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Any Road
by Scynneh
Disclaimer: If I had them.*Scy grins. Widely*
Spoilers: Er, Lindsey is off on a Grand Exploration of
Self.
Distribution: Oh, heck yes.
Improv 29: century -- unleash -- ground -- melt
Summary: Who knows.
Ratings: R for thoughts oh, and very dark weather.
Dedications: Lar, who needs something to perk her up
and who was very excited about this one. And to
ethrosdemon who lets me babble about Lindsey to her when
I'm on an idea high.
Feedback: Coveted at: Scynneh@yahoo.com
People had to be idiots to live in an area of regular
monsoons and such a state was Washington. Western, to
be more geographically correct. The Eastern part of
the state was arid and more likely to have snowfall
than rainfall, and it was almost always scorchingly
hot in the summer and the kind of weather persisted
where no one sensible was going to be donning anything
wool-related. One would either melt or become a
'hikers wear layers' warning.
But as he turned his truck in the direction of the
Pacific part of the state, he concluded that only
three types of people lived in the Northwest: the
crazy few who enjoyed monsoon rains, those who, for
career or family had no choice but to live there, and
idiots, who were bent something fierce on being near
one of the largest suppositories of caffeine-laced
liquids. Though, Lindsey didn't understand the last,
there were plenty of Starbucks in other states now, no
need to get sopping for a latté with triple whipped
cream or wossitcalled.
So Lindsey resolved not to remain long in the state-
then he got caught up in the landscape and scolded
himself for the weakness. Towering trees comprised
forests that looks as thought they might very well
have a claim on the gods themselves, shades of moist
green that he'd not seen before outside a mold culture
in college biology. And moss. Something left alone in
a damp area would be captured by Kingdom Plantae and
not surrendered until a drought hit, which was rarely.
After losing some pieces of laundry overnight to
voracious plant life with supernatural rates of
propagation, Lindsey never set anything on the ground,
or any other place where it could be removed or
covered. By anything. The radio had been stuck on
one station, an appallingly twangy country station
until he reached towns where the population counted
more than the raccoons as citizens, then some classic
rock and even 'feel good' melodies saved the ex-lawyer
from having to murder his radio. The smaller
settlements had a distinctly Norwegian feel to the
buildings, with military families in evidence as well.
Lindsey knew that he was clearly not at home; wearing
an old bomber jacket, fleece collar turned up to try
and warm him, a flannel shirt and a plain t-shirt for
further insulation. His jeans were worn in that 'only
pair and these are years old' style that spoke of not
having a permanent address and his boots were
definitely from out-of-state. And he didn't see may
others like him, a few couples from Oregon, and
thereabouts, but clearly if one wanted amusement, this
was not the place for it. In fact, some of the senior
residents looked as though they would take a stern
stance against anything that hadn't been reviewed by
the FDA and the Surgeon General. And in their eyes
were the questions that he didn't want to answer
himself.
He didn't think about why he was still on the road,
not taking time out to rest, just seeing the country
in a way that he hadn't. Not since before college and
learning about restraint. He was trying to forget that
lesson, and all the ones that led to him losing a hand
and heart to someone who was too busy saving souls to
love one. Or just his. Because the Bat Brats were so
much tied to Angel that if they died, he would
probably go a bit nuts. But it was all right for him
to abandon them, just not for them to be taken away by
Death.
There was no desire to reflect on how he'd been able
to leave Angel behind, with all of his intentions that
could be so right in so many ways, but he knew that if
he wasn't careful in his mental wanderings, that his
actions would mirror them and he'd be back under the
fist of Wolfram and Hart, and Angel, at the same time
possibly, and he was getting to like his freedom.
It was in his mind, utterly obvious that things were
not going precisely to his plan of action. He'd set
off from Los Angeles, finding the sign taped carefully
to his tailgate after being pulled over for the
seventh 'burned out light'. After some heartfelt
curses and a penknife's edge prying the adhesive away
from the metal, Lindsey was no more noticeable to law
enforcement than any other redneck backwoodsman out on
the highway. Except of course, he could most likely
get himself out of nearly all legal situation
imaginable, or enforceable.
The road spun out before him, a spool of concrete
thread, spiked along the seams by pins of wire,
connecting the people, most of whom could have done
with a goodly amount of distance to get their lives in
order. Onto that path he turned himself, aware that
with this journey, he was about to enact an American
fantasy, he'd read somewhere that being on the road
was in the blood of any citizen from 'sea to shining
sea,' put down for the same reason that people had sat
in boats and written about lights in the sky centuries
ago, and now he was off to 'discover himself' or
whatever folksy description applied.
