Something More Than Men (1/?)
Title: Something More Than Men
Author: me
Characters/Pairings: America, random humans (other nations in later chapters)
Rating: PG ish
Warnings: big words. Gen.
Summary: It's 1929, and America's world has begun to crumble all around him. With no ground below his feet, he takes to the comforting movement of the roads, letting them guide him to where he needs to be.
Notes: So I had this chapter sitting around for a looong time, and I was waiting to submit it until I had the second chapter done, so I would have a buffer if I fell behind; but it's itching at me, so I'll submit it now and let my schedule do its worst. Sorry for the super-slow update schedule, you guys are too good to me. ♥
| Prologue|Chapter 1|
The sun was a ubiquitous presence on the road, soaking into his clothes and hair and dully stinging the back of his neck. He welcomed it, letting it stave off the October chill that wasn’t in the air but in his flesh, chilling him from the inside. The highway drank the light greedily, soaking up the warmth and holding it, going limp with pleasure, its furthest reaches trembling in his eye, rippling with the heat.
A transport truck rode by him, its metal gleaming, impervious to the sun. It spat thick, ugly clouds of diesel emission from its tailpipe, smog that flickered in the clear air, writhing in the light, and then died, its color blending with that of the sky. Its thickness clogged his throat as it passed, and he allowed himself a weak, dry cough. He tasted grit on his tongue, fine dirt, and it ground beneath his teeth when he clenched his jaw shut.
The chugging purr of a Model A echoed the retreat of the truck, its wheels humming lightly over the road as the road itself went silent, feigning inanimateness while the car rumbled over it. He heard the engine splutter and roar, and suddenly the car was there beside him, inching only a little faster than he was walking. Its running boards were polished and glittering, and the sun sluiced off the long, protruding hood as it looked expectantly into the distance. The driver was a thin man, cleanly shaven and dressed in a pressed suit. His eyes were dull with curiosity and condescension as he leaned over between the seats, steering the car with one hand.
“You need a ride, mack?”
“Be great, thanks.”
It was cooler in the car as he ducked in, the open windows letting the wind whip in and swirl around them, lifting and playing with their hair and clothes as the car gained speed. The road was quiet, docile, lying submissive to the car’s wheels.
The man coughed as he drove the car on, sniffed, tapping the steering wheel with nervous, flitting fingers. The lines of his shoulders and back read anxiety and guilt, and he straightened and slumped sporadically, checking the rearview mirror, clearing his throat again. His eyes skittered like frightened mice between the road and his passenger, more and more daring as he realized the other man was content to sit still and silent, watching the horizon approach.
“You’re not hot in that leather jacket ’a yours?”
“Not so much.”
He cleared his throat again, fingers raking through his wind-mussed, mousey-brown hair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his suit jacket, flipped open the top, shook out a cigarette. He held it in his fingers for a moment where they grasped the steering wheel, flicking the tip up and down, then flinched and coughed, offering it to his passenger, who accepted it silently. His hand twitched to his pocket again, for a light, then tapped his leg lightly and held the steering wheel again when his passenger produced his own.
“Where’re you headed, mack?”
The passenger took a deep drag on the cigarette, tipping his head back to exhale thoughtfully. His eyes strayed to the window beside him, where the last traces of the city had fallen away and thin forests grew up on either side of them, offering fleeting glimpses of pastures beyond.
“Where’re you goin’?”
The man’s fingers skittered over the steering wheel, fingered the gearshift, and then went back to his leg, sweaty palm going flat to slide along the suit material.
“Headed to Oklahoma, ’round there. The panhandle, you know. Bank I work for’s got business down there, gotta foreclose on some folks.”
The passenger nodded slowly, eyes trained on the road, their motion ceased to let the painted lines on the pavement blur into one continuous shape. His drags on the cigarette were languid, luxurious, punctuated with throaty sighs to expel the smoke that curled for a moment in the air before being whisked out the open window. He shifted slightly in his seat, pushing his jacket off his stomach, baring his exposed neck to the cool wind.
“Not goin’ that far. Edge of Pennsylvania will do me fine.”
