Lost Fic: burying the pieces of what we used to call home (Miles/Richard)

[ozmissage]

Title: burying the pieces of what we used to call home
Pairing: Miles/Richard, a bit of Sawyer
Rating: R
Words: 3,614
Spoilers: Through the finale.
Disclaimer: Sadly, these are not my boys. Title from MGMT song "Pieces of What".
Summary: Twelve snapshots of Miles/Richard on the move, looking for somewhere to settle down.

i. Encino

Miles knows the minute he returns to Encino that he won’t be staying long and it’s not just the dazed look on Richard’s face that prompts this decision. It’s just not right anymore. He knows that a place can’t actually shrink, but it feels like Encino has shriveled down to nothing. He’s only been back a week and he already feels trapped. He wants to get moving, to put as much space between himself and this place that he used to call home as he possibly can.

There’s no argument from Richard. The guy doesn’t fit in here, and Miles can’t help but think a dude who sticks out in Encino is going to stick out anywhere. He keeps his mouth shut though. There’s no use pissing off the only friend he’s got left.

Miles just needs to take care of a few things before they can get the hell out of dodge.

Someone else's name is penciled in by the number of his old apartment when he visits his landlord on the off chance the old man had a soft spot for him and saved his crap for three years. He didn’t. The guy pawned it all and pocketed the cash, even has the nerve to threaten to call the cops when Miles starts sputtering about his record collection. Richard intervenes, catches Miles’s elbow and all but drags him back out to the street before he has a chance to do something stupid.

“It’s been three years; you couldn’t expect him to wait.”

Miles hates how often his new buddy seems to be right.

“I know, okay, but he pawned a near mint condition Fats Domino “Blueberry Hill” record for fifty bucks,” Miles whines.

Richard gives Miles a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, already steering him towards the bar across the street (which used to be a kickass pizza place by the way.)

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

ii. Los Angeles

Richard hangs back at the cemetery, but he keeps his eyes on Miles as he kneels by his mother’s grave.

Miles had been reluctant to enter the graveyard at all, his expression pained as he walked resolutely towards his mother’s plot. Richard wonders what it must be like to hear the dead whispering, to feel their thoughts and their pain. He thinks it would have been a gift to be able to hear Isabella’s last thoughts, to know if they were of him.

He won’t tell Miles this.

The boy bought a headstone for his father, a symbolic gesture that Miles seems to resent himself for already. Richard thinks it’s nice. This he will tell him.

“We can go now,” Miles says.

Richard hadn’t noticed him get up. He stares intently at Miles’s face trying to read him, to find some grief there, some pain. Miles just looks away, his fingers rubbing wearily at his temples and Richard gets the hint. They walk back to the car in silence; they’re on the highway before Richard’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“What does it feel like when you hear them?”

Miles’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. Richard has already figured out that Miles doesn’t like to talk about things that matter. But they’re going to be trapped in a car together for quite some time, and Richard can only listen to so many conversations about musicians he’s never heard of and films he’s never seen.

“Like dying,” Miles mutters. “Pretty much what it felt like for them, only with bonus incoherency.”

“Every time?”

Richard can’t imagine what it feels like to die. He stopped trying to decades ago. It occurs to him that he might want to start imagining again.

“Yep,” Miles says before cranking the radio, his not so subtle way of telling Richard to stop asking questions.

iii. Twenty miles outside of Albuquerque

Miles can’t believe a fucking ex-immortal doesn’t know how to drive. What the hell has Richard been doing for the past hundred years? Being Ben’s butt monkey could only take so much time.

“You’re flooding the engine,” Miles says through gritted teeth. One of his hands is pressed firmly against the dashboard in hopes that it might stop Richard from giving him whiplash; the other is hovering anxiously by the wheel in case Richard swerves to avoid another squirrel. Miles did not survive the fucking island to die in a fiery car crash because his new buddy has a soft spot for furry rats.

Richard is drenched in sweat. Miles has to admit it’s kind of endearing seeing the king of stoicism freaking out.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Richard says.

“Tough. I can’t do all the driving and you’ve got a shiny, fake license in your pocket just going to waste. Just relax and ease up on the gas.”

Richard slows the car down to a normal not terrifying speed and Miles tentatively shifts back in his seat.

“See, this isn’t so hard, right?”

“It’s incredibly hard. That’s why I’ve never done it before.”

Miles snorts.

“I can’t believe this scares you. Dude, you were tossed into a tree by a smoke monster. This is just a Toyota.”

