salvation sequel [rafe x barry]

[Xe] 4f14 5d10 6s1

"If there is an omniperfect God—one that necessarily has the perfection of Goodness—then no one will be damned"

After the club closed, Rafe had found comfort in one of the plastic chairs, that must've been clean white, some one or two eternities ago, in front of Barry's trailer.

"Finally", Rafe said, pushing himself up from his seat when Barry jumped from the truck. "I been waiting forever"

"Yeah well maybe you should try stealing a gold cross for once, before you start complaining, big boy", Barry countered. Rafe didn't even ask if everything went down alright. Seemed to have enough trust in Barry's abilities, or his own genius in planning the crime.

Rafe had walked to the door of the trailer, knocking against it with his knuckles. "I tried getting in. What you lock this trash can for?"

"What you need to get in for?", Barry asked back, walking over, pulling the keys from his pocket. "Ran outta yayo?"

"My shirt's dirty", Rafe replied, pulling on the fabric. Thought to add an insult, because it came out all too casual. "Got something to wear that's not out of a dumpster?"

Insult warranted insult back. That's how it worked. That's how Rafe enjoyed talking, anyways. But Barry had lowered his gaze, turning away to bite his lip and fumble with the lock to his trailer. It sent insecurity down Rafes spine.

"Oh, is that, like, against your fucking rules?", he asked. His disapproval of said rules clear through the mocking tone, that covered for the fear of an earnest response back. We're not like that anymore, got it?

No more Shirt-Sharing, and that kinda bullshit.

Barry bit his lip, shaking his head as he opened the door to his trailer, avoiding Rafe when he said it. "Nah, uh, I actually still got one of your shirts, from, uh,-"

"Aww, that's cute", Rafe noted sharply and Barry didn't think he'd ever fucking heard the word out of his mouth, but he made it sound like his usual insults, anyways.

Barry hid from the sting of it in the cabinet, pretending to be looking for the shirt when he knew e-fucking-xactly where it was, while Rafe pulled the dirty shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. Didn't have enough, yet, or maybe he was just disappointed by the lack of insulting response from Barry.

"So is that business or benefit then?", he teased cruelly. "I'm just tryna understand your rules, bro"

Barry bend up again, pretending he hadn't heard him, anyways.

"Lucky you", he replied instead, tossing the shirt at Rafes naked chest, where he barley caught it. "Damn near cut this into cleaning rags"

Barry didn't wait around for a reply, or even just to take in the pained expression on Rafes face, when he looked down on the shirt. Just bolted out of the trailer instead, hurrying to the cross as if that thing'd start running.

The shirt shouldn't even exist anymore. Ward had told Rafe to burn it along with the other shit he wore, when he helped him carry Gavin's body to the Druthers, and because the hassle of making a fire just for his clothes seemed too much, Rafe had thrown it into laundry instead.

Imagining the little murder souvenir—almost a relic to Rafe—cut into pieces and stained with motor oil, felt a little like he'd been cut into pieces and dragged along a bike, and now, it's not like Barry hadn't done that before.