road trip~~~

Thomas Edison’s last words were “its beautiful there”. I don’t know where “ there” is but I know its somewhere and I hope its beautiful. ( also we are in another museum and Annie and Jason are praying we don’t get kicked out. again.)

anonymous asked:

“Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.” & rosvolio please!

It’s not a road trip. 

Not really. 

Not properly.

 It’s a matter of convenience, both of them heading in the same direction, and her car being in the shop for repairs, and an offer said in that usual half joking manner that always happens to actually be sincere underneath it all.

She’s not sure how she has learned to tell the difference in his tones, or when she had, but she does.

Benvolio’s car is a nice, enough space for her to stretch her legs, to relax into it. More suited for long distance travel than hers is, even if it wasn’t in the shop. 

He’d been finicky earlier about eating in the car mumbling about how it was technically his uncle’s, though she had figured that was just an excuse to get them to pull over, to sit down at a restaurant and pretend to be normal people.

Is that what they are then?

Normal people.

Not two people raised to hate each other, sharing a car out of convenience.

Not two people that almost could have been friends or something more had the world been easier on hem. 

Not two people who lingered a moment too long in a town that didn’t know their names, where they didn’t have to be a Capulet and a Montague. 

She looks over at Benvolio, where he sits in the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel. 

Though it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, now in the dark, the street lights illuminating the car every few stretches of road. They’ve exhausted all form of awkward small talk hours ago, the silence stretching on endlessly, only interrupted by the radio. A cheery pop tune turned down just low enough to register, but just loud enough to make the lack of conversation not seem abnormal. 

His eyes don’t move from the road, but after a moment he says, “I can hear you thinking, Capulet.”

“You cannot,” she insists, wrinkling her nose at the name, it’s different from when earlier over dinner he had called her Ros for a second, before awkwardly looking away. She doesn’t focus on that. Cannot focus on what any of that might mean. “Pull over.”

This time he does look at her, eyes flashing away from the road for just a moment. “The next rest stops not for thirty miles, you sure you can handle that?” 

She rolls her eyes at the implication. 

“Let me drive for a while.”

‘I’m fine,” he insists. As she should have expected. 

“You’re not. You’re stubborn and insisting on driving through the night and I’d rather not have my obituary read: Rosaline Capulet dies in tragic car accident because Benvolio Montague is too dense to take a break.”

His laugh is not something she’s heard much, not in the whole ten hours they’ve been trapped in the car together. But she hears it now, spilling into the space between them, and she can’t explain the feeling in her chest that accompanies it. 

“Alright, you’ve made your point.”