[ FIC ] need a lift?
He is alone. Maddeningly, frighteningly alone in a way he'd never understood before, could never have comprehend without experience.
The fog almost feels suffocating, cloaking everything in an unearthly haze of gray and indistinct lines that makes every step feel a little less solid than it should, makes him wonder, briefly, if the road will give out beneath his feet. He wonders if he's going crazy. He wonders if he's not crazy already
(there is it again, that nagging little tug at the back of his mind, like something important he should pay attention to but he can't give it the time right now)
and just hasn't realized it yet. His legs and knees ache from the running, walking, trekking with little pause or halt, too paranoid to stop longer than he has to for fear of being caught.
He hadn't felt like this at the start, and he hates that he feels like this now. But the fog swirls around him and muffles everything, dulls the senses, makes him see dark shapes in his peripheral that aren't there when he turns to look. He's paranoid to a painful degree, knows it but doesn't know how to calm it when all he can think of, wonder, is when the inevitable attack will come. And from where.
There's a rumbling behind him, an almost unearthly cacophony of noise that cuts through the silence and fog like a blade, makes him shudder, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He whirls around to lights approaching him in the fog, realizes he probably would've been blinded by them if the curtain hadn't been there. The lights grow, merge, then dissipate into the form of a huge eighteen-wheeler, cab pulled to stop beside him. The driver-side window rolls down.
There's a face peering down at him, features partially shadowed by the bill of a simple cap, but the incline of his head and the look in the trucker's eyes makes Alex relax on a level he can't control, doesn't fully understand. It clicks a few seconds later that it's because there's a sense of understanding. "Heading somewhere?"
"Yeah." His voice is something of a hoarse croak, and he draws the jacket tighter about himself, suddenly self-conscious of the image he must present. "Shepherd's Glen."
The twitch at the corners of the trucker's lips is so subtle, so quick that if he hadn't been paying attention Alex likely would have missed it. "Headed out that way myself. Come on around, I'll give you a lift."
Alex gets the feeling that he's lying, and he's not sure if it's some hold the hospital drugs have on him yet despite the two days clean before he escaped or his nerves being shot from paranoia and loneliness and the goddamn fog or what, but all he can give is a quick nod before he ducks his head and hurries out of view. The sense of relief and gratitude is overwhelming enough to have his eyes stinging, tears welling at the corners, and he's sure to blink them back before he clambers through the open door, into the cab, and shuts out the cursed world outside with the bang of the truck door.
A gear shift, a low groan of machinery, and the truck starts moving along the road again. Alex settles into his seat and starts straightening out his appearance with subtle shifts of his coat, dogtags, a brief run of fingers through shaggy hair. There's no words, just the low sounds of music and indistinct murmurs of lyrics from a radio turned down low, and that's just fine - Alex is too busy reveling in the welcome sense of normalcy and sanity that the truck cab contains, like a little pocket world of its own. Lets it sink in and calm frayed nerves.
"You a soldier?"
He starts a tiny bit, not expecting the words after the silence, responds with a dumb "Huh?"
The trucker motions vaguely toward him with a hand, explains a few seconds after. "You're wearing tags."
"Oh - yeah." His hands wrap around the slim pieces of embossed metal without thought. It's a comfort. His mind flashes briefly back to the attack that landed him in the hospital, and he shivers before he can help it. The trucker doesn't seem to notice, eyes kept on the road ahead. "Was held up in the hospital for a while for injuries. I'm heading home now."
"How'd you get all the way out here?"
A pause that probably says too much; his explanation likely doesn't help, and he's painfully aware of the fact. "Long story."
There's the look of understanding again, and Alex relaxes back into his seat.
They talk a bit more about idle things. Alex soaks up the sound of another voice and the presence of friendly company, stranger or not. Eventually the trucker offers a hand, glances over long enough to offer a slight smile. "Name's Travis, by the way."
Alex takes the hand, shakes, manages a crooked smile of his own. "Alex. And - thanks, Travis. I appreciate the lift."
The hand goes back to the wheel, and Travis turns his attention back to the road. But the smile remains, small and subtle as it is. "Nice to meet you, and don't mention it. Even soldiers need help every now and then."
