowl as an adequate, socially acceptable substitute for the one he liked to wear in the privacy of his own place. The color was the same, although it was not easy to find a purple mask in the sea of monotone white he used to see in supermarkets. Thank M., the internet knows its ways, for this as well as many other things.
But it didn’t cover everything. So he barely turned his head upon scanning tickets, manually of course because the company couldn’t bother to order new automatic scanners. But they should arrive in a short while, yes. He made sure his complaints didn’t go unnoticed.
He didn’t like — actually, he hated — that the first time you rode on his shift you pointed right at it. You shouldn’t have noticed, should’ve just scanned your ticket and found a seat among the ones still available. But no, “Oh, I love the purple color”, you had to say, and he could just nod. Didn’t want to turn, didn’t give you the satisfaction to see he’d received your compliment. Didn’t care. So he just nodded, cold eyes still staring at the road ahead, and you went your merry way hunting for a free spot.
Dark clothing, even darker eyes, built like a brick wall and unwilling to make small talk, most riders avoided talking to him. Some avoided any driver, didn’t even greet upon arrival, and of course they were his favorites. You, on the other hand, smiled and greeted every time. And pointed out things. Irritating, useless waste of time.
And you were forgetful, too. “Excuse me, is this the bus for…” and of course he had to answer, yes, it was, and that word was enough for you and it better be because he wouldn’t have uttered anything more. Talking to a wall would have been more enlightening, anyway.
But no, you were also the last to get off, so you’d prepare your nice little music and then two or three stops before yours, you’d start getting ready and come closer to the driver’s seat to signal to him where you wanted to get off.
As if he didn’t know already. And you’d say “Thank you for the ride” and “have a nice day”.
One time, your scarf fell on him and you had to grab it in a hurry and your perfume was all over him and he smelled like you for one day straight and loathed every second of it.
You apologized profusely, then, and your nails scraped his shoulder, and of course he didn’t bother to wash his jacket when he got home, too much hassle.
Your perfume lingered on him all night.
Then, one day, you stopped riding on his shift.
All of a sudden.
Without notice.
One day, perhaps you were sick; two days, the flu maybe; then three, then four five six then a whole week and then two and every time he’d look outside the glass door and you weren’t there, elbowing your way in for the best seats like you used to.
Those were the most irritating weeks of his life.
He took another shift. The afternoon one. 6.30 PM. You were waiting on the other side of the road, at the stop of your usual destination.
It was late enough, few people rode that shift and most of them were students who preferred to sit on the very back of the bus.
You smiled at him tiredly, and presented your ticket as you greeted him. “It’s been a while, I’m glad to see you”, you said.
That night, he didn’t opt for his usual monosyllabic acknowledgement.
“You’ve stopped riding on the morning shift.” Not an accusation. Not a question. A simple truth.
“Oh, you’ve noticed”, your smile became bashful then, “yea, they changed my schedule and now I get one more hour of sleep, but I go home one hour later. Though I’m not complaining.” One hour later. 7.45 AM, then 6.30 PM. “I’ve never seen you on this shift either. They changed your schedule too?”
“Yes,” monosyllabic acknowledgement, but with more zeal than he’d like to admit. And he continued, too. “Shall I find you again here tomorrow?”
You smiled as you put your stuff on the first seat, second row, and sat on the one next to the window. “You shall.”
He doesn’t know when it started.
He only knows that at some point, he had his boss kindly allow him both the 7.45 AM and 6.30 PM shifts. He got to see you every day, and every day you smiled and presented your ticket, and he didn’t even check it, just let you in. You stopped asking if the bus stopped at your destination, because just by seeing him you could tell that was the ride you were to take. His presence became a constant in your life, and yours became a constant in his.
Soon enough, he found himself taking measures.
One day, the whole carriage was occupied. Except for two seats on the second row, which he purposely occupied with his bag. Right column so he could check on them without the glass panel closing his peripheral vision. You stepped in and looked around, hoping you wouldn’t have to stand that day. Then you saw the seats and asked if that place was occupied.
“Remove my bag, place it in the luggage compartment. You can sit there.” You shot him a puzzled look but still did as you were told. He watched you sit yourself comfortably on your favorite seat, even noticing how the glass was particularly spotless that day.
Before you got out, you thanked him. Not only for the ride, but also for the seats.
“No need to,” he said.
“You’re always looking out for me,” you countered, “see you in the afternoon.”
He dared turn his head then, but you had already stepped out of the vehicle and didn’t see the scarred side of his face, nor the way he looked at you.
