I was working on Finders Keepers listening to Pandora when "Cracks" came on my Sneaker Pimps station. And this fic came with it. Hope you enjoy.
I recommend pulling up "Cracks, Flux Pavilion Remix" while reading. Note; the full version is over four minutes long, and that is the one you want.
Tag for 6x13.
No, I don't own Bones, but I'm flattered that you make me say that.
It had been a while since he had gone to the garage.
A while? It had been over a year.
Certainly not since he had gotten back from Iraq, not since Hannah had entered his life here in DC, he hadn't had the time.
That's a lie. He thought, his own mind betraying him.
This was the one part of himself he kept for himself.
Not even Bones knew about this.
He walked through the door, breathing in the smells of gasoline, forty-weight oil, and racing tires.
With a single hand he gripped the stained canvas, a layer of dust and garage grime that had grown far too thick coated his palm.
He tightened his grip and with a single violently fluid movement he pulled the canvas off the car.
"Hey baby. I missed you."
She was beautiful.
He wiped the grime off his hand before touching her with his fingertips, along the door, down the ridge of the hood; the scoop, opening her up for the 5L inline 6; the chrome detail on her grill, the thin strip of it in the cove on the rear doors; the vents on her fastback. The smooth deep blue paint electric under his fingertips. He had built her up from a striped out '65 Mustang frame he'd found at the yard, but she was all his and there was nothing else like her.
He hadn't realized how much he had missed her.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the cool metal of the car top.
How had things gotten so complicated? But he knew. And he hated that he knew.
Moving on; going back. Those aren't options, those are directions.
He opened his eyes and let his hand surround the smooth cold chrome of the door handle. The round push-button door release resisted before giving way.
She's mad at me.
He sank into the black bucket seat, closed his eyes and let everything go.
The smell of cold leather filled his lungs; he reached out with both hands and grasped the upper curve of the steering wheel. His fingers fit perfectly in the grooves of the wheel, his broad shoulders cradled by the seat, his head comfortably pillowed on the rest.
At least I fit somewhere.
He reached out, and without opening his eyes, he turned the key in the ignition. There should have been knocking in the engine block; if the car even started at all.
But there wasn't, she started right up and purred for him.
"Missed me too, didn't you baby?" He ran his hand along the dash, "I'll never leave you alone like that again, ever."
He revved the engine, "How about a drive?"
He dropped his hand, letting it rest on the 8-ball grip of the gearshift and he rolled her gently out of the garage.
I should have done this as soon as I got back.
He headed for the Georgetown Pike, at 3 am he had the road to himself.
Opening up the engine down the 495 he burned out the crud that had accumulated in the cylinders over the past year and a half, burned off all the old gas that had just been sitting in the tank, burned off everything that was wearing him down, burned off everything that was holding him back.
Just before the Pike exit he pulled off and filled her up with a clean tank of gas.
Taking only a moment to roll down the windows, he pulled out of the station and gunned it for the open road.
Accelerating into the curves, rushing down the straight-a-ways, the wind swirling through the car. He felt new, clean, the world and everything in it flew past at 98 miles an hour.
She was built for this.
He was built for this.
Now he just had to figure out his life and things would be fine.
.
.
.
Or he could just drive.
