Never Alone

1 : 4 9 | P M

Elliot sat on the curb outside of the art museum, slumped posture complete with a developing black eye, a throbbing jaw, bruised knuckles, and the knowledge that you should never punch an old man. Especially when said old man's grandson is twice as tall as you, is built like a truck, has the ability to throw a good punch and doesn't particularly appreciate complete strangers coming up and punching his ancestor for no good reason. Which was fair enough, really, and had resulted in Elliot getting dragged out onto the pavement by museum security. 

So now he sat on the side of the road, considering his life choices as the sky decided to be oh so kind and release the water of hell onto his head. But he didn't run for cover, allowing the rain to soak into his clothes and stick to his skin. He was in one of those moods where he just couldn't be bothered to give a damn, much preferring to wallow in his own self-pity than to wish for better skies. His reason for this, he supposed, was because moping around was a lot less effort. That, and if he returned to his feet, his need to punch something would most likely resurface.

His loathing of both the world, himself and his existence was only cut short by a bright yellow mini swerving to a stop in front of him. And he thought it would be safe to climb into the car without checking the identity of the driver because, quite frankly, he doubted that anyone else could possibly own such a luminous vehicle.

That and he had asked her to come.

Isabella raised her eyebrows at his dishevelled appearance, driving away from the art museum a little more calmly than when she had arrived. She couldn't explain the amount of panic she had felt after their brief phone call, even though she didn't really have a reason to hyperventilate in such a way.  It wasn't as if Elliot was ruthlessly hunted by thugs or suffering from a dire health condition. All he had said was, "I'm at the National Art Gallery. I'm in trouble. Come get me." But it had set off alarm bells in her mind, and she was dashing out to her car as fast as her underexercised legs could carry her. And she hadn't been able thing think straight for the entire ride over, a sort of clamp squeezing her chest at the thought of Elliot hurt in any way. But she supposed that she should put it down to being a good person who cared too much for other people. Because Elliot was a friend. And it made sense to care for a friend.

"Thanks for picking me up," Elliot said half-heartedly, a sort of weight on his words that pulled him into why he couldn't call anyone else. "I got the bus here but I'm not really in the right state of mind to be on my own and everyone else I could think of to call would just ask questions."

Isabella shrugged with a small smile, happier than she should be at the thought of being his first emergency contact. "Oh trust me, I have questions. I just know better than to ask them. I know what it's like to be asked things about something you don't want to talk about. So I'll just leave you until you want to talk about it."

"What if I don't ever want to talk about it?"

"That's fine by me. But I think that you should."

"Why?"

"Because someone once told me that keeping things bottled up inside only make things worse."

"Well, that person was incredibly wise."

"I get the feeling that you're only saying that because you're the one who told me that."

Elliot gasped, placing his hand over his chest in mock offence as Isabella pulled to a stop at a set of traffic lights. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing!"

She raised an eyebrow, attempting to look stern and condescending as she attempted to hide the large smile threatening to break out across her face. "So that wasn't what you were doing?"

"Don't be dumb. Of course it was. Any advice that leaves my mouth is golden."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were a therapist." 

"Oh no, sweetheart, I'm sorry you didn't realize. You should have been paying me all this time. Where's my money, woman?"

He got a hit on the head for that one.

"What happened to not distracting the driver?"

"You're a passenger, you idiot."

A moment of silence passed as Isabella turned her attention back to the road, pulling out onto the small piece of dual carriageway that would take her down into Elliot's neighbourhood. She had been down the route so many times that she had memorized it by heart. And it was a nice familiarity to have, because she had been beginning to feel like this country would never feel like home. 

"Have...have you opened up yet?"

"I'm getting there."

"..."

"Don't you dare shake your horrible wet hair around my beautiful car! You're acting like a damn dog!"

Elliot laughed.

And then continued to shake his hair for the remainder of the journey.