Drive For Chris. It was a stupid thing for him to do, probably, but after he killed his cellmate (self-defense notwithstanding, because who would ever believe the only story he had to tell?) and after he found out he could be tried as an adult, he figured there were a lot dumber options than escape. Such as sitting and waiting. So Gabriel escaped, and he's now got more blood on his hands than anyone he's ever met, not counting the ones who lied or didn't tell the whole truth. He's wearing stolen clothes and has a fake ID in his pocket and he's been living in the woods for two weeks and bathing and shaving (because they won't expect him to be able to do that) with water from a pond, careful not to cut himself too much. Just enough. But that's elsewhere, and as far as he's concerned, irrelevant. He doesn't know where he's headed. North, he guesses, northeast, gotta get out of California but can't really leave the States. Beyond that he's got no plan, so really he has no plan at all. Just a thrift-store bag full of stolen or given or found things, just enough to keep moving. He's been at the side of this mountain road for two hours and only five cars have passed; only one of them even slowed. But he's patient. It's the middle of the day and he's sitting on his bag, bottle of silty but clean water next to him, reading a splatterpunk novel he lifted from the one-dollar shelf outside a used bookstore on the way out of the city. Anything can happen now and suddenly he can afford to wait for it to happen, to see what comes along this empty stretch of asphalt. ********* His pretty black machine broke down in one of the worst places he could have imagined, out on a forest road, deliberately deserted, so that he had to fly back to his cabin to get the tools to fix it, fly back and work until the sun peered at him over the treetops and he had to shrug off his jacket, risk of sunburn worse than risk of overheating. He's hungry. Could have grazed on the local wildlife back before he got the Ferrari started and left again, could have gone back to the cabin and picked up some of his frozen emergency supply, but didn't. After the long night of work it's good to relax behind the wheel and feel it pool in his belly, daydream of sating it, daydreaming of the night, of arrival, of what could accompany his meal. Daydreaming of what he doesn't know when he'll have. Exciting. Frustrating. Enough to make him shift in his seat and let the blanket of his Power spread out far enough that he can close his eyes and drive using different vision. Enough that when his senses find the Powerful, dangerously seductive presence sitting right in his path not two miles ahead, his breath catches in his throat, and he almost-growls, low in his chest, and catches it when it's almost up his throat. He swallows. ********* He hears the car long before he sees it, smooth kitten-purr hum like the answer to some automotive masturbatory prayer, or maybe like a knight in shining armor, or maybe just a brief reprieve before he'll be sitting and waiting some more. He tosses the book in his bag and stands and waits, willing this beast of a car, whatever it is, to see him. For the driver to see him as well. It comes around the bend, black and glinting, oil-slick-perfect in the afternoon sun, and it slows. Gabriel holds his breath until his chest hurts, until it pulls alongside him and the window begins to roll down, then he makes himself let it out slowly and carefully. Dots swim across his vision. Man behind the wheel's like the kind of guy you always picture driving a car like this, always want to see driving it because for some reason they've earned the right just by their sheer beauty and confidence. Gabriel doesn't step back and whistle, but some crazy instinct kind of wants him to. "Need a ride?" the man says, behind big black sunglasses, kind of scary if he weren't so gorgeous, Gabriel cocks his head toward his scummy duffel bag and inclines his head just the tiniest bit. "It seems that way, yeah." "Get inside, then, if you like," and the man says it like a dare. Gabriel grabs his stuff and climbs into the passenger seat, pushing it underfoot. "I'm Damon," the man says, and when he answers, "Gabriel," Damon answers, "I know." The car takes off again. "Know where you're headed?" Gabriel leans back in the seat and closes his eyes, picturing things happening in these leather seats that are very different than what's happening in them right now. "Not really. You can take me as far as you want." "That's just what I was hoping you would say." Damon drives and Gabriel stretches, shifts, and somehow, sleeps. He wakes up and it's dark outside and Damon is watching him. "Shouldn't you," he begins slowly, wishing he hadn't left his water bottle behind, but not caring very much at all. "be watching the road?" "Perhaps," Damon says, and moves the hand that Gabriel hadn't even realized was on his shoulder, warm and strong and molding to muscle and tendon perfectly. "I should but I don't need to. I could make this girl drive by herself entirely, if I so wished." Gabriel makes an involuntary sound, then reaches out to brush his fingertips against Damon's chin. "I really think we need to pull over soon." And Damon chuckles against his hand, pulling back and briefly capturing one of Gabriel's fingers in his flat front teeth. "Yes. Yes. An excellent idea." My thoughts exactly, Gabriel sends, hesitantly, hoping against hope that he's right and this one is strong, that he won't have to be so careful, that this could really be something good. And Damon meets his eyes squarely, and smiles. Indeed. Fin. Back to the main page. 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