Spike in the Rail

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Logan said:

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There are lessons a man learns in life that he’d do the world better by sharing them with anyone willing to listen. If Logan was asked to impart a piece of his knowledge unto the masses he would say this --

If a man by the name of Bernie Johnson asks if he can borrow your car, say no. Don’t even think about it—just say no.

He still isn’t clear on the details and he sure as hell isn’t clear on how his truck ended up a half-mile off road lodged under a fallen tree. Bernie was not exactly a wealth of information regarding the ordeal and kept pointing fingers at his brother. The whole thing degenerated into a yelling match and a brotherly fist fight that Logan allowed to go on for a little too long before stepping in to keep them from killing one another. He never liked the Johnsons and he definitely loved that truck.

Skip three days forward and Logan gets a call. There’s been a sighting of the wolf he’s been chasing for months. First it was Idaho, then Utah, now Kansas. If the pattern holds, his mark is moving South-East, which means Logan should be quick to follow before the trail grows cold. Problem is, he has no car and if he moves, he needs to do so on a budget. Bernie Johnson offers to make amends by driving Logan as far as he needs to go and Logan’s out of enough options that he says yes.

Second mistake.

Bernie talks too much and drives too slow – which, again, has Logan wondering over the untimely demise of his truck—and Logan doesn’t have many buttons for pushing (and they’re well hidden to boot) but Bernie manages to press all of them – sometimes several at once. It’s at a diner in some forgettable interstate town just inside of Arizona that Logan has reached his limit. Logan gathers his belongings and slings a medium-sized olive drab duffle bag over his shoulder. He leaves Bernie chatting up a local waitress and takes to the interstate on foot.

Logan isn’t mad as he walks down the side of the desert road with his arm held out, hand pulled into the classic take me with you gesture. Alright, no, he’s pretty damned mad. Mad enough that he’s determined to walk the whole way to Kansas if he has to – and he hopes he doesn’t have to.

Storm-gray eyes look out from under an old hat at the midday sun and at where the horizon swallows the blacktop. It’s going to be a long walk.

Logan has never liked the Johnsons.

Nate said:

The off-blue station wagon isn’t beautiful. It might have even been actually blue at one point, but age has desaturated the paint job to some flakey sort of grey, pockmarked and rusted. Ronnie had sworn the damn thing would take Nate anywhere he wanted to go, and so far, he hasn’t been wrong; a few hundred miles aren’t much to go by, but the old clunker is still purring beneath the werewolf’s lead foot, punching along the freeway. It’s loaded down with a hodgepodge of possessions: suitcases, mostly, stuffed to the seams, all packed atop taped boxes filled with more of the same. The passenger seat is miraculously clear of junk, home to a smattering of CD cases and a laptop bag.

The remains of a life.

He’s only taken the essentials; clothes, some basics to survive on the road… a photo album. Better to leave everything behind than drag along all the extra baggage; taking it with him would undermine all the running he's doing, the distance he’s putting between himself and the Known World. Hell, Nate had even sold his car to buy this piece of crap, figuring it would serve him better than some little luxury vehicle along the way – so long as Ronnie’s word holds out.

The rising heat is throwing rippling waves across the road by the time Nathan notices the lone figure in the shoulder. Going thumbs-out on an Arizona interstate isn’t the most intelligent act he’s ever witnessed, but it’s up there; at least the guy’s wearing a hat, right? So it certainly isn’t sympathy that forces him to pull over – it isn’t even curiosity. It’s something more akin to an obligation, a sense of duty any half-decent grown man can’t shake when put in the same situation: don’t let the poor idiot die of heat stroke in the desert. Nathan doesn’t have to like the man to get him out of the sun – at least for a few dozen miles, depending on how much he talks.

The station wagon rolls to a stop, and Nate rolls the window down.

A keen nose might pick up the stale scent of cigarettes and beer that wafts out on the rush of a cool, air-conditioned breeze – though nothing's lit, nothing's open – and consider the offer a poor one. But Nathan doesn’t exactly fit the picture of a boozer in a hatchback, and despite the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks (isn’t it only noon?) he’s dressed in a casual suit, black sunglasses hiding his blue eyes from the gaze of both Logan and the sun.

”Where y’headed?”

Logan. said:

The sun beats on and hindsight is, as always, a bitch. His mind switches gears from stoking a lingering anger to recounting the signs of a heatstroke. Logan might keel over and cook in the sun, but at least he’ll be able to say he saw it coming.

He’s feeling a little hot under his old cotton workman’s shirt (an ugly brown thing that he refuses to get rid of) when the rumble of an engine cuts into the desert silence. Logan doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder, figures the car will breeze on by, because nine times out of ten they do, and his luck’s been just shy of non-existent these past few weeks.

When the car grows louder but doesn’t zip by as fast as he expects, Logan is treated to a moment of cautious anticipation. Sure enough, the car rolls to a stop and Logan sends a silent thanks to whoever the hell is up there, taking mercy on wayward middle-aged men. The station wagon is a sad looking thing but a car is a car, and Logan’s hoping the driver isn’t the toked-out hippy that he’s expecting.

