|
|
b>The Grass Is Always Greener
(A 'Just Drive' Piece)
by zahra
Email: (frans_angel@hotmail.com)
Feedback: Yes. No. Stop. Go. Just tell me something.
Spoiler: AtS: Dead End
Rating: R (m/m thoughts)
Disclaimer: I only wish I was worthy. Joss owns all. I own none. So sad.
Summary: Lindsey. Not driving for a change.
Note#1: This makes number three in a vaguely-related-but-not-a-mini-series
group. It probably makes more sense if you've read ' Interstate Love Song'
and 'Wasteland' (www.eterniata.com)
Note#2: I have never been to Arkansas in my life.
Dedication: To Paul for keeping my head in the icebox this weekend - you
are an EVIL man. And to Lar - because she is always there when I need her.
I like the Lindsey virus. [weeps with gratitude]
Improv #19: still-struggle-damn-noble
*************************************************************
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
But it still has to be mowed.
Someone told him that once. But they never bothered to tell him how green
that grass would be.
How enthralling it would seem. How the sun would catch it just so. How the
wind would wash over it making it ripple and shine like an emerald ocean.
They never bothered to tell him how much he would be willing to sacrifice
for five minutes of inhaling that intoxicating, crisp, clean scent.
They never told him how alluring things that you've never had can be. They
didn't tell him about the small print at the bottom. The disclaimer. The
little clause.
He's a lawyer; he should've read THAT first.
If he had, he might've known. Might've known about the cost of his soul.
As it stands now, it's almost too late. Almost too late to turn back. To
try again. But he's going to.
He's back on his side of the fence, in his own grass. He's snatched his
hand back out of the fires of hell. Talk about a struggle. He barely got
away from the cannibalistic, bone-grinding lawn mower that is Wolfram and
Hart.
Lindsey seems to have an obsession for things that are decidedly bad for
him. Money. Power. Darla. Angel.
He always thought it was just about the damn grass.
Sometimes he can be really thick. Not normally, but, occasionally, he can't
see the forest for all the fifty-foot high redwoods and six-foot plus
vampires.
But. That was then. This is now. Ten days later. Thousands of miles and
four states between that grass and his own.
It's beautiful here. In Arkansas. In the Ozark Mountains. It's also hot
as hell.
Lindsey is completely beside himself. It's so amazing. So freeing. So
damn quiet.
Just him and the birds and his truck and the sweat forming in little drops
on the nape of his neck.
He should be appreciating this more. The bright, blue, cloudless sky. The
rolling hills and solitude. But there's a small problem.
A small problem that's going to get bigger if someone doesn't pass by soon.
He's out of gas.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Isn't really sure how it happened because
he swears that he filled the tank and the container. But apparently not.
Apparently he was off in Neverneverland at the last gas station and now.
Well, now he's just stuck.
Scratches his head and runs dirty, sweaty fingers through equally dirty and
dusty hair. Sighs. If he was a bit better prepared he wouldn't really mind
this glitch. Would take advantage and sleep under the stars in the bed of
his truck. Thinks that that might actually be a good idea if he had the
right essentials. Like water.
He'd be the first one to admit he'd love a long shower, but the whole
dehydration thing is a bit more pressing.
If only he was a bit more prepared.
He could use the flannel jacket as a pillow. Could let down the hatch of
the bed so his legs aren't cramped. Could try to remember what little he
remembers about astronomy and study the stars. The Big Dipper. The Little
Dipper. The North Star. That group of stars that his youngest sister
called 'the dead rabbit.'
It sounds good. It sounds so relaxing, almost spiritual. Which sounds a
major alarm in his head. Spiritual is like God, and God and Lindsey aren't
really talking. Actually he's pretty sure that God has his name on the shit
list. On the list of people to be pissed on from way up high.
There's not a hope in hell. Lindsey knows better. He's been to hell; hope
doesn't reside there. Besides, apart from his being forsaken and all, he
knows that no matter how his shirt is sticking to him now that it gets cold
at night. Icebox cold. Get out the flannel cold. Dead people cold.
Which naturally brings him to, well, dead people. Or a dead person.
Correction: vampire.
He was doing so damn well. Really. Looks around as though he expects Angel
to come striding across the road under a 92 degree, sunny sky with black
duster flapping behind him and gasoline can under his arm. Just the thought
alone sends a shiver running through Lindsey that starts in his brain stem
and ends up in his cock.
