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[sorcererinthestars]

You’ve Got a Fast Car...

I’m back, bitches~~ But seriously, felt great to write again for the @rtwritingcommunity​‘s secret sunshine event! I will tag my recipient if/when I get their a-ok!

Summary: (FAHC) Michael doesn't expect a man to throw himself in front of his car and beg him to stop. This is Los Santos. Picking up hitchhikers is generally frowned upon. But this man has a pretty face and hell - he's got a fast car. What's he got to lose?

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32969470

-

Michael knew something was seriously wrong when a man throws himself out in front of his car.

Now, his car was nothing nice, but he still doesn't want to spend the next few hours getting some fucking asshole's blood off of his front bumper. So naturally he slams on the brakes as the man - a skinny, dirty thing with wild hair - does a legitimate fucking slide across the hood of his shit Honda Civic and nearly collapses on the other side. "Oi!"

"Get out of the damn road, idiot!" Michael yells out the window in a reply, flicking him off to boot. It was late, almost 2am at this point, and he really had anything better to do than scream at some (probably high) dickbag who decided to do calisthenics in the goddamn street. But the man doesn't run away ashamed, as Michael had expected. Instead, he frantically pokes at his phone - still in the middle of the street - and Michael sits there, a bit flabbergasted.

He doesn't move.

He still doesn't move when Michael lays his entire weight on the horn, sending a blast of sound into the Los Santos night. It's not as loud or annoying as he may have wanted - LS is always loud as fuck on a Saturday evening - but it does have the intended effect of nearly making the idiot in front of his car in the middle of the street jump half out of his skin.

"SHHH!" the man gasps, comically putting his finger over his lip like he was in a cartoon and making an over-exaggerated shushing motion. Michael has to blink. He's shushing him? While standing in front of his car? Before he can say anything or shake off the disbelief that this shit had to happen to him tonight - he had to get home and clean off before his next shift at the pizza place he had reluctantly taken a job at - the man (still crazy-eyed and wild-haired) runs up to his window. At this moment, Michael really wishes he had invested in a knife, or a Tazer, or something. People had warned him about LS, but he didn't listen. He should probably learn to do that, someday.

"Listen, man," the guy says (see?) and leans forward, a massive grin on his face. He has some pretty high cheekbones. Michael blinks. "Dude, can you please just move or I'm gonna run you the fuck down."

"No, no, no, listen," the man says again, waving his hands about. "Do me a favor, will ya? If you drive me to this address -" he holds his phone up and shows an address on the outskirts of the city - "I'll give you $1,000. Right here, right now, no questions." Michael blinks and then snorts. Yeah fucking right. "I'm not an Uber."

The man shifts on both his feet, looking agitated, and glances over his shoulder. There sounds like there's some sort of commotion coming down the street and he really has to move. So Michael leans on the horn again, blasting another honk into the LS skyline.

This has the unintended effect of making the man lean further over the hood of his car, as if he could hide. Remember. This was in the middle of the goddamn street.

"Dude!"

"I'm not kidding!" the wild-eyed man says frantically. "$1500. Deposited directly into your account. I'm serious, kill me and my crew if I lie."

That was no turn of phrase Michael had ever heard, but the money does make him pause. He's... short on funds right now. Well, he's always short on funds, but this time moreso than usual. $1,500 extra would be a huge boost to the amount he currently has in the bank. He'd pay rent. He wouldn't have to borrow any more from anyone else and avoid that loan shark fucker he found online.

Before he could really think about what he was saying, he finds himself tapping the passenger seat. "Fine. Get in. I swear to god, I better see that money."

And if he dies... well. Then he still wouldn't have to worry about rent, so win-win in his mind.

With a triumphant holler, the man leaps into the car and yanks up a GPS on his phone, pointing them to drive down the street. "Thanks man! I'm Gavin." -

They're not going more than five minutes when sirens start blaring behind them. The man tenses and looks backwards out the window with a frown. "Oh shit."

Michael immediately - immediately - realizes just how much he fucked up. "What do you mean, oh shit?"

"I - uh..." The unhinged man - Gavin - stutters. "Did... Did I mention that uh... the LSPD may want to arrest me?"

"May want to what?!" Michael's voice climbs so many octaves in that last word that it makes Gavin slump down in his seat, suitably chagrined. "I ... seriously, man, I - I needed a car, a way out, I promise I'll give you the money, just please for the love of god, drive the damn car."

"Pull Over," the cop car unhelpfully calls from behind them, making Michael's bowels turn to water. Gavin's even more frantically slamming keys on his phone as they approach a major intersection. Michael keeps looking behind him, unable to slow down as the cops continue to chase them. "Gavin, seriously..."

"You're with me now, man," he replies a bit frantically. "You're in it. So either we avoid them, or you're going to jail too. Sorry."

The words fall like bricks on Michael's shoulders as he realizes that what Gavin just said was true. No cop in their right mind would believe that he - a man with a few blotches on his permanent record already - would have just accepted to pick up a hitchhiker and drive him across town at 2am for $1,500 without assuming he was a criminal. No. Any sane cop would assume he was in on it.