Richard glares at Miles in the rearview mirror, but Miles just smirks. It’s hard to be scared of a guy who’s having a pseudo-panic attack because a truck just passed him.

The car suddenly comes lurching to a stop, slinging Miles forward and ramming his wrist painfully into the dash.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “What the hell was that?”

Richard shrugs helplessly.

“There was something in the road.”

Miles turns in his seat, favoring his right wrist and groans.

“That’s a plastic bag.”

“I didn’t know,” Richard says.

Miles sighs, that’s enough of a driving lesson for one day.

“Pull over.”

Richard manages to pull the car off to the side of the road without killing them so they can switch places. Miles could almost swear Richard is grinning as he slides into the passenger’s seat.

iv. Austen, Texas

Pool is not Miles’s game, but it’s most definitely Richard’s. Standing in a dark corner of a hole in the wall bar with a pool stick in his hand feels more familiar to Richard than anything has in weeks.

“This you know how to do,” Miles says incredulously. Richard shrugs and sinks the eight ball in the right corner pocket, his fourth win in a row.

“There was a table in the rec room,” Richard says. He almost adds back home, but he thinks better of it.

Miles shakes his head, his face twisted in an expression of mock disgust.

“You’re as bad as Juliet. She used to kick my ass on a regular basis.”

Richard smiles sadly, memories of late nights spent shooting pool, talking about nothing at all flitting through his mind.

“Who do you think taught me?” he asks.

v. A motel on the border of Texas and Oklahoma

They fuck roughly, but quietly. Miles buries his face in his pillow to drown out his moans.

They don’t talk much, not during. Miles suspects it’s because they’re not quite sure what the hell they’re doing just yet, they just know it feels right.

Afterwards, Richard turns on his side and Miles stares at the ceiling, tries to catch his breath.

“Where are we going?” Richard asks. His voice is too quiet, too lost. It bothers Miles, makes his chest tighten. He doesn’t have any answers for Richard. He’s just going. It seems like the thing to do.

“Fuck if I know,” Miles says.

Richard laughs and the moment passes. Miles reaches out tentatively and runs a finger down the slope of Richard’s spine.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

Richard rolls over to face him and he’s smiling. Miles can’t help but grin back.

“Not really.”

vi. New Orleans

They come to an unspoken agreement to stop in New Orleans for awhile. They rent a room over a restaurant and Richard takes a job washing dishes even though they don’t need the money. It gives him something to do, people to talk to. Of course the more he talks to people, the more he lies.

His own history sprawls out too far to be condensed down like a normal person’s. He can’t simply say where he went to high school or college, can’t talk of girlfriends that left him, friends that drifted away. His life is without markers, littered with monsters and ghosts.

So he tells the chef that he was born in Wichita and he tells Jenny the waitress that he got his GED when he was seventeen and he tells George who comes in and sits in the corner booth every Wednesday that he’s always wanted to visit Spain.

He tells Miles none of this, but somehow he knows it all anyway.

“I just wanted to see what it was like, to feel normal,” Richard says.

Miles kisses him, not roughly the way he usually does, but gently.

“Trust me, there’s no such thing as normal,” Miles says. “But if there was lying is about as normal as you can get.”

Richard shakes his head.

“You’re too cynical.”

“No, you’re just not cynical enough.”

Richard decides to take this as a compliment.

vii. The Last Stop diner in Meridian, Mississippi

When his cell phone rings, Miles knows who it is without checking the caller id. There are only two people who have that number and one of them is sitting next to him.

“Hey boss,” he says.

“Thought I told ya to stop calling me that, Enos,” Jim grumbles.

Miles laughs.

“Since when have I ever actually listened to you?”

“There’s a first time for everything. Listen, you and Mr. Guyliner still in Mississippi?”

“Yep, Meridian,” Miles says. “We’re at some apocalyptic sounding place called The Last Stop, just off the highway, there’s a big ass Econo Lodge next door.”

There’s a pause and Miles hears the rustling of paper that he knows must be a map.

“I can be there in twenty.”

“We’ll be here.”

Miles hangs up and motions to the waitress, raises his cup in hopes of a refill. Richard is watching him as Richard tends to do.

“James is coming?”

“Yeah, he was nearby.”

“I think I’ll let the two of you catch up. I’ll go back to the hotel; you can call me when you’re done.”

Miles arches an eyebrow.

“You can stay, Jim won’t mind. I definitely don’t mind.”

“It’s okay. I’d rather not.”

“Suit yourself.”

