Something Amiss (Hoodie x Reader)

Twenty Seven: Awkward Reunion

Floating in and out of consciousness, there was only so much you could register.

The feeling of movement around you, the wetness pooled around your body on the leather seat where you lay. The flashing of street lamps and neon signs as they passed. The occasional bright headlight. The car never stopped, a ten minute trip that was probably supposed to be twenty-five. It appeared that not only was Brian okay with speeding, he was also fine with charging right through red lights. Under different circumstances, you might have made fun of his terrible driving decisions.

He spoke on the phone on the way, on loudspeaker. You hardly understood the conversation, but the man on the other end of the call sounded familiar. His voice conjured memories of an unnerving eyeless mask.

The car came to a stop at last, you slipping further and further into a sporadic sleep. Darkness. The slam of a car door. A dim light overhead, and then strong arms slipping around you. One under your legs, one around your torso, neck being cradled though you were too weak now to open your eyes.

Movement. Then darkness.

The next thing in your broken memory, was stillness. Lying on something soft, unable to open your eyes still but ears working just fine. More familiar voices, the same two from the car. Intense stinging in your left shoulder, though you couldn't register why.

Something scratching at the crook of your elbow. A mild sting. Darkness again.

—

When you finally came to, you had no idea where the fuck you were.

You were lying on a couch. Brown, from what you could see. Wooden floorboards. Exposed brick walls, wall mounted television. Curtains drawn, dust particles drifting through the little exposed light. No plants in sight. This was most definitely not Cass' apartment.

The disorientation was terrifying. You would have screamed, but you were way too exhausted. So weak, you couldn't bring yourself to even try and sit up for a good hour. In that time, you simply watched the dust flying by the window, room smelling musty. Trying to remember much was difficult. It was all hazy, you simply remembered pain and running. And beyond that, intense, visceral fear.

The most recent memory that was clear to you, was ending your shift. Tim, the creepy regular, flirting with you. Cass making cookies late at night while you sat there staring at an inky window. Beyond that, your memory was an indecipherable mass of sound and picture.

When you struggled to a sitting position, your left shoulder felt disgusting. A skin-crawling, deep pain that made you want to remove the whole ass joint. You could roll your shoulder, to your relief, but it made the dull throbbing more intense. You could feel, too, the familiar sensation of bandages over a wound in that spot.

For some reason, there was a blanket placed over you; the waffle knit kind you found at hotels, dark brown. Whoever put together this room had the world's least creativity. This was the most boring, kind of unsettling, living room you'd ever set foot in. It felt like some place you'd seen in a not-quite-nightmare before, a dream you'd struggle to forget for a few days afterwards.

There was a sticky note on the coffee table. Yellow, a message in oddly familiar handwriting.

'Netflix Password: 6.2T4'tta*'

You stared at the note, picking it up to squint at it in confusion. You didn't know who left it there, or what kind of fucking sociopath actually chose a secure password for their Netflix account of all things, but the thought was nice.

Whose fucking living room was this, anyways? Had you just had a really wild and out of character hookup, blackout drunk, on a Thursday? You doubted it, but it was a possibility. After all, the shirt you were in was definitely not your own, and it was far too big for you.