A/N:

First time writing a fanfic, thought I have been religiously reading it for two years now. I guess this is where I say the precautionary 'please be nice to me' or whatever. Um, this idea was stuck in my head for awhile…best it got out. Basically the premise of the story is Bella and Edward coping with respective family problems whilst on the road together. It's rated mature for language and adult content. Violence, diseases all that. But mainly language. I cuss a lot.

Disclaimer: I own a Chihuahua named Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, but alas not the character or any other character in the Twilight universe. Any and all props and ownership go to Stephenie Meyer.

This is not a story of heroic feats, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it to be. It is a glimpse of two lives running parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams. –Ernesto Che Guevara; The Motorcycle Diaries

Part I

The sun was in limbo of setting. The sky at the top was blue, but it gradually faded into orange and pink all the way to the edge of the Western plain mountains that over-lapped the sky like a collage. The air was dry and still warm as it blew through the open window of the '73 Cutlass, gradually getting cooler as the minutes wore on.

Edward counted how much time would pass by keeping track of every Bright Eyes song that began and ended. He drove one handed, his right loosely holding the steering wheel, the left leaning on the edge of the window.

"I rebel; therefore we exist." Edward heard to his right and turned his head fully to look at the small girl curled up on the passenger seat beside him, one cowboy boot-clad foot laying across the dashboard, the other leg bent at the knee with Camus resting against it. Her wide brown eyes were trained carefully on the page, and she had no awareness of the scenery they were passing. The history of the road didn't matter to her in that moment, and Edward still stared at her unabashedly, knowing that the road was straight for plenty of more miles and he would not crash.

Her lips moved again, mumbling out the words on the pages but too low for him to decipher clearly, and he longed to hear the quietness of her voice.

"What's your favorite passage?" He asked, the accents of every state he lived in staying true. He knew she would refuse to read it to him, much like she refused to read anything aloud consciously, or pick the music on the radio. It made her too vulnerable, she thought, to show people her favorite words or songs. Too much insight on how she was feeling, or what her deepest thoughts were. She hated being vulnerable.

"You know I won't answer that, Edward." She whispered, just as he knew she would. Her head ducked a little, as per usual, curling in on herself more effectively. He sighed; knowing that the only time he'd know what her favorites were was when she'd subconsciously mumble something audible.

The song ended. Edward knew five minutes and forty-seven seconds had passed. He switched CD's.

She let out a quiet little sigh beside him as the opening chords were strung, and Edward smiled because he made the right choice. Her sigh, full of relief and relaxation and only slightly tinged with sadness, told him everything he needed to know that she wouldn't let herself say: she was longing. Edward could never pin down exactly what she craved, but she was always craving it. You can always tell what a person wants most in this world by the type of music they listen to, he always said, and this was most true with her.

"Edward," she murmured halfway through the song and he turned his head again. Her eyes were soft and sad and lovely. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere. Everywhere. All at the same time." He always answered that question in that way, every time.

"Will you tell me when we get there?" She asked next.

"Of course, love." He answered, and she nodded. She turned back to the rugged book resting on her knee and fixed her eyes upon the literature. Edward, he kept his gaze on his girl until he saw her face change from guarded to completely open, and he had to turn away. He couldn't betray her trust and watch her face break free and wildly show all her emotions. He had to wait until she showed them to him on her own instead of stealing her emotions away from her. The last time he did she sat in the backseat, not facing him for two months.

Edward kept idling through the straight road for miles and minutes and songs, his eyes carefully watching the horizon as it kept getting darker and darker until the Western sky was black and littered with stars. He liked the sky because it reminded him of her too much. Changing constantly, always there. Always beautiful.

"Edward." She whispered and he looked over at her again. The book was closed but still on her knee, and she was looking fully at him. He raised an eyebrow tenderly and her hand reached out and sat on the top of his thigh.

"Edward, you need to stop chasing what can't be found. It's gone, it's not coming back. It's no good chasing ghosts and shadows…they'll just disappear once you think you've got 'em in your grasp." She whispered. Edward kept staring into her grown-up eyes, his view partially obscured by a piece of bronze hair covering his eye. For once she stared straight back at him, but she was still hiding. Even in front of him, who knew her entire history; lived it with her. She would still hide like he was a stranger, not a lover.

"Can we stop soon?" She asked quietly and he nodded. A moment passed as she still looked at him, and then her face turned away and down to stare at her book. Her expression was sad.

"You like the book?" He whispered, also turning his face away, but to the road. He saw her nod through his periphery, and felt one corner of his mouth turn up in smile because she shared.

"Thank you for seeing it." She whispered back. The gratitude wasn't deserved, Edward knew. He was going through trash bags that were supposed to go to the Salvation Army, looking for clothes for the both of them when he spotted the red, beat-up book under a denim button-up shirt. She had been bored sitting in the passenger seat just looking out of the window lost in her thoughts, thoughts she should never be in. All her other books had been read, it'd been months since the last time she read something new besides a newspaper, and even that was rare. Some of those articles were lies; she couldn't stand to be lied to. Knowing this, Edward stuffed the book in his in-seam pocket right next to his equally battered copy of On the Road. The look on her face when he presented it to her was worth it though, and his face turned one more time to look at her where she was smiling gently down at the pages.

Edward turned back to the road ahead of him, and recited so quietly and under the music that she couldn't hear, "Bella's the most beautiful girl...she's got the weight of the world…though she won't be complainin' to you…she won't even talk to you…she's mature'd too fast…seen enough that'll last her for life…Bella's the most beautiful girl."

-::-

A/N: Short, I know, but it's only the beginning. Sort of. Like it? Yes? No? Tell me if you want. I know how hard it is to click that green/white button. No sarcasm there, completely honest. Lyrics at the end were written by a friend circa 2003. It's freaky how well it fit, though.