ficlet.
Title: The World of Safe People
Fandoms: Veronica Mars & Supernatural
Characters: Veronica, Dean (gen-ish)
Rating: PG
Word count: 400 words
Summary: Veronica has no idea what she's doing in Iowa.
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Veronica has no idea what she's doing in Iowa.
Driving through Colorado, you forget what it's like to see where you're going. Then you cross a couple state lines and the serenity of the relief segues into the catatonia of a landscape that's neither prairie nor plain. How anyone can live without the stimuli of topography is beyond her.
She's a couple hours outside of Des Moines, a hundred miles or so from the cheating bastard she's chasing--and she has to pee.
She finds something that claims to be a diner but looks like the greasy lovechild of a town feed store and a Buick. It's packed, the only oasis on this stretch of desolate road, and corralled in on three sides by rows of vehicles in varying states of corrosion. She parks between a rusty Honda and some macho muscle car, spit-shine black, its only imperfections a dent in the license plate and sprays of dust caked over each wheel well like reverse halos.
A little bell dings above the door when she comes in. The locals throw disinterested glances at her; apparently the novelty of transients pouring off I-80 in search of local flavor has worn off. As has the flavor. A slew of worn-looking men probably younger than they seem follow her progress across the room, looking faintly invested in the way she pushes her hair out of her eyes with one knuckle, annoyed by the heat.
There's a younger guy watching more intently from a booth in the back. She feels the scrutiny against the nape of her neck, hackles rising, and turns to meet his eyes for a heartbeat. He stands out in this place, both for his comeliness and the fact that he's the only one in here whose eyes look older than the rest of him. Veronica narrows her eyes at him and he leans away almost wistfully, breaking eye contact, freckled face suddenly eclipsed by the tousled head of his lunch companion, some dishevelled Paul Bunyan type.
It takes a conscious effort for her to stop noticing things. There's no lead to chase here in Podunk, IA, but old habits die hard. She smiles tightly at the young waitress eyeing her too keenly as Veronica makes her way to the bathroom in the back. The girl, her uniform a queasy shade of seafoam, has the look of someone eager to bolt.