Momentary Silences - WaT Fic
Title: Momentary Silences
Fandom: Without A Trace
Word Count: 1,330
Rating: PG
Summary: He became only vaguely aware of the world around him
Disclaimer: I do not own Without A Trace. Plain and simple.
Notes: I wrote this under the strict supervision of Miss super-six-one during her glorious leave. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And it was partially inspired by this picture.
Interstate 40 was an endless highway, a black snake winding its way through countless states, all of which appeared the same in his eyes. Separate cities were nothing more than glowing locations of neon and fast food joints and hopeless travelers looking for a seedy hotel for the night. As he stopped for gas or, on particular occasion, food, the faces of those he saw or those who helped him, blurred together to make the same shadowy being, an entity of anonymity and indifference.
He became only vaguely aware of the world around him as he drove through desert and forest, a smudge of earth with color lacking the grayness that held the skies from painting itself blue. Nothing sparked his interest, nothing could bring him back from the safety of his mind, a dark and warm place that he took refuge in when the fog around him became too suffocating, too controlling. When his cell phone rang, his new cell phone with a new number and a new zip code, and his new friends chattered into his ear, he listened with an attention only partly sincere.
There were no cds in his deck, and no music played. Whatever he could pick up on a.m. radio was what he tuned in; sports radio, talk radio, local news stations. Voices faded in an out as the I-40 wound through mountain passes and wide open valleys of sand and dead underbrush and nothingness. One hour, he was completely absorbed in the program he listened to, actually comprehending what was being said and caring what was being talked about, but the next hour, he merely turned the stereo down and sank back into himself to the sound of static, masculine and feminine voice, and white noise.
For a few blessed minutes, the skies opened up and the rain poured down in furious sheets of colorless waves, and the patter of it against his windscreen occupied him to an odd, childish extent. The memory of his young self tracing the line of water streaking down the cold passenger-side window on long dreamed-up car trips across California soothed his thoughts, he supposed. But the change in weather ceased, and the outside world returned to normal, restored to being just hot and gray and empty.
As the day grew old, and the shadows of peeling billboards and discarded trucks littering the shoulders of roads like skeletons of ships in dried up oceans drew their long black fingers across the desert sands, he watched with abandon the headlights of passing cars with wide eyes. A part of him wondered where these fellow travelers were driving to, whether they were driving to an unknown destination with lost thoughts and wandering minds such as he had so long ago. Or if, in the backseats of their cars, children bounced excitedly with the soaring possibilities of their cross-country trip, their visit to the grandparents house, or the notion of a new home in a new city
Hours of the night faded slowly into dawn, when the rising sun pierced through the heavy clouds and painted the sky with a scarlet so deep, it looked as if the sun bled. And it did, because when it began to rain once again, he rolled down the window and smelled copper, that and gasoline and burning rubber of eighteen-wheelers struggling their way down steep grades. He marveled at the way the sun shone, but it still rained; the way golden rays of light reflected off the windows of passing cars and lit up the lenses of his sunglass with hypnotizing vividness.
But the simple beauty receded as he sped past the state line and into California, spinning over desert sand and cracked asphalt and worn strips of ripped rubber tire. California stations, strong signals and feeds, replaced previous local news stations, and he winced at the sharp sound of the host’s voices, cringed at the glimpse of familiar landmarks he had so often seen before. But as he made the eventual turn-off onto the CA-58, sudden inspiration struck. He searched through the glove compartment and pulled out a single cd, a present from a friend who had no modern music taste whatsoever. But that didn’t matter now, not as ‘Break On Through’ exploded over the stereo.
--
Somewhere, further up on the beach, Sinatra sang his heart out. Frank’s crooning voice trailed out over the water and across the sandy dunes of Cambria as the sun beat down upon the shoreline and warmed the bodies that occupied its scenes. Dark clouds played on the edges of the bright blue sky, dancing along with the music, waltzing with the waves that lapped gently at the coast. The waves, white with foam, pushed their way onto the shore, each break dampening the packed sand.
