A/N: Set during Season 2. AUish. References Seasons 1 & 2, if you're still worried about spoilers. (Also, in case anyone is concerned, no, I do not own any of these characters. I play with them and put them back in the box labeled "Rob Thomas" at the end of the day.)
This chapter picks up right where the last one left off. Read, review if you're so inclined, and I sincerely hope you enjoy.
He starts driving at midnight and doesn't stop for at least four hours, headed straight down the black curves of the highway, headlights picking out just enough of the road to guide him. He doesn't really know where he's going—doesn't really care. It's not until he's forced to stop for gas that he realizes he's crossed over the Arizona state line. He scuffs his foot aimlessly across the gas station's oily pavement and waits for his tank to fill, wondering if Duncan has even noticed that he's gone yet. He doubts it.
He gets back in and keeps driving without much rhyme or reason, making a turn here or there as the fancy takes him. It doesn't make much of a difference when you're only driving to get away.
…
He doesn't want to think about her, swears to himself that he won't, in fact, but of course he does. How could he not? He remembers the road trips with all of them together, the Fab Four lounging in the back of a limo, crammed laughing into his X-Terra. The way that Lilly always called shotgun (and usually got it). He remembers the good-natured bickering, Veronica's laughter from the backseat and Duncan's easy smile in the rearview mirror. He forgets sometimes how good it felt to have people who loved him, who had his back. Everything is fractured now, and the remnants of who they used to be aren't strong enough to withstand the weight of murder and suspicion and hate-filled rage. Honestly, he doesn't know who could withstand it all. Everybody has to crack at some point.
He doesn't want to think about the other drives either, sneaking off to Los Angeles in the middle of a school day with Lilly, slipping off late at night to meet Veronica down at the beach. He misses them both in so many of the same ways. They are nowhere close to the same person—he sees that now, sees how little he really understood Veronica when she lived under the shadow of Lilly Kane. But they were so much alike as well, blonde hair and a quick giggle and torn places inside that they masked far too well. And he has had the misfortune to love them both.
He thinks far too long about those nights at the beach (he doesn't want to remember Los Angeles, not when the thoughts of his father and Lilly are much too fresh), and finds himself in the unenviable position of becoming increasingly aroused in the front seat of his car at 4:30 AM. God, the feel of her, the soft scent of perfume almost lost in the salt sea air, the relief of her body pressed against his. Some nights they'd just curl up on a blanket, her head on his chest, his fingers tangled in her hair. Some nights were spent in the back of his X-Terra, and he groans a little at the thought of the things they'd do, mouths desperate and hands frantically shucking off the clothes between them. For some reason, it was like every night was their last, every touch red-letter. He never knew why.
He shifts a little in the seat, willing the arousal to subside, and tries to focus on the road ahead of him, one long unbroken sweep of dark pavement and yellow lines. He isn't ready to slow down yet.
…
The clerk at the Tonopah Best Western is coolly disinterested as he hands over two plastic room keys and delivers a practiced spiel about continental breakfast from 6:00 to 9:00 AM. He has no doubt seen plenty of bone-weary travelers show up sans luggage in the wee hours of the morning. The room is at the very end of the first floor walkway—plain, nothing like the luxury of The Grand, and he wants it that way. He finds comfort in the idea of scratchy sheets and mass-produced art prints on the walls.
He thinks about relieving his pent-up sexual frustration in the shower, but the memory of Veronica's breathy moans and Duncan's name stops him cold. In the end, he washes off as quickly as possible and climbs into bed naked as a jaybird, shivering under the cool brush of the sheets. He's just exhausted enough to fall asleep without much effort, and he's dead to the world when a sudden strenuous banging at the door wakes him rudely at 5:45 AM. He tries to ignore it, shoves the extra pillow over his ear and tries to go back to sleep, but whoever's out there refuses to let up. Cursing fiercely, he manages to get his jeans on and pull up the zipper halfway before he flings open the door.
He almost slams it shut again out of sheer instinct, but she has enough presence of mind to slap a hand on the metal and gain enough leverage to keep it open. Despite their significant height difference, she somehow manages to look imposing, even in the half-light of the flickering bulbs overhead.
He finally finds his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, and he winces inwardly at how groggy he sounds. "And how the fuck did you find me?"
She glares up at him, unrepentant. "I put a tracking device in your car two weeks ago," she informs him. "What are you doing in Tonopah, Arizona?"