A pile of cassette tapes tumbled out of their box like
teeth in a jaw that had no room. He reached over and
selected one about to fall onto the floor. Sliding it
into the deck and waited for his pick to reveal
itself. The first notes of Chris Isaak's 'Forever
Blue' spilled out, the warbling emotional wounds
cosseting Lindsey's own oozing sores. At least he
didn't have something obscenely happy, like 'Aqua'
that might have really driven him to murder.
Lindsey had often compared the upper echelons of
Wolfram and Hart with any typical parental unit.
Though, after having been poked, observed, threatened,
never overtly, and openly evaluated, he sometimes
thought bitterly about how much he'd longed for a
father who would care about all he did. Then he had
it, in Holland, and he could the constant attention
more menacing than encouraging. He'd always thought
it not too smart to trust anyone who was always
smiling. A barracuda smiled all the time, often while
they were ripping other fish to easily digestible
bits. The beach was pleasant, but when he returned
home, he found sand where it should not have been, not
even on special occasions.
A billboard with a photograph of a Frapuccino on a
Popsicle stick- he briefly contemplated the sloshing
quality of such a snack, and spent all of a minute
calculating how thick of a support beam would be
required to keep the bottle upright. Then he
abandoned that path of contemplation and idly switched
lanes, drifting almost sleepily, ignoring the angry
blare of other drivers' displeasure.
The combination of wariness and fascination with
visitors in each small town caused him to keep his
comments to a minimum, the accent again saturated his
speech and he regained the trademark walk for from his
secondary school days that had kept him out of trouble
or well informed of its imminence. He was polite to
man and woman, a real Southern gentlemen, on a low
budget. He wasn't looking for something interesting,
but in a situation filmed so many times as to be the
ultimate roadway cliché, people meeting.
Still, when he was just outside a small town called
Chimacum, which appeared to have only several
attractions, the baseball fields, he saw a man walking
alongside the highway, perhaps looking for a ride.
His shoulders weren't tensed as the first-time riders
tended to be, so he knew what he was on about and the
trench coat he wore said- 'good leather, money at one
time, could be that I'm just taking a cross country
jaunt.' Then again -
He only had a duffel slung across his shoulders, and
the dusty condition of aforementioned jacket could
also point to 'down on luck and looking for an easy
target.' The rain, of course it was pounding,
unleashing torrents held in reserve, most likely
responding to a cue in the script held by higher
powers. pouring down in sheets of damp, drizzled over
the windshield as Lindsey coasted gently to the side
of the road, just a few feet from the tall man walking
alone.
"Need a ride?" he asked in his friendly, ignorant
easygoing way. It was an act that had sold many a
time, when the man came parallel with the truck, he
swung around to stare at Lindsey, as though he hadn't
known there was anyone else around until the very
moment Lindsey's lips let words pass between them.
Auburn hair, the color of fern fronds crisped by a
hot, rare crimson. There were highlights in that
messy tangle, whether natural or added, he did not
know, and they were red as well.
A large, appropriately black pair of sunglasses was
balanced on a well-placed nose and with them blocking
those eyes, Lindsey couldn't tell if there was
interest, disgust, or homicidal intent. Sunglasses
were one of the very best disguises and nobody had
really developed them he thought of great factories of
lentes del sol being fitted according to the strictest
of calculations on mustachioed men who sidled in one
certain days of the week after their odd and
mysterious business had been completed. This man was
too attractive for that though, he had something that
told Lindsey he could be truly warm, if he felt
someone worth the effort.
"Some day for a walk," Lindsey invited, the smile
fading to only passing query.
"Yeah, I was just taking my time, me, and de sky
opened up." The grin was like a door unhinged, an
open, ungreased expression that Lindsey knew was
genuinely curious. He'd rolled down the passenger
window, and now the man leaned his arms in- the open
space, seeming like some gypsy wandered, fascinated by
the people around him.
Lindsey looked the man over- he didn't appear too
violent, more capable of handling himself in all
situations. In totality, he seemed more interesting
than anything else, and if he was any trouble, Lindsey
had the hammer in the bed of the truck- or the
compartment behind the seat. So he opened the door and
the man hopped in. "Lindsey McDonald," he introduced
himself, and the man accepted the hand offered to him.
"Remy Lebeau," was drawled right back, and a very deep
place inside Lindsey was warmed by the vowels of the
South, Louisiana, and by the way that the other man
regarded the truck, contents and driver in one
all-encompassing dip of his chin. Ah, survival
instincts, someone who had been there.
And he could see the smile, *aware* which he didn't
remember ever being on the opposite end of when not
fearing for his life and wished that he didn't
appreciate it so much for an instant, but then decided
to take what he'd gotten and move *forward*, challenge
maybe, or just *I know what you are* nod that made
this a game for two.
Fin-
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