The fog almost feels suffocating, cloaking everything in an unearthly haze of gray and indistinct lines that makes every step feel a little less solid than it should, makes him wonder, briefly, if the road will give out beneath his feet. He wonders if he's going crazy. He wonders if he's not crazy already
(there is it again, that nagging little tug at the back of his mind, like something important he should pay attention to but he can't give it the time right now)
and just hasn't realized it yet. His legs and knees ache from the running, walking, trekking with little pause or halt, too paranoid to stop longer than he has to for fear of being caught.
He hadn't felt like this at the start, and he hates that he feels like this now. But the fog swirls around him and muffles everything, dulls the senses, makes him see dark shapes in his peripheral that aren't there when he turns to look. He's paranoid to a painful degree, knows it but doesn't know how to calm it when all he can think of, wonder, is when the inevitable attack will come. And from where.
There's a rumbling behind him, an almost unearthly cacophony of noise that cuts through the silence and fog like a blade, makes him shudder, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He whirls around to lights approaching him in the fog, realizes he probably would've been blinded by them if the curtain hadn't been there. The lights grow, merge, then dissipate into the form of a huge eighteen-wheeler, cab pulled to stop beside him. The driver-side window rolls down.
There's a face peering down at him, features partially shadowed by the bill of a simple cap, but the incline of his head and the look in the trucker's eyes makes Alex relax on a level he can't control, doesn't fully understand. It clicks a few seconds later that it's because there's a sense of understanding. "Heading somewhere?"
"Yeah." His voice is something of a hoarse croak, and he draws the jacket tighter about himself, suddenly self-conscious of the image he must present. "Shepherd's Glen."
The twitch at the corners of the trucker's lips is so subtle, so quick that if he hadn't been paying attention Alex likely would have missed it. "Headed out that way myself. Come on around, I'll give you a lift."
Alex gets the feeling that he's lying, and he's not sure if it's some hold the hospital drugs have on him yet despite the two days clean before he escaped or his nerves being shot from paranoia and loneliness and the goddamn fog or what, but all he can give is a quick nod before he ducks his head and hurries out of view. The sense of relief and gratitude is overwhelming enough to have his eyes stinging, tears welling at the corners, and he's sure to blink them back before he clambers through the open door, into the cab, and shuts out the cursed world outside with the bang of the truck door.
A gear shift, a low groan of machinery, and the truck starts moving along the road again. Alex settles into his seat and starts straightening out his appearance with subtle shifts of his coat, dogtags, a brief run of fingers through shaggy hair. There's no words, just the low sounds of music and indistinct murmurs of lyrics from a radio turned down low, and that's just fine - Alex is too busy reveling in the welcome sense of normalcy and sanity that the truck cab contains, like a little pocket world of its own. Lets it sink in and calm frayed nerves.
"You a soldier?"
He starts a tiny bit, not expecting the words after the silence, responds with a dumb "Huh?"
The trucker motions vaguely toward him with a hand, explains a few seconds after. "You're wearing tags."
"Oh - yeah." His hands wrap around the slim pieces of embossed metal without thought. It's a comfort. His mind flashes briefly back to the attack that landed him in the hospital, and he shivers before he can help it. The trucker doesn't seem to notice, eyes kept on the road ahead. "Was held up in the hospital for a while for injuries. I'm heading home now."
"How'd you get all the way out here?"
A pause that probably says too much; his explanation likely doesn't help, and he's painfully aware of the fact. "Long story."
There's the look of understanding again, and Alex relaxes back into his seat.
They talk a bit more about idle things. Alex soaks up the sound of another voice and the presence of friendly company, stranger or not. Eventually the trucker offers a hand, glances over long enough to offer a slight smile. "Name's Travis, by the way."
Alex takes the hand, shakes, manages a crooked smile of his own. "Alex. And - thanks, Travis. I appreciate the lift."
The hand goes back to the wheel, and Travis turns his attention back to the road. But the smile remains, small and subtle as it is. "Nice to meet you, and don't mention it. Even soldiers need help every now and then."