Opens the door of the cab and slides out the driver's side seat. Doesn't
need to be confined with thoughts like that in this heat. Heat stroke.
Talk about a bad idea.
He needs to keep busy. Needs to do something else besides brood. Because
that's what he's doing - brooding.
Four hours of waiting for someone, something, to pass by and he's brooding.
Tried playing his guitar but wasn't feeling inspired. The spark wasn't
there. And now. Now he's resorted to brooding. Channeling Angel.
Kicks the front left tire and sighs. He doesn't want to get to this point.
Does not want to open the Pandora's Box with Angel's name in gilded letters.
Feels a stirring in his cock again and grumbles softly. No. He was doing
so well.
He needs a shower. A cold shower. A really cold shower. But to have a
shower requires water, and the only water around is…in the radiator.
Shit. It's better than nothing.
Pops the hood of the truck, and chuckles quietly when he thinks about how in
two short weeks he's gone from getting his hair washed in Evian to siphoning
water out his radiator. Talk about a fall from grace.
Lets out a long string of curses when he reaches for the radiator cap and
finds his hands unable to get a firm hold, too damp from the heat. Wipes
his fingers on his jeans, leaving behind long dirt and oil trails, and tries
again, but to no avail.
Strips off the grimy, once-white, sleeveless shirt, and takes a moment to
roll his head around and loosen his neck muscles. He's been so tense over
the last few months that he can hear the snap-crackle-pop of his movements.
Feels the beads of sweat on his back begin running between his shoulder
blades and knows that this, at least, is a smart move.
Exhales softly, hoping to relax the ever-present tension, and wraps the
shirt around his right hand. The evil hand. His living, moving reminder to
stay on his side of the fence, in his own damn grass.
Feels a slight breeze running over his bare torso causing his nipples to
harden, but it's the cool air on the back of his neck, in his damp hair,
that unnerves him. Feels soft and deliberate, like a breath. Feels cools,
preternatural.
Drops the shirt in the dust and curses. Even when Angel's not there, he's
there. Lindsey's gotta get a grip. Snatches the shirt out the brick-red
dirt and brushes the small pebbles off.
Uses the shirt to unscrew the cap, and steps up on the fender to look inside
the radiator to see exactly how much water he has to work with. He won't be
taking a bath in it, but it's enough to at least cool him off a bit.
Jumps back down, before he slips on the rusty metal, and removes the shirt
from his hand. Twirls it between his fingers until he's got enough to get
damp. Leans forward and dangles the shirt inside the hole, can feel the
change in weight as the cotton absorbs the water.
Pulls it back out and immediately presses the wetness to his face.
Definitely not the most hygienic thing he's ever done but it's wet and cool.
Feels moderately better as the rivulets run down his neck and chest,
pooling slightly in his navel before being absorbed into the faded denim
around his waist.
Repeats the motion, once, twice. Just glad to cool down slightly. Wishes
there was some way to cool down more. Thinks of ice cream. Of tall glasses
of ice tea brimming with ice cubes. Thinks of Angel. Again.
Wonders exactly how cool that body is, and finds the hand holding his shirt
unconsciously rubbing against it his chest. Shakes his head and kicks
himself mentally. He can't give into this. Can he?
If he does, out in the middle of nowhere, who's going to know? Who's going
to see, or tell? Feels his left hand sliding down, over the front of his
jeans and makes once last feeble attempt to stop.
It's all wrong. So wrong to lust after Angel this way. After all that he's
done to him. Hears some voice in his head saying to tell it to someone who
gives a flying fuck.
Rubs a thumb over the noticeable bulge in his Levis and wants to slap
himself out this stupor. He's playing in someone else's yard again. This
is not his grass. This is not a good idea at all.
Finds himself tugging on his zipper when he thinks about a cool mouth
closing over his steaming cock. It is way too hot in the Ozarks right now.
So wrapped up in his internal conflict that he nearly has a small coronary
when he hears a horn blaring in his ear. Snaps out of his reverie and holds
his hands up, almost in surrender.
What a time to get saved by a knight in a shiny blue Nova.
There is something to be said for noble behavior, but as Lindsey gives the
driver his this-is-why-I-get-paid-four-hundred-dollars-an-hour smile, he has
to wonder if the kid could perhaps come back in fifteen minutes.
-finis-
|
