TITLE: Near-Life Experiences 3/?
AUTHOR: tanith
RATING: R
SUMMARY: On the road with William, Anne, and Zoe. Sequel to "Dry Kind of Love."
ARCHIVE: It's all yours, just let me know.
FEEDBACK: Need it now more than ever. akirgo@yahoo.com
SPOILERS: Through Older and Far Away for BtVS, and season 2 for AtS, then AU. This installment takes place several months after the end of DKoL.
DISCLAIMER: Some are mine. Most are not. If you can't tell, thenthat's kind of cool.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Gawd, this is coming slow. Hopefully, I'll be able to provide more in the next couple of days.
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Zoe sleeps like the dead. She sleeps while her parents toss and turn and fail to do the same; she sleeps while they silently and simultaneously give up on ever meeting Mr. Sandman; she sleeps while they slip off to the bathroom and shut the door softly behind them.
Even though they know she sleeps, they still try to be quiet.
William lowers the toilet seat and sits down on the lid. Anne straddles his lap, cupping his face in her hands and taking a moment to stare into his eyes.
"So beautiful," she murmurs. "Always so beautiful."
There is pain behind her words, so he tries to kiss it away. His lips trail across her face, then down her neck. He nestles his head against her shoulder while her fingers slip up under his shirt and trace the pattern of cool muscles. His hands soon move to mirror hers, and they slide one another's jeans down in tandem. They rock together, braced against the cold porcelain, and take what comfort they can.
Outside, Zoe sleeps on.
*************
Roger parks his car in front of the village green and walks across the street to the post office. He doesn't bother to lock the door; the car is a beat-up old Subaru, for which he paid less than $3000. Nobody would want it. He doesn't really want it.
He pushes open the post office door with his shoulder, digging in his pocket with his free hand. He pulls out the small copper key and walks around the back to where the P.O. boxes are. Most of them are empty and unused; who bothers with snail-mail anymore? Roger's own box contains a piddling amount of mail: two envelopes, one informing him that he has just won $15 million (if his code number matches the one selected), the other reminding him to please return "American Gods" to the public library. There is also a postcard. His eyes light up when he sees this, then quickly dull; he shoves the card into his back pocket and exits the post office hurriedly, a guilty expression on his face.
Back in the car, he pulls it free and holds it up against the wheel, hands trembling.
"Roger,"
the postcard reads,
"I'm doing better. Disappointment over what happened in La Jolla hasn't gone away, but Mom and Dad seem to have come up with an alternate plan, although they're being typically tight-lipped. We're heading East now, to visit some old friend of Mom's. I can tell my dad is unhappy about this, even though he tries to hide it, which makes me think that old friend' translates to old boyfriend'. I love that my life has turned into a tour of my parents' exes.
"I'll try to write again as soon as I know more. And don't worry about me getting caught - the rents are oblivious. They've got their own problems, etc., etc.
"Give my best to Sarah.
"Dead and living with it,
"Zoe."
Roger rereads the postcard twice before snapping back into action. With one hand, he starts the car, with the other, he dials Sarah's cell. After three rings, he hangs up; it's their secret code, which makes him feel mildly like a secret agent. Mildly.
He tears off toward home, clutching the postcard against the wheel as he drives. He's in a hurry, so he takes one of the fastest routes possible. Not *the* fastest, though; it passes by Zoe's old street.
Sarah's waiting for him when he gets home; he can see her scooter parked up against a tree. He rushes inside, and she jumps down off the kitchen table where she had been sitting as soon as she sees him. "You heard from Zoe?" she asks, excitedly, and then off his look, adds, "Don't worry. Nobody's home."
He hands her the postcard without another word. She reads it quickly, then flips it back around to the front, pursing her lips. The card is modeled after old fashioned greeting cards: it says "Oklaholma, OK!" in curvy letters filled with jovial little drawings. "The postmark is from Kansas," Sarah says, continuing to study the card, "so she's heading North as well as East."
"You don't know that," Roger says, testily, snatching the card away.
"It's a logical conclusion," Sarah insists. "Here, give it back. Maybe there are more clues in her note."
He hands it back, reluctantly. Sarah reads the message over again, and then stares up at the ceiling, lost in thought, her fingernail tapping against the card. "Old boyfriend,'" she mutters. "I wonder if that could be that guy from out of town who took Anne to lunch when we were in seventh grade. Remember? Zoe was in a foul mood all week because her dad was in a foul mood, and you made all those jokes about secret affairs and then she hit you. Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember." He sighs. "Come on, let's go upstairs."
They trudge up to the second floor. "Where's Darren?" Roger asks, passing by his brother's room.
Sarah shrugs. "Note on the fridge said something about Gabe's."
"Good. He's been really nosey lately. I should never have let him borrow my Complete Sherlock Holmes.'"
"At least he's out of his Skateboard Punk' phase."
"True."
Roger opens the door to his room, flinging his backpack toward the bed without looking. Despite the crashing sounds that soon after heard from that general region, Roger sets right to work shoving aside a small bureau. Sarah lends a hand, and soon the bureau is out of the way, revealing a small door in the wall. When his family first moved into this house, Roger had delighted at this addition to his room. "It's so Being John Malkovich'!" he'd remarked, earning eyerolls from everyone present. Unfortunately, it had turned out not to lead to the annals of any actor's brain, instead providing a direct passage to a colony of wasp nests. Every member of Roger's family and all but one of his friends had been stung at one point or another, leading to his parents declaring the crawlspace off limits.
The one friend who had remained sting-free was, of course, Zoe. Roger has to wonder whether this was as innocuous as he had once thought. Leaving Sarah to question the intelligence of opening the door to a well-known wasp pit.
"Are you sure it's safe?" she asks, drawing back a bit.
"I've been using it for months."
"That doesn't make it safe."
"*You've* been in here."
"Fearing for my life every time, yeah..."
He rolls his eyes and opens the door, stooping to enter. Sarah follows, more hesitantly, but when once it becomes clear that there is nary a wasp in sight, she relaxes and takes a seat on one of the ancient beanbags slumped against one wall.
On the other wall, a full color map of the United States is tacked up. Little color push pins are stuck in at various points; Roger plucks one out of an empty jam jar and sticks it in Witchita, Kansas. He says this location out loud as the pin sinks in, and then steps back, letting his hands drop to his sides.
"So we know...absolutely nothing," he says.
"Well, she might be heading to see The Guy Who Causes Foul Moods," Sarah says, with optimism she doesn't feel.
"Yes, and we know exactly where he lives."
"It's a start." And she's completely serious now, her expression grave. "And it's all we have."
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TBC