JAWS (Complete)

Chapter 20

*Memories* (P1)

A/N:

Hi everyone 👋

I'm late because I have to take care of my grandma, so yeah here it is

Enjoy 😘
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Erwin drives an elderly pickup truck, battered and with bulbous headlights, one that was probably new sometime before Reiner or Galliard were born. It looks like it used to be dark green, but sun and the years have faded it to a pale sage color. But it’s not rusty at all, and the engine starts immediately and purrs throatily as Erwin guides them out of the airport’s crowded parking lot. The pickup is so old that it doesn’t have a second row of seats, and Galliard sits in the middle, giving Reiner shotgun and keeping his knees turned towards him, so his uncle can work the truck’s manual transmission.

Something jingles in the truck’s bed as they hit the road, and Reiner glances over his shoulder. There’s a large, equally battered toolbox riding in the truck’s bed, and Reiner’s heart jobs unexpectedly when he sees a pair of fishing poles back there. He wonders if Erwin ever took Galliard and Marcel fishing when they were boys, and if there are any stories about the one that got away that they share, or maybe a mounted fish on Erwin’s wall.

“Do you like fishing, Reiner?”

Reiner jolts back to himself, and shakes his head at Erwin’s question. “I’ve never been.”

“You haven’t?” Erwin’s surprise is palpable. “How long are you staying? The bass are running and…”

“We’re not here to fish,” Galliard interrupts, and his arms tighten around Reiner’s bag, cradled on his lap. “We’re here to bury Sarge and then we’re gone.”

Erwin is silent, and Reiner watches Galliard out of the corner of his eye. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set and rigid, his brows drawn down. Whatever warm feelings he’d had in the airport have fled, and Galliard has wrapped himself in anger and aggression again. Their tickets back to Trost don’t leave for another four days, and Reiner wonders if they’re going to make it, or if Galliard is going to insist they go home earlier.

They drive for a few miles in awkward tension, and Reiner spends his time looking out the window. They drive past the usual sprawl around the airport, but Reiner is used to that sprawl lasting for miles and miles, the airport almost becoming a city in and of itself. Here, the sprawl is over in minutes, consisting of some motels, some car rentals places, and a few fast food restaurants, some of which Reiner doesn’t even recognize. Then they’re on a highway, and even that’s smaller than Reiner expected—two lanes in each direction, with a divided median and trees planted between—and nothing but fields and trees on either side. In Trost, you’d have to drive for hours before getting this far out into the country; in Liberio, it took Erwin all of ten minutes after leaving the airport. The trees close in on either side of the road, taller and ganglier than any he’s seen in Trost, and Reiner wonders where they’re going.

As if reading Reiner’s mind, Erwin speaks up again. “It’s about a forty minute drive. If you’re hungry or anything, there’s a rest stop in about ten minutes.”

Reiner almost says no, then changes his mind. Even with the truck’s air conditioning chugging gamely along, they’re cramped in the cabin, and he’s not used to this kind of sticky, close heat. “Would you mind?”