A/N: This is Lindsay POV fic that is very personal for me, also a slight departure from my usual Fluff. Yeah, it's a little weird. However, I like writing and reading stories that are heavy with emotion. This is three parts, but it is all written, so I shall be uploading II and III immediately.
Disclaimer: Using characters borrowed from CBS/AA/Bruckheimer/Zuiker etc. Pam Veasey for President. The ideas and dialogue are all that is mine.
Pairing: D/L. Of COURSE. My sole ship.
Genre: Oh dear, I think this would qualify as... gulp ... angst! scream of terror

In This World

Part I – Run

I'm alone in this world.

Where this bus is going doesn't matter much to me. Running away is all that matters.

Nearly two hours ago, I walked out of the lab and right onto a bus. It was pulled to the curb, calling to me with a siren song of escape. I boarded it in a daze; and when the engine shuddered to life a few minutes later, I was ready for anything. Mac had said, gruff but understanding, "Go home". I don't feel like home is anywhere in particular. So I just go.

I lean against the window, the glass cool from the rain that splatters against the opposite side. The hard, cold surface feels good against my throbbing temple. I don't know the destination, I don't have luggage, and I don't have a plan. All I have are the clothes I am wearing, and my purse. My seat mate is an old man who is browsing a magazine about big game hunting. Eventually he falls asleep, his head drooping dangerously close to my shoulder, an article about bighorn sheep spread on his lap. I wonder where he thinks he can find bighorns east of the Rockies.

I haven't been on a bus since I was a child. School field trips were always to the same place – Yellowstone National Park. The excitement wears off after the first few trips, especially when your family visits the park every summer, too. Back then, the bus rides were part of the fun – no seatbelts, ducking paper airplanes, and dreaming about where we would really like to go. For me, it was always the bright lights and bustling streets of New York City. Even when I was older, I knew I wanted to live in New York. After all, you could lose yourself in such a place, right? Without tragedy tagging along? Wrong.

I don't remember bus rides being so bumpy. Every slight inconsistency in the pavement is jolting. It's not enough, however, to wake the hunter next to me. We pass small town after small town, and no one gets off. Oh, people board, but no one is actually going to these sleepy little towns, with their single stoplight and mom-and-pop general stores.

The weather has gotten even bleaker, matching my mood. It's been nearly two hours now, and my back is aching from this rigid seat. The bus comes to a grinding halt once again, in yet another nameless town. Just across the street is a shabby looking motel with a parking lot full of tractor trailers. It's as good a place as any to get off. I squeeze past the drowsy old man with a forced smile of apology, pass the driver a wrinkly wad of bills, and climb down to the pavement.

Darkness hasn't quite settled; everything seems gray, thick, and murky, like oatmeal left sitting in the kitchen sink all day. I dash across the deserted road, dodging raindrops, thinking of how odd it is to check into a motel with no baggage whatsoever. I walk into the tiny office, where a bulldog of a man sits behind a desk cluttered with knick-knacks and greasy fast food wrappers. He doesn't look up when I walk in, so I just stand there awkwardly for a minute.

"How many?" he finally asks.

I blanche. How many what? As if reading my mind, he snaps, "How many nights?"

"Just one." I hope.

"Cash or credit?" he mumbles.

"Uhh… credit," I reply, sliding my Visa across the desk. He swipes it, has me sign the slip, then passes me a set of keys.

"Lucky lady," he deadpans. "You got the last room we have." He reaches over and flips a switch on the wall, causing the word "no" to flash up next to "vacancy" on the neon sign outside.

Lucky indeed. When I locate my room a few doors down from the office, I am greeted with a stark, cold bunker that is styled in a burnt orange color. I shiver as I shut the door, and instantly turn up the thermostat. A twin-sized bed sits against one wall, and a tiny bathroom is off to the right. The drapes are open, and as I move to shut them, I spot a familiar vehicle pulling into the parking lot. I can't quite place it - it's too hard to see through the now-steady stream of rain cascading down from the roof. So I shrug it off and sit on the bed, the mattress springs creaking underneath me.

I remove my jacket, and goose bumps form where the chilly air reaches my bare arms. I wish it were possible to unzip myself, and crawl out of my own skin. I don't know who I am, why I am feeling like this, what's going to happen to me. Over a thousand miles lies between Montana and New York, and despite my best efforts at denying it, the memories have hitchhiked a ride with me. A hot shower would be nice, though I regret having no clean clothes to change into. Had I gone back to my apartment, I fear, I wouldn't have maintained the courage to do this. And getting away is something I need to do.

The walls here are thin, and I can hear my neighbor's television. Judging from the gun fire, Indian whoops, and thundering of hooves, I'm guessing it's an old Western. Maybe the noise makes him feel less alone. I wonder what it's like to be a truck driver – isolated all day, nothing but yourself and a CB radio, all for minimal pay. I should be grateful, I scold myself, to have a good paying job where I am surrounded by good, caring people. Incredible people, I think, then stop before my mind goes there, to the one place that will make me break. Him.

Shower, I remind myself, snapping out of the daydream. That will help me forget. I busy myself in the cramped bathroom, locating a towel and a bar of soap in a cabinet. Given the condition of the motel, and its usual occupants, I am pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the tub and sink. I start feeling a little better – after my shower, I'll flip on the television for some mindless distraction, and perhaps order a pizza, if there is such a place in this town.

I kick off my boots and unclip my hair, allowing it to tumble down into a tangled mess, when there's a knock at the door – forceful and incessant. Assuming someone has the wrong room, I ignore it and hope they'll go away. Yet the pounding continues, and only gets louder. I tiptoe out of the bathroom, tossing the towel onto the bed, then try to peek around the drapes. It's too dark to make anything out, other than a figure hunched against the weather. This is creepy… haven't I seen a horror movie like this?

"Who is it?" I call softly.

"Lindsay, open the damn door."