He decides to process the fact that she's been technologically stalking him later and grits out, "Getting away."
"From what?"
"Everything. Why should you give a fuck?"
That familiar little line appears between her eyebrows, the one that clearly says why are you asking stupid questions. She doesn't say anything, though, just takes advantage of the fact that he's a little off-balance and shoves her way into his room, ducking under his outstretched arm. She flicks on the lamp by his bedside, blinks for a moment and glances around, as if looking for another occupant, and then turns back to him.
"Logan, what in God's name is so appealing here? It's literally in the middle of nowhere. I just drove through the middle of nowhere. I'm pretty sure there was a sign."
His brain is too tired to handle their usual battle of wits, and he glances longingly at his deserted bed. Not twenty-four hours ago she was tearing out his heart right through his ribcage, and now she's standing there snarking about the middle of nowhere, and he just can't handle it right now.
"I don't know—there's no one out here. It's attractive. Can I go back to bed now?"
She pales a little—he can see it, even in the faint light from the bedside lamp—and swallows hard.
"I didn't realize you didn't…that we were…I didn't know you wanted away that badly," she finishes lamely. He hates himself for caring that she's hurt, and hates himself more for wanting to make it better. You are not supposed to want to comfort the person who is making your life a living hell, he tells himself sternly. This is insane. Just fucking stop.
But he can't, and he drops his eyes and sits down on the bed so he can look studiously at his feet from a slightly closer vantage point.
"It's not you," he lies through his teeth, and he can hear her little intake of breath from three feet away. "I just can't handle Neptune anymore sometimes. It's too much, you know?"
He glances up at her sudden silence, and he sees her nodding, an answering pain flitting across her face. She understands that reason, and he's not going to give her another one.
"I know," she says quietly, and moves a little closer, and he almost jumps out of his skin when he feels her hand, gentle on his bare shoulder. He can't have her touching him, not after what he's been thinking of all those lonely hours on the road, and without thinking he shrugs off her touch. He immediately sees the knee-jerk of surprise and hurt, written across her face, and he reaches out to make better (again).
"Sorry," he mumbles, "you just startled me."
She shakes her head, and he's horrified to see a glimmer in her eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. "I shouldn't have come after you," she whispers. "Duncan doesn't even know I'm here. I shouldn't have followed you."
He does not want to think about why his stomach does a somersault when she tells him that, refuses to acknowledge the spreading warmth through his chest (she came after him when nobody else even bothered to notice, she's been tracking him for weeks, she fucking cares), and he reaches out to her with fingers that only tremble a little.
"I'm glad you did," he whispers back, and it's as close as he's going to get to sweet-talking her, because those days died this summer with the crash of a lamp and the smell of gasoline.
She's staring at him, blue eyes wide and newly terrified, and something loosens inside of him that's been coiled and ready since the day she told him they were through. Maybe he can steal back a little of what he's lost since then, he thinks, here in this anonymous hotel room with no one the wiser but the two of them. He knows nothing will change back home—nothing ever changes in Neptune—but for tonight, just for tonight, it can be different.
Slowly, not wanting to spook her, he runs his hands across her shoulders, down her arms, fingers brushing the soft material of her jacket, until he's holding her hands in his. She closes her eyes, as if counting the cost of what she's about to do, and then she threads her fingers through his and takes that last step towards him, and his heart leaps as she opens her eyes again. She's looking straight at him, into him, and he sees all he's been hoping for, everything he saw when she kissed him outside the Camelot—fear and longing and something sweet and surprised and familiar. It's the last little bit of the innocent girl he used to know, and it fills up something inside him that he didn't even know was still missing.
Still slow, still careful, he lets go of one hand and raises his fingers to cup her face, thumb trailing over her cheekbone, and she sighs a little. Before he knows what's happening (he's really trying to go slow here) she has leaned in and taken his mouth, and then nothing is going slowly anymore. It's all teeth and tongues and the taste of old lovers reunited, and he doesn't even realize that her jacket has hit the floor until he feels the bare skin of her arms as she wraps them around him and holds on for dear life.
"God, Veronica," he hisses, because she's straddling him and he can feel her heat through two layers of denim, and suddenly those nights in the back of his X-Terra are surging to the forefront of his thoughts in full force. Blindly, he reaches for the hem of her shirt and starts tugging it over her head, and he's hit with a wave of sheer lust when she pushes his hands away and takes it off herself, and then for good measure reaches around and unclasps her bra too. She's so beautiful, all subtle curves and soft skin in the dim lamplight, and for a moment he can't breathe, just wants to look and look so that the memory can never fade away.