Miles feels the vaguest pang in his chest as he watches Richard leave. It’s rare that they’re not together these days; Miles is almost ashamed to admit he feels like something’s missing when Richard’s not with him. He doesn’t have long to dwell on this fun new revelation before Jim’s strolling through the door, shaggy blond hair falling in his face, his usual wise ass smirk firmly in place.

They hug like old war buddies. Jim holds on a second longer than Miles expects him too, but he doesn’t care. Jim sinks into his seat and orders a cup of coffee before he starts talking.

“Where’s your better half?” Jim asks.

Miles shakes his head.

“Smartass. Richard’s back at the hotel. How about you, what the hell are you doing in Mississippi?”

Jim leans back in his chair and Miles gets a good look at him for the first time since he sat down. He looks tired, like he’s aged four years in six months. When he smiles it never seems to reach his eyes, not like it used to.

“Just passing through. I couldn’t stay in Australia anymore, Kate and Claire got their hands full with the kid, I was just in the way.”

“Bet they didn’t see it like that.”

“Bet they did. Don’t matter anyhow, I was ready to go.”

Miles takes a deep breath. He doesn’t like the look on Jim’s face that fucked up, drowning look.

“Are you conning again?”

He had to ask.

Jim’s eyes narrow and Miles holds a hand up apologetically.

“I had to ask.”

“Ain’t that man anymore, Enos. I work a few odd jobs here and there, get by.”

“That’s not a life.”

Jim snorts. “Same thing your doing.”

“Yeah, but I’m not doing it alone.”

Jim looks away, takes a sip of his coffee.

“Being alone’s not the worst thing that can happen to a man.”

Miles nudges Jim’s boot under the table, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“She wouldn’t want this for you, you know? She just wanted you to be happy.”

“Well, she ain’t here.”

Jim checks his watch.

“I gotta go. I’m heading to New Orleans for awhile, got a job lined up on a fishing boat. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay.”

Jim nods. “Good.”

Jim turns to leave, but Miles catches his wrist.

“Screw New Orleans and come with us.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I need to be on my own right now. Don’t worry about me, you and Richie just keep doing whatever it is you're doing and you call me if you need anything, okay?”

Miles doesn’t want to let him go like this. He needs somebody, something to anchor him, to keep him from falling off the face of the earth, but Miles knows Jim and he’s too damn stubborn to listen to reason.

“Phone works both ways, boss.”

Jim smiles sadly.

“Be seeing ya,” he says, before he walks out the door.

Miles walks back to the hotel and finds Richard sprawled across the bed, remote dangling from his hand. Miles kisses him awake and Richard blinks sleepily at him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Miles says. “I’m okay.”

viii. Thirty miles east of Atlanta

It starts with a sneeze and a nagging headache. By the time night falls, Richard feels like he’s being baked from the inside out. He sits huddled in the passenger’s seat trembling, begging Miles to turn the air conditioner on.

Miles presses a cool hand to Richard’s forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, I’m not going to make it worse and give you pneumonia too.”

He does relent enough to crack the window.

They stop at a motel and Miles drops him off, says something about finding a pharmacy. Richard curls on the bed, sweat drenching his clothes leaving his skin clammy and slick. He remembers Isabella lying in bed, life slipping out of her bit by bit and panic grips hold of him.

He doesn’t want to die. Not yet and certainly not like this. He hasn’t done enough and even in his delirium this thought sounds absurd. He should have done plenty by now, but so much of his life has been wasted.

He wishes Miles was back. Miles is good at distracting him, at making things seem okay even when they aren’t. When he’s left alone, Richard can’t escape his own thoughts.

The sound of the door opening is a great relief.

“Come on buddy, I’ve got Thermaflu and chicken noodle soup, if you didn’t look so disgusting I’d suggest we play doctor,” Miles jokes.

Richard feels his lip trembling and he hates himself for being so weak.

“I think I’m dying,” he whispers.

Miles rolls his eyes and forces a glass of water into Richard’s shaking hands.

“I think you’re being a drama queen. You’ve got what we humans call the flu, you’re going to feel like crap for a week and then you’ll be fine which is good because by then I’ll be sick and you’ll have to bring me soup and disgusting medicine. Now drink.”

Richard chugs the water and grimaces.

“You’re sure it’s just the flu?” he asks.

Miles crawls in next to Richard and wraps an arm around his waist; Richard can already feel himself relaxing, his heart rate slowing back down to a normal rate.

“I’m positive.”

In the morning Richard wakes up to find his fever broken and Miles still wrapped around his back. He's so relieved he could cry.

vix. Spartanburg, South Carolina

Miles drives six miles before he turns back.

