Jeb never smoked before this year.
But here he is anyway, huddled on the back porch with a cigarette dangling from his lips as the sun goes down.
The sky is a deep blue getting darker by the moment, fading out to green, yellow, and a fishy orange-red on the horizon. No clouds today, but his shoulder hurts again, which means probably rain tomorrow. Not that it matters; he'll be somewhere west of here by the time the storm breaks.
He has a talent for escaping storms, in particular metaphorical ones; he made it out of the wreck of Itexicon with the clothes on his back and a blacklist for a resume, but at least he's not incarcerated. And if he keeps quiet he'll make it away from the house before anyone but Dylan knows he's here.
Jeb frowns, runs his good hand through his hair (salt-and-pepper by now, thanks to Max). He's cursed with good luck in general, actually. Despite the PR nightmare, he's managed to find work here and there; he's not high-maintenance, so minimum wage is fine, though he'd like to be back in the lab again. With a bad arm, that's unlikely to happen, but he can dream. There's no law against that yet.
His future isn't certain, but he does need to stay out of Max's way. Hell would freeze over before she'd talk to him of her own free will, and with Fang gone these five years, she's nitroglycerin and a lit match.
Dylan's not much protection against her, but he's the only chance Jeb has to make it. He has no aversion to hitchhiking (it's how he got here, after all), but he is just about broke.
His hand shakes.
When it comes down to the truth of things, Jeb Batchelder is a dead man walking.
He has his health, for what it's worth. But his future is bleak and bare, and he's living on borrowed time. He refuses to check, but it's likely someone somewhere has a warrant out for him, whether it's the police or someone else.
He's not much service to anyone either way, this broken, mangy ex-doctor. Adrenaline only kept him running so long, and by now he'll take anything that makes him feel like there's a reason to keep moving; thus, the cigarettes.
Ten days ago he was living in a grey little hole in New York City or somewhere close, where the lines of state and city blur into the one huge metropolis. More often than not it felt like Gotham to him at night, the dirty air clinging to his skin while sirens wailed along the streets.
There was rain lashing down outside the dirty window, and he leaned his forehead against the greasy panes. Headlights and taillights streaked the asphalt down below, bleeding into each other, reflecting up from under a scrim of dirt and blood and oil. Kodak moment, folks.
The phone rang, and the first time he didn't even hear it; the walls were thin here, and it was probably one of his neighbors' anyway. There was no one left to call him, though he'd had the phone line installed out of sheer habit.
It rang a second time, interrupting the miasma of miserable dark, and he made a quick nine steps to the table to answer.
"Hello?" The number was listed, but he doubted anyone would care enough to call it. The police preferred to just show up at your door.
There was a pause. "Come to California," a voice said. "You know where."
Then the smooth sound of the open line.
Jeb stared at the receiver before he hung up. Prank call? Perhaps. Wrong number? Likely.
But he wanted to believe the call was genuine, and meant for him. The voice was familiar.
And what did he have here, anyway?
Only broken things.
California didn't promise much, either... but it wouldn't be New York.
So he left.
Gas stations don't ask questions, and he blessed the culture that kept them open twenty-four hours. He was unshaven, gaunt, and wearing dirty clothes, but something in his eyes made him look like a veteran or a homeless man. Or at least no one had ever stopped him, asking what he was doing.
There are thousands of men like him; the recession he helped create is the reason for that. No jobs, no hope. They fall into the blank spaces in society.
The West is thankfully clean and calm; he's tempted to find a place for himself here in Colorado, but California, as hopeless causes do, calls his name.
Self-doubt is waiting for him as the last of the light fades, and he lights a new cigarette. Max will smell the smoke if she hasn't already, but he needs the nicotine more than he needs a place to sleep tonight.
Jeb, you sad old addict.
He laughs, shoving his lighter back into his pocket. There's a steady dull ache in the shoulder of his bad arm, and smoking makes it no better; it only distracts him a little.
He's sad and old for sure, but addict... addict might be a new addition. Though now that he considers it, it's possible addiction is an essential part of his composition. Most people have a sense of self-preservation; when not to go after a snipe, when to stay at home and die of old age.
He's not one of those people.
Constitutionally, Jeb is unable to resist a reckless charge; hopeless causes are his bread and butter. Anne called him charmingly naive once; all he qualifies as now is lucky -- stupid, but lucky. Naivete doesn't count for anything when the world is collapsing.
The future isn't his, anyway. He's too old to be a revolutionary. Too old for almost anything but just existing, like a rat in a cage.
There has to be a little hope for him -- rats get cheese at the end of the maze, after all.
The screen door opens and he stands. It doesn't matter who it is.
Tomorrow is coming anyway.