The driver’s fingers slid off the top of the steering wheel, running around the rim to catch in the bottom scoop, his hand steering the car from between his legs. He took a few more short, nervous glances at the other man, who took no notice, distracted as he was with tapping his ash out the car window without letting his cigarette fall out too.
“Got a name?”
“Jones.”
“O’Clery.”
The passenger smiled enigmatically, his shoulder shrugging with a joke only he understood. O’Clery’s knee bounced nervously, and he lifted his elbow to rest on the back of his own seat before he dropped it again. They fell into silence until Jones’ cigarette was ended, when he took one last, desperate inhale off of the butt and flicked it remorsefully out the window. He took to coughing for a moment, deep coughs that sounded of something in the lungs, and when he cleared his burning throat he felt grit again, grinding between his teeth.
“Y’ don’t look so good, mack.”
“I’m fine.”
The road stuttered and turned sharply, and O’Clery’s feet fumbled on the pedals for a moment, the car jolting and jerking and throwing them both forward as he pulled it around the bend. He coughed an apology to his passenger as the road straightened, his hand flicking to the window crank to roll the window up a fraction, then lowering it again. Jones dug in his heels against the floor, his legs flexing for a moment, and he winced slightly, shifting in his seat again.
“Where you from?”
“Around Boston.”
“Boston,” O’Clery burst out, his hand gesturing to the horizon. “There’s a great city. Second to none, in my opinion. Would’a gone there if my business hadn’a been in New York, but the pay isn’t nothing to complain about, God knows. That’s a job a man’ll drive to goddamn Oklahoma for, I tell ya. I’m from New Hampshire, myself, but I’ve been in New York since I was a kid. ‘S a kinda city thit grabs onna you and doesn’t let go ‘till you’s old and tired, you know what I mean? Damn city’ll be the death of me, I know it.”
Jones nodded in silent agreement, hiding a light cough in his elbow. His fingers twitched around an invisible cigarette, then fisted on his leg, tapping there lightly. He sighed. On his side of the car the trees thinned out and an expanse of green field smattered with weed flowers and patches of gray dirt stretched until the curve of the earth made it disappear. A bank of crisp, white clouds billowed above the far grass, unmoving like frozen soap suds on the top of the bath water. Jones’ eyes were wide as he watched them, and there was a slight ache under his eyelids from the pure light reflected by their whiteness. He turned his head away from them reluctantly, pointing a strong hand towards the windshield. O’Clery’s head snapped in the given direction, his eyes roving wildly for anything that might be being indicated.
“See that house in the field down there?”
“Yeah?”
“You kin drop me at the end of the driveway.”
The dirt drive popped from within the grass suddenly, and the brakes were hit forcefully to bring the car’s back wheels to a stop at its end. Jones stumbled out of the car, patting the side of the door with his palm, and it gave a metallic growl under his touch.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure thing. Take care of yourself.”
Jones gave a derisive snort as the car pulled out, leaving a plume of dirt and dust behind it, its engine coughing. He gave his own cough, his throat and lungs quivering with its force, and he bent to its will, leaning over with his hands on his knees to be sick into the grass beside the dirt drive. He spat the taste of bile from his mouth until his tongue was dry, the familiar feeling of grit lingering in his cheeks and on his teeth. He gave a slight groan as he stood, his vision swimming for a moment, and he contemplated the clouds behind the distant farm house for a long moment before turning in the direction O’Clery had gone.
He shook his head slightly, loosing his hair from where it stuck to the slight moisture on his forehead, and he dragged the back of his wrist over the skin to clear it, feeling its dull burning as his hand passed over it. “’M fucked,” he mumbled to himself, resigned, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he trudged on, his boots making angry growls as the heels of them dragged heavily along the pavement.
A flock of geese bayed loudly over his head as they passed, heading with the direction of the road, which had taken up its contented purring under his feet as it gently urged him on, giving heat and strength to his legs with which to carry himself on down its vast, sprawling length.
Whew~
Model A was the second line of cars made by Ford in the late 20's and 30's, more luxurious and expensive than the Model T.