Surfers with wet suits that glittered beneath the sun raced the ocean on their slick boards, twisting through the sparkling waters almost green. Families lounged huge blankets covered with dishes containing their lunches as the oldest child wrapped their younger sibling up in a towel, grinning as the small child squealed and stumbled over hastily built sandcastles, legs tangling in white and blue stripped fabric. A woman whistled for her Labrador that galloped loyally to her side as it shook excess water from its tail and sprayed the woman’s companion with ocean water from its glossy coat. The man frowned as the woman hid a smile behind her wrist while she scolded the black pup.
A small boy and his father searched for shells and crabs washed up onto the shore with silly grins and neon-colored buckets. They threw the broken shells into the buckets and the boy kicked his sandals off as his father picked him up and tossed him over his broad shoulder, the boy screaming with laughter and pounding at his father’s back with tiny fists. Mere feet away, a teenage boy shoved his friend down into the waves, and his manic laughter drifted out just as Old Blue-Eyes had before.
He saw everything without ever seeing, and he heard everything without ever hearing, and as Sinatra hummed his heart’s regrets, he saw the soft sway of an old couple reigniting their first meeting on some dimly lit dance floor of a then-hopping GI nightclub overlooking the New Jersey coastline. He saw the soft curves of a woman once young, touched by the slight feel of silk and lace, and the hard edges of a weary, yet adolescent man, covered by the heavy fabric of a stiff uniform. Eyes shining and minds clear. Drinks forgotten and the twelve-man band kept playing through the night.
He sighed. With sandy fingers, he raked his hand through his shorn hair before placing his ballcap back on his head. The air felt tepid against his sunburned skin and the smell of electricity flooded his senses, the hint of a coming storm, but with one last glance at the ocean before him, at the four o’clock sky, and all the people surrounding him who somehow managed to move on with their lives just fine, he pushed himself off the beach and headed back to the car. Moments later, the sky began to close, and white flashes ripped the skies over Cambria apart, but he did not hear over the decibels of the stereo.
But no matter how loud he turned his music up, nothing would drown out the sound of blank shells being fired into an icy blue sky. Nothing would erase the memory of crosses against the green slopes of the cemetery or the silent sobs of people he hardly knew. Nothing would wipe the look off Jack’s face as he set his gun down with shaking hands and a set mind. Because Martin was still dead, and not even the miles between the recollections of love once had in a place he once called home and the road stretching on before him could change the fact that one single bullet took it all away.
Fandom: Without A Trace
Word Count: 1,330
Rating: PG
Summary: He became only vaguely aware of the world around him
Disclaimer: I do not own Without A Trace. Plain and simple.
Notes: I wrote this under the strict supervision of Miss super-six-one during her glorious leave. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And it was partially inspired by this picture.
Interstate 40 was an endless highway, a black snake winding its way through countless states, all of which appeared the same in his eyes. Separate cities were nothing more than glowing locations of neon and fast food joints and hopeless travelers looking for a seedy hotel for the night. As he stopped for gas or, on particular occasion, food, the faces of those he saw or those who helped him, blurred together to make the same shadowy being, an entity of anonymity and indifference.
He became only vaguely aware of the world around him as he drove through desert and forest, a smudge of earth with color lacking the grayness that held the skies from painting itself blue. Nothing sparked his interest, nothing could bring him back from the safety of his mind, a dark and warm place that he took refuge in when the fog around him became too suffocating, too controlling. When his cell phone rang, his new cell phone with a new number and a new zip code, and his new friends chattered into his ear, he listened with an attention only partly sincere.
There were no cds in his deck, and no music played. Whatever he could pick up on a.m. radio was what he tuned in; sports radio, talk radio, local news stations. Voices faded in an out as the I-40 wound through mountain passes and wide open valleys of sand and dead underbrush and nothingness. One hour, he was completely absorbed in the program he listened to, actually comprehending what was being said and caring what was being talked about, but the next hour, he merely turned the stereo down and sank back into himself to the sound of static, masculine and feminine voice, and white noise.
For a few blessed minutes, the skies opened up and the rain poured down in furious sheets of colorless waves, and the patter of it against his windscreen occupied him to an odd, childish extent. The memory of his young self tracing the line of water streaking down the cold passenger-side window on long dreamed-up car trips across California soothed his thoughts, he supposed. But the change in weather ceased, and the outside world returned to normal, restored to being just hot and gray and empty.