He left the hotel before the sun was up, took the car and started driving. He was thinking of going back to New Orleans and meeting up with Jim, but that was just an idea. Mostly he just wanted to leave.

He has this feeling in his chest like he’s too close to something and that something is a hotass unnervingly mortal former immortal named Richard Alpert. Miles can’t get the image of Richard curled up on that damn bed, sick and sweating, out of his head. He looked fragile and Miles knows everybody looks like shit when they’re sick, but he’s not used to that scaring the hell out of him.

He’s made it thirty years by caring as little as possible about the people around him. The thing about hearing the dead is it gives you a fucked up perspective on life. Miles knows how easy it is for someone to die, how no one ever expects it, it just happens.

So he doesn’t let people get close, he doesn’t have to feel the losses.

Then he went and broke his own rule and now he’s sitting in front of a donut shop in South fucking Carolina and he can’t seem to catch his breath.

He knows he can’t leave, couldn’t even if he wanted to. He needs Richard. And that scares him more than anything he saw on that island ever could.

He gets out of the car and buys two coffees and a box of glazed donuts that will inevitably make them both feel like crap later and then he drives back to the hotel and tries his best to pretend nothing happened.

x. Somewhere between Greensburg and Roanoke

Richard is tired of moving without direction. They pass through town after town and they’re beginning to all look the same. He’s ready for something new.

He’s driving (still badly, Miles likes to point out) and Miles is only pretending to be asleep.

“I’d like to go home,” Richard says quietly.

Richard hears Miles’s breathe catch.

“To the island?”

He says it like Richard’s lost his mind. If that’s what he had meant, Richard would be inclined to agree with him.

“To Tenerife,” he replies.

There’s a pause and Richard can almost feel Miles thinking, knows he wants to ask questions, he also knows Miles well enough by now to know that he won’t. He’s grateful for this.

“Guess we’re going to need some plane tickets then.”

xi. In a plane over the Atlantic Ocean

They hit a patch of turbulence and Miles and Richard exchange a look of panic before the plane levels out. Miles laughs nervously.

“You’d think we were the ones who had been in a plane crash,” he says.

“We’re not in the path of the island,” Richard says, but Miles notes that he doesn’t sound overly confident.

“Just to be clear, we are never going back there. Deal?”

Richard chuckles and shakes Miles’s hand.

“Absolutely.”

xii. Tenerife

“Not exactly home sweet home, huh?” Miles asks.

“It’s been a very long time; I knew it wouldn’t be the same.”

That’s what Richard had told himself, but he didn’t believe. Somehow he had hoped it would be as he remembered, green and open, the roads dirt and stone, the home that he built for Isabella still standing just as he left it, his cup by the hearth.

It’s apparent long before they ever set foot outside the airport that Tenerife has fallen victim to progress. Her streets are concrete now, her skyline dotted with buildings instead of trees, her beaches littered with garbage, claimed by resorts. His home is surely nothing more than a memory, hazy even in his own mind.

He’s not sure what he expected to find here, but he knows it wasn’t this.

Still there’s something he needs to do.

The prison is still standing. It’s a museum now, frozen in time, the cells turned to exhibits. Richard signs up for the tour, tells Miles he needs to do this alone.

He walks down the familiar corridor with a group of tourists and stands at the entrance of the room where his fate was sealed more than a century ago. It’s not exactly as he remembered it, the tour guide informs him much of the original prison was destroyed in a fire, this is just a replica. Only the stones beneath his feet were preserved.

Richard stares at the corner of the cell and remembers cowering there, a Bible in a foreign tongue his only company as he waited to die.

He feels sick suddenly, his head light. He exits quickly, rests his hands on his knees and takes big gulping breathes of fresh air. He feels like an anomaly, ancient, a man out of time.

There is nothing for him here.

He returns to the hotel and finds Miles on the beach, standing in the ocean, his light skin already turning an angry shade of red. Richard takes off his shoes and wades out to join him.

“How’d it go?” Miles asks.

“This was a mistake,” he says simply.

Miles sighs.

“Don’t you just hate when those stupid clichés turn out to be right?”

“Very much so,” Richard replies.

Richard feels his feet sinking into the mud, a seashell cutting into his toe.

“What do we do now?” Miles asks.

Richard laughs, he doesn’t know and for some reason that thought doesn’t scare him at all.

Impulsively he takes Miles’s hand in his own. Miles lifts an eyebrow, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Fuck if I know,” Richard says with a grin.