...Not many notes in this one. *sighs tiredly*
Author: me
Characters/Pairings: America, random humans (other nations in later chapters)
Rating: PG ish
Warnings: big words. Gen.
Summary: It's 1929, and America's world has begun to crumble all around him. With no ground below his feet, he takes to the comforting movement of the roads, letting them guide him to where he needs to be.
Notes: So I had this chapter sitting around for a looong time, and I was waiting to submit it until I had the second chapter done, so I would have a buffer if I fell behind; but it's itching at me, so I'll submit it now and let my schedule do its worst. Sorry for the super-slow update schedule, you guys are too good to me. ♥
| Prologue|Chapter 1|
The sun was a ubiquitous presence on the road, soaking into his clothes and hair and dully stinging the back of his neck. He welcomed it, letting it stave off the October chill that wasn’t in the air but in his flesh, chilling him from the inside. The highway drank the light greedily, soaking up the warmth and holding it, going limp with pleasure, its furthest reaches trembling in his eye, rippling with the heat.
A transport truck rode by him, its metal gleaming, impervious to the sun. It spat thick, ugly clouds of diesel emission from its tailpipe, smog that flickered in the clear air, writhing in the light, and then died, its color blending with that of the sky. Its thickness clogged his throat as it passed, and he allowed himself a weak, dry cough. He tasted grit on his tongue, fine dirt, and it ground beneath his teeth when he clenched his jaw shut.
The chugging purr of a Model A echoed the retreat of the truck, its wheels humming lightly over the road as the road itself went silent, feigning inanimateness while the car rumbled over it. He heard the engine splutter and roar, and suddenly the car was there beside him, inching only a little faster than he was walking. Its running boards were polished and glittering, and the sun sluiced off the long, protruding hood as it looked expectantly into the distance. The driver was a thin man, cleanly shaven and dressed in a pressed suit. His eyes were dull with curiosity and condescension as he leaned over between the seats, steering the car with one hand.
“You need a ride, mack?”
“Be great, thanks.”
It was cooler in the car as he ducked in, the open windows letting the wind whip in and swirl around them, lifting and playing with their hair and clothes as the car gained speed. The road was quiet, docile, lying submissive to the car’s wheels.
The man coughed as he drove the car on, sniffed, tapping the steering wheel with nervous, flitting fingers. The lines of his shoulders and back read anxiety and guilt, and he straightened and slumped sporadically, checking the rearview mirror, clearing his throat again. His eyes skittered like frightened mice between the road and his passenger, more and more daring as he realized the other man was content to sit still and silent, watching the horizon approach.
“You’re not hot in that leather jacket ’a yours?”
“Not so much.”
He cleared his throat again, fingers raking through his wind-mussed, mousey-brown hair. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his suit jacket, flipped open the top, shook out a cigarette. He held it in his fingers for a moment where they grasped the steering wheel, flicking the tip up and down, then flinched and coughed, offering it to his passenger, who accepted it silently. His hand twitched to his pocket again, for a light, then tapped his leg lightly and held the steering wheel again when his passenger produced his own.
“Where’re you headed, mack?”
The passenger took a deep drag on the cigarette, tipping his head back to exhale thoughtfully. His eyes strayed to the window beside him, where the last traces of the city had fallen away and thin forests grew up on either side of them, offering fleeting glimpses of pastures beyond.
“Where’re you goin’?”
The man’s fingers skittered over the steering wheel, fingered the gearshift, and then went back to his leg, sweaty palm going flat to slide along the suit material.
“Headed to Oklahoma, ’round there. The panhandle, you know. Bank I work for’s got business down there, gotta foreclose on some folks.”
The passenger nodded slowly, eyes trained on the road, their motion ceased to let the painted lines on the pavement blur into one continuous shape. His drags on the cigarette were languid, luxurious, punctuated with throaty sighs to expel the smoke that curled for a moment in the air before being whisked out the open window. He shifted slightly in his seat, pushing his jacket off his stomach, baring his exposed neck to the cool wind.
“Not goin’ that far. Edge of Pennsylvania will do me fine.”