Because the alternative was that he was a fucking lunatic, but here we are.

Gritting his teeth, a conscious shift happens somewhere in his gut. He's a survivor. He'd get the fuck out of this, one way or the other. So, without Gavin's input and in a split second decision, he takes a sharp left and rips around the corner, sending Gavin flying against the door with a shout of surprise. "HEY!"

"Gotta avoid the cops, don't we?" Michael says with a maniacal burst of laughter, the insanity that can only be best described as hysteria. "You're the navigator, idiot, get us to where we need to be!"

The nervousness - which had appeared on Gavin's face after Michael had blown up at him - evaporated as Gavin bursts into a big smile. "Hell yeah," he hums. "Let's do this."

-

After fifteen minutes, Michael had lost all his nerves. Instead, he felt like an overinflated balloon, filled with a giddy sort of lunacy that he had never felt before as they flew down abandoned Los Santos streets. He shrieked with laughter as they slipped down the runway illuminated by neon lights and flashing red and blues, which whipped around them like a rave of their own design.

The freedom was intoxicating. Michael had taken drugs before back in New Jersey, who hadn't(?), but this was a whole different sort of high. And as soon as Gavin realized that Michael was in it with him, he had turned into an erratic demon of death, urging Michael onward with the same fire that was reflected in Michael's soul.

They flew down the streets like hedonists, shrieking with laughter and happiness as Gavin shoves his head out the sunroof to flick off the cops and shout insults.

When the first gunshot cracks through the night, Michael is sobered only for a moment. In for a penny, in for a pound. He's already here, dodging the cops, so this shit may as well happen. It's like he's in a godforsaken video game but he's not. This is real life, this is his life, and maybe he's ruining it. Maybe. But what had he not ruined in his life already? For a few moments, he could feel like he was disconnected from reality, driving so fast he could swear he could fly, a - undeniably pretty - man urging him to new, foolish lengths from the seat next to them.

And so they flew. As they approached intersections and traffic lights, Michael could see - more like sense - Gavin's own particular talents. He admits he has no abilities behind the wheel, hence begging Michael to help him, but he's able to make every traffic light change from here to the safehouse, giggling like a school kid all the while, knowing he was being naughty but that just sends them into a more frenzied set of hysterics.

It tastes like the best drug, the most collective high, the freedom that comes from knowing you're one step away from death or worse but that dangle is intoxicating. Maybe ten minutes ago he hated what was happening, but all that was gone now.

It's just the car, him, and Gavin's frantic - musical - laugh.

-

Eventually - with Gavin's GPS and eventually warm hand over his - they lose the cops. Michael has no sense of time, no concept of how long they were on the roads causing havoc, fleeing and laughing and shrieking like demons.

All he knows is that he's out in the North now and the beginning shards of sun were peeking over the horizon. He's able to slow to a manageable speed and catch his breath.

Gavin's phone rings and the man answers it. Michael can't hear what he's saying past the ringing in his ears, the result of wind whipping past his face and hours of excitement. His face is red when he meets Gavin's eyes. He closes the phone and the excitement shines bright in his eyes.

For a moment, Michael's breath is taken away. Then Gavin just points. "Top of Chilliad. Get me there." His voice is hoarse from yelling, deeper than it was, and it stirs something that Michael can't explain.

"Yes, sir," he hums teasingly. In for a penny, in for a pound, like he had said before. They start the climb up the dirt road. Once or twice, Michael doesn't think his car can make it, but the tenacious Civic crawls forward as if it knows what it had done too and felt on top of the world.

They make it to the top as the sun finally breaks over the horizon completely, blanketing the world in orange and red. When Michael finally - finally- throws the car in park and looks over at him, Gavin's grinning the biggest grin Michael has ever seen.

Before he can do anything, fuelled by adrenaline and fire and the same pure joy on Gavin's face, Michael leans over and kisses him deeply, half dragging him over the stick shift.

They kiss feverishly for a few moments, the adrenaline fading, before breaking apart and chuckling sheepishly. "I - sorry, I ..."

Gavin just winks. It's knowing. "No problem, luv," he purrs. "Does it to you, doesn't it? The chase? Makes the fire in your blood run hot." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Men weren't made to walk on their knees," he hums. "Think about it." He digs in his pocket and drops a card on the passenger seat before climbing out of the door, even as Michael tries to grab his arm and yank him back. "Gav--"

"Later, beautiful," Gavin grins, seemingly more suave and sophisticated than the man he was when he first climbed into the car. Like he was grifting and Michael was his poor, unsuspecting mark. "I'll call you. You're a great driver. Check your account." He salutes and it's then when Michael can hear the thud-thud of roters. A helicopter?

Before he can say anything, climbing frantically out of the car to watch, Gavin grabs a rope ladder hanging off the bottom of a fucking cargobob and is lifted into the air, disappearing quickly out of sight like something out of a fairy tale.

And Michael is left in the remains of the sun-drenched LS morning, with a car almost empty of gas and mysteriously $1,500 richer.

Whatever had happened to him that night in Los Santos, he knows his life will never, ever be the same.

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