"Help me," she murmurs, and he doesn't know what she means until she fumbles with the button of his jeans and frowns a little. He picks her up and plops her back on the bed unceremoniously, undoes his jeans and shoves them off at record speed, and without missing a beat has his mouth on hers and his clever fingers working her jeans down her legs. She's incredibly wet when he slides a hand under her lacy panties, and the little moan she makes in the back of her throat sounds like victory. Oh, Duncan be damned, he thinks viciously as he slips a finger inside of her and feels her hips buck beneath him. He'll do better than that in five seconds flat.
He considers it a personal and well-won victory when he has her coming within two minutes, and the flush of triumph hasn't even begun to fade when she recovers sufficiently to slide her hand over his cock and try to return the favor. He can't let her, though, because just the brush of her hand has him ready to come right now, and he has other plans that do not involve embarrassing himself in the midst the one chance he has left. Instead, he rolls to the side to rummage in the pocket of his jeans, hoping against hope that he left a condom in his wallet. He stops abruptly when he feels her hand slide slowly up his back.
"Don't bother," she says simply. "I'm on the Pill."
"Are you sure?" he asks, softly, not certain what this means, a little shocked at how much she's trusting him. They've never done this, partly because he was too afraid to ask, and the fact that she's voluntarily giving him permission makes his chest clench a little.
"Okay," he murmurs, and buries his face in her hair, not wanting her to see the sudden emotion raw in his eyes. After a moment, he kisses her again, consumed by a desire to taste every inch of her, moving down slowly, torturously, until she's panting his name and he's positive that he's driven all thoughts of anyone else straight out of her head. It's not until she's trembling on the edge once more that he shifts upward and slides inside her, gasping at the sensation, and then they're moving together and he forgets everything but the way she feels in his arms.
They peak together, her cry of pleasure driving him over the brink, and as stars burst behind his eyelids and he chokes out a mixture of curses and adoration, he can feel her laughing as she holds him close. When he can breathe again, has rolled off to lie back down beside her, he manages to gasp out, "What the hell was so funny?" She laughs again, quick and light, and he'd almost forgotten exactly how much he's missed that sound.
"The last time we did this, you weren't so…expressive," she explains, and her smile is branded into his collarbone.
"The last time we did this, you woke all the neighbors," he smirks. She smacks him on the chest.
"There weren't any neighbors," she protests. "Any neighbors are—were two blocks away."
The past tense sobers him, makes him remember all the misery of the past few months, and she must see the change on his face, because the laughter leaves her eyes and she raises up on one elbow, her hand stroking his hair.
"It's all right," she murmurs. "It's all right."
He fights the urge to protest that nothing is all right, that this is a stolen moment that cannot possibly last, that she will leave him as soon as the sunlight creeping under the curtains reaches her discarded clothes. But he can't stop himself from wanting anyway.
"Will you come with me?" he asks, not looking at her, not wanting to see the inevitable answer in her eyes. Her fingers stop moving through his hair, and he can feel her entire body freeze. The silence spins out, and his belly begins to tighten.
"Yeah," she whispers, "yeah, I'll come with you," and she lays back down, her head against his chest, and pulls the bedclothes up over them like she's about to go to sleep. He wraps both arms around her, holds her like she'll never go, drops a kiss on the top of her head and feels her snuggle closer to him in response. In a few minutes, he knows she's drifted off, and his eyes close too. He'll take what he can get.
He knows she's lying. When they wake up, the sun high and pitiless in the desert sky, they'll dress in awkward silence, turn around and head back to Neptune and Duncan and their memories of death and vengeance. There is no escape for them, no matter how far they go or how long they stay away. But for now, just these last few moments, he can pretend that they'll drive off together, head towards Santa Fe and El Paso and the sweet orange groves of the Valley. If she wanted he'd take her north, through Amarillo and Tulsa, drive through the wide-open expanses of the prairie until California sun and the ocean breeze were erased in miles of emptiness, nothing left but power lines and the wind. She won't come, and he won't try to make her, but as he falls asleep, he dreams of miles ticking past on the odometer and her hand over his on the gearshift.
…
When he wakes, she is gone, and the sunlight lies in bands of gold across his bed.