The driver’s fingers slid off the top of the steering wheel, running around the rim to catch in the bottom scoop, his hand steering the car from between his legs. He took a few more short, nervous glances at the other man, who took no notice, distracted as he was with tapping his ash out the car window without letting his cigarette fall out too.
“Got a name?”
“Jones.”
“O’Clery.”
The passenger smiled enigmatically, his shoulder shrugging with a joke only he understood. O’Clery’s knee bounced nervously, and he lifted his elbow to rest on the back of his own seat before he dropped it again. They fell into silence until Jones’ cigarette was ended, when he took one last, desperate inhale off of the butt and flicked it remorsefully out the window. He took to coughing for a moment, deep coughs that sounded of something in the lungs, and when he cleared his burning throat he felt grit again, grinding between his teeth.
“Y’ don’t look so good, mack.”
“I’m fine.”
The road stuttered and turned sharply, and O’Clery’s feet fumbled on the pedals for a moment, the car jolting and jerking and throwing them both forward as he pulled it around the bend. He coughed an apology to his passenger as the road straightened, his hand flicking to the window crank to roll the window up a fraction, then lowering it again. Jones dug in his heels against the floor, his legs flexing for a moment, and he winced slightly, shifting in his seat again.
“Where you from?”
“Around Boston.”
“Boston,” O’Clery burst out, his hand gesturing to the horizon. “There’s a great city. Second to none, in my opinion. Would’a gone there if my business hadn’a been in New York, but the pay isn’t nothing to complain about, God knows. That’s a job a man’ll drive to goddamn Oklahoma for, I tell ya. I’m from New Hampshire, myself, but I’ve been in New York since I was a kid. ‘S a kinda city thit grabs onna you and doesn’t let go ‘till you’s old and tired, you know what I mean? Damn city’ll be the death of me, I know it.”
Jones nodded in silent agreement, hiding a light cough in his elbow. His fingers twitched around an invisible cigarette, then fisted on his leg, tapping there lightly. He sighed. On his side of the car the trees thinned out and an expanse of green field smattered with weed flowers and patches of gray dirt stretched until the curve of the earth made it disappear. A bank of crisp, white clouds billowed above the far grass, unmoving like frozen soap suds on the top of the bath water. Jones’ eyes were wide as he watched them, and there was a slight ache under his eyelids from the pure light reflected by their whiteness. He turned his head away from them reluctantly, pointing a strong hand towards the windshield. O’Clery’s head snapped in the given direction, his eyes roving wildly for anything that might be being indicated.
“See that house in the field down there?”
“Yeah?”
“You kin drop me at the end of the driveway.”
The dirt drive popped from within the grass suddenly, and the brakes were hit forcefully to bring the car’s back wheels to a stop at its end. Jones stumbled out of the car, patting the side of the door with his palm, and it gave a metallic growl under his touch.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure thing. Take care of yourself.”
Jones gave a derisive snort as the car pulled out, leaving a plume of dirt and dust behind it, its engine coughing. He gave his own cough, his throat and lungs quivering with its force, and he bent to its will, leaning over with his hands on his knees to be sick into the grass beside the dirt drive. He spat the taste of bile from his mouth until his tongue was dry, the familiar feeling of grit lingering in his cheeks and on his teeth. He gave a slight groan as he stood, his vision swimming for a moment, and he contemplated the clouds behind the distant farm house for a long moment before turning in the direction O’Clery had gone.
He shook his head slightly, loosing his hair from where it stuck to the slight moisture on his forehead, and he dragged the back of his wrist over the skin to clear it, feeling its dull burning as his hand passed over it. “’M fucked,” he mumbled to himself, resigned, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he trudged on, his boots making angry growls as the heels of them dragged heavily along the pavement.
A flock of geese bayed loudly over his head as they passed, heading with the direction of the road, which had taken up its contented purring under his feet as it gently urged him on, giving heat and strength to his legs with which to carry himself on down its vast, sprawling length.
Whew~
Model A was the second line of cars made by Ford in the late 20's and 30's, more luxurious and expensive than the Model T.
...Not many notes in this one. *sighs tiredly*