As the day grew old, and the shadows of peeling billboards and discarded trucks littering the shoulders of roads like skeletons of ships in dried up oceans drew their long black fingers across the desert sands, he watched with abandon the headlights of passing cars with wide eyes. A part of him wondered where these fellow travelers were driving to, whether they were driving to an unknown destination with lost thoughts and wandering minds such as he had so long ago. Or if, in the backseats of their cars, children bounced excitedly with the soaring possibilities of their cross-country trip, their visit to the grandparents house, or the notion of a new home in a new city
Hours of the night faded slowly into dawn, when the rising sun pierced through the heavy clouds and painted the sky with a scarlet so deep, it looked as if the sun bled. And it did, because when it began to rain once again, he rolled down the window and smelled copper, that and gasoline and burning rubber of eighteen-wheelers struggling their way down steep grades. He marveled at the way the sun shone, but it still rained; the way golden rays of light reflected off the windows of passing cars and lit up the lenses of his sunglass with hypnotizing vividness.
But the simple beauty receded as he sped past the state line and into California, spinning over desert sand and cracked asphalt and worn strips of ripped rubber tire. California stations, strong signals and feeds, replaced previous local news stations, and he winced at the sharp sound of the host’s voices, cringed at the glimpse of familiar landmarks he had so often seen before. But as he made the eventual turn-off onto the CA-58, sudden inspiration struck. He searched through the glove compartment and pulled out a single cd, a present from a friend who had no modern music taste whatsoever. But that didn’t matter now, not as ‘Break On Through’ exploded over the stereo.
--
Somewhere, further up on the beach, Sinatra sang his heart out. Frank’s crooning voice trailed out over the water and across the sandy dunes of Cambria as the sun beat down upon the shoreline and warmed the bodies that occupied its scenes. Dark clouds played on the edges of the bright blue sky, dancing along with the music, waltzing with the waves that lapped gently at the coast. The waves, white with foam, pushed their way onto the shore, each break dampening the packed sand.
Surfers with wet suits that glittered beneath the sun raced the ocean on their slick boards, twisting through the sparkling waters almost green. Families lounged huge blankets covered with dishes containing their lunches as the oldest child wrapped their younger sibling up in a towel, grinning as the small child squealed and stumbled over hastily built sandcastles, legs tangling in white and blue stripped fabric. A woman whistled for her Labrador that galloped loyally to her side as it shook excess water from its tail and sprayed the woman’s companion with ocean water from its glossy coat. The man frowned as the woman hid a smile behind her wrist while she scolded the black pup.
A small boy and his father searched for shells and crabs washed up onto the shore with silly grins and neon-colored buckets. They threw the broken shells into the buckets and the boy kicked his sandals off as his father picked him up and tossed him over his broad shoulder, the boy screaming with laughter and pounding at his father’s back with tiny fists. Mere feet away, a teenage boy shoved his friend down into the waves, and his manic laughter drifted out just as Old Blue-Eyes had before.
He saw everything without ever seeing, and he heard everything without ever hearing, and as Sinatra hummed his heart’s regrets, he saw the soft sway of an old couple reigniting their first meeting on some dimly lit dance floor of a then-hopping GI nightclub overlooking the New Jersey coastline. He saw the soft curves of a woman once young, touched by the slight feel of silk and lace, and the hard edges of a weary, yet adolescent man, covered by the heavy fabric of a stiff uniform. Eyes shining and minds clear. Drinks forgotten and the twelve-man band kept playing through the night.
He sighed. With sandy fingers, he raked his hand through his shorn hair before placing his ballcap back on his head. The air felt tepid against his sunburned skin and the smell of electricity flooded his senses, the hint of a coming storm, but with one last glance at the ocean before him, at the four o’clock sky, and all the people surrounding him who somehow managed to move on with their lives just fine, he pushed himself off the beach and headed back to the car. Moments later, the sky began to close, and white flashes ripped the skies over Cambria apart, but he did not hear over the decibels of the stereo.
But no matter how loud he turned his music up, nothing would drown out the sound of blank shells being fired into an icy blue sky. Nothing would erase the memory of crosses against the green slopes of the cemetery or the silent sobs of people he hardly knew. Nothing would wipe the look off Jack’s face as he set his gun down with shaking hands and a set mind. Because Martin was still dead, and not even the miles between the recollections of love once had in a place he once called home and the road stretching on before him could change the fact that one single bullet took it all away.