Months passed, the cold winter air replaced by the comforting, tender warmth of the sunny seasons. You still rode with him, and he was always there, waiting. You had begun wearing lighter clothes, brighter colors, and with them your mood had also become brighter — all which was translated into a greater chattiness.
“I’m sorry, mister driver, I’ve never asked your name.”
“Nor did you provide yours.”
You chuckled then, cheeks pink with embarrassment, and gave him your name.
“Tarn,” he answered. Slowly, as if he hadn’t uttered his own name in a long time.
“Tarn. Cool name, very exotic.”
Your exchange of personal information didn’t stop there, no. The trip from the third-last stop to your destination was long enough to allow you some more chit chat, so you told him about the music you liked you listen to, why you couldn’t bother to use your license and just preferred to ride comfortably on a bus (that day, you said “At this point I trust you with my safety more than I’d trust myself on four wheels”, which earned you his first chuckle), you even told him your house was actually a bit farther than the bus stop, so you had to walk back and forth, and it was a hassle when it rained.
After that, you started noticing more things.
Your headphones stopped working in the middle of the trip, and you were left listening to the quiet chatter of the people around and getting bored out of your mind — you don’t know if he had noticed, if it had been on purpose, but he changed the radio station from his favorite to the one he knew played music more akin to your taste (you’d told him, hadn’t you, about your favorite type of music. Him knowing what stations broadcasted it was a mere coincidence.)
Another time he chose to drive a little farther than his usual stop on the way back home, so you only had to cross the road and you were right in front of your gate. A line must have formed behind the bus, because you heard cars honking but didn’t hear the distinct gear whirring of a heavy engine being put in motion. Not until you had opened your door.
Summertime rolled in, and came the time of shorts and nice frilly shirts and off with those heavy coats already. The first time you dressed for the season, he didn’t even address you. Just let you through after you gave him your signature “good morning”, and sat motionless until he saw you disappear behind the first row.
The engine blared louder that time and the departure was rockier than usual, much to your surprise and the one of the other two passengers who had been unceremoniously pushed forward by the g-force.
You didn’t know it, no, of course you couldn’t know. But that day, before he stopped for lunch break, his feet brought him before your seat. He could swear he had been brought there against his will. That was not his doing. Couldn’t be.
And the thoughts that came afterwards couldn’t possibly be his.
Tarn shook his head with a growl, removed his mask and stepped out to consume his meal as far from that seat as possible.
Then you were back, this time with a goddamn skirt. You smiled and greeted him, presenting your ticket out of habit. This time, he forced himself to greet you back.
He watched you from the rearview mirror, saw you kick your feet idly and forced himself to focus on the road.
You didn’t have your headphones, had forgotten to charge them (you told him during your usual little chat), so he put on your favorite music again and listened as you hummed along.
You thanked him before stepping out. But you didn't just do that. You patted him on the shoulder as you exited the vehicle, telling him you’d be waiting for him as usual for the ride back home. You didn’t feel how he tensed up under your touch.
Lunch break rolled in, and he was in front of your seat again.
Debauchery. Perversion. Depravity, even.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
He knelt, and plunged his face right where your thighs had come in contact with the fabric. Then he breathed in, and let the air out with a noise between a groan and a whine.
He wanted to set the whole bus on fire.
His perversion didn’t stop there. No. It worsened.
He began collecting hair strings you left on the headrest, he scouted for any item you could have left in your hurry. And he didn’t stop the depravity he performed against your seat. That alone led him to more thoughts, wishing you’d sit on him instead, and he’d service you well, make you hum different songs, songs just made for him, and his arms and hands would make easy work of your malleable skin. Every single day he spiraled deeper, every day you greeted him and smiled and he wondered what you’d do, were he to push his masked face against yours. Maybe he could wear his actual mask, what would you do then? What would you say?
The thoughts worsened and worsened, every day lusting over you like a feral animal. The only thing stopping him from pursuing you was the education bestowed upon him by a higher level of consciousness. The only thing between him and his barest instincts.
You became touchy. Your hand lingered on his shoulder, and your perfume invaded his senses — sometimes, if you paid attention, you could catch him take a whiff of it and then trap it under his mask, to linger more against his nose and lips.
You were playing a dangerous game, but then, you’d known him for months. Always there for you, reliable and efficient.
And the signs had become obvious by now. Except for those that hadn’t.
But this, you didn’t know.
“Tomorrow is Saturday”, you noted once.
“It is.”
“Do you work on Saturdays?”
“Only the morning shift. 5 AM to 1 PM.”
“Are you free afterwards?”
He turned towards you. “Are you?”
You smiled in that quirky way of yours. “3 PM. You come pick me up?”