Logan bends down, tips his hat up and peers inside the vehicle. The driver’s hair and unshaven face aren’t exactly dispelling Logan’s theory about a desert-faring hippy, and hell, he hates it when he can’t see a man’s eyes. Logan can’t smell any evidence of Mary Jane hanging around the vehicle and figures that’s a plus.

”Where y’headed?”

“As close to Kansas as you’re willing to take me.” Logan can’t keep the weariness out of his voice and maybe his gray eyes are a little pleading, but it’s hot and his bum knee is acting up. He wishes he could fish out some sort of certificate declaring him safe and definitely not a serial killer, but the items in his bag are more damning than helpful. All he has is his word.

“I swear I’m well behaved.” His smile is crooked and all white teeth, and it makes the lines on his face that much more obvious.

Nate said:

Nate isn’t really sure why he bothered to ask, but it makes some sense to know. The guy could be headed to New York and he’d still manage to give him a lift, at least part of the way. That’s the beauty of having absolutely no plan – or at least some sort of positive light he could cast on the whole damned situation.

”Wherever you want,” Nate replies, attempting to sound pleasant. Casual. Even managing a smile at the other’s half-attempted joke – progress. ”Hop on in.”

His hand vibrates on the gear shift with the force of the car’s idling, the engine hiccupping over to a dull whurrrrr – enough of a shaky reminder to actually clear some space for his unexpected traveling companion. The seat is emptied with a broad sweep of his arm, and Nate dumps the lot of items unceremoniously into the back seat, losing the vast majority of CDs to the cracks and crevasses between his collected luggage; the laptop is given only moderately more care.

Seat clean, doors unlocked, Nathan waves the stranger into the cool comfort of his… somewhat smelly station wagon. Huh.

Still, none of the drug-related paraphernalia Logan is so suspicious of seem to be lurking about; instead, a sleek black phone sits in the center console’s cup holder, and an unused GPS is suctioned to the dash. It’s this that Nathan grabs as he shifts back into gear and rumbles back onto the empty stretch of highway, holding it out in offering.

”Here. Toss an address in, if you want.” Because Nate sure as hell has no idea how to get to Anywhere, Kansas, and he doesn’t want to feel obligated to continually ask for directions. ”…I’m Nate,” he adds a beat or two later, giving his passenger a curious glance out the corner of his eye – a glimpse beyond the boundary of his dark glasses. ”Figured you must have broken down, to be left all the way out here -- shitty place to get stuck. You need me to stop for a drink or anything?”

God, how do you do this without turning the whole situation into a giant hitchhiking cliché? Everything he feels pressed to ask suddenly sounds so trite.

What’s yer story, bub?

Logan. said:

”Wherever you want,”

That’s a bit more obliging than Logan expected but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth –or a gift hippy under the hood of his car. “Much obliged, friend.” Logan gives a nod of his head and a pull of his hat, and it’s like he’s channeling John Wayne. He opens the back door and does his best to position his bag in the backseat without compromising any of Nate’s belongings.

Logan slides in the front, settles into the seat and buckles up. Nate offers him the GPS and Logan takes it in hand, then stares at it like he’s just made it to class and, surprise, pop quiz. “Logan.” He returns and manages to catch Nate’s curious glance. “I’ll be honest, I don’t really have a solid destination in mind.” He hands the device back or sets it aside – whichever proves the most convenient. “Kansas is more of, ah, “ He hopes this isn’t going to sound shady as all hell, “ A ballpark estimate.”

I-40 cuts through America’s middle and if they avoid any winding detours, Logan can predict no foreseeable issues.“I figure so long as the signs say 40 East, we’ll be fine.” Nate offers up some theories and Logan takes a moment to think, yeah, walking down the interstate in the desert, in the middle of the day, was probably not one of his best ideas. “ Truck’s out of commission and the coffer’s aren’t exactly full, if you get me.” It isn’t a lie and the exact truth makes Logan feel too petty for him to consider sharing it. “ And hell, son, I’m just happy to be sitting instead of walking. You just do what you do and consider me golden.” His throat does feel a bit scratchy but Logan is not one to impose.

This is not Logan’s first hitchhiking episode and he is aware that there’s the potential of a heavy, horribly awkward silence threatening to plop between them. The wagon’s cabin is small enough as it is and Logan figures there’s no room for awkward silences.

“Logan Abraham Duvall.” He starts. “My initials spell ‘lad’ and I count myself lucky considering the folks were going to name me Samuel.” Logan’s not really one for icebreakers, but he has been told he has a certain brand of easy charm. It helps that he is old enough now that he does not embarrass easily. “Born and raised in Alaska. Grew up hunting and fishing. Can’t ski, certainly can’t snowboard --guess that doesn’t make me much of an Alaskan.” He scratches at his chin. “Got treed by a moose once.” As if this is somehow relevant.

“Fix boats. Fix cars. Fix whatever needs fixin’ and whatever pays to be fixed. Can’t say there’s much more to me than that.” Aside from the whole werewolf hunting business, Logan’s not a particularly exciting man – or so he thinks. Gray eyes settle onto Nate and Logan gives one of his benign, lopsided smiles.

“And I guess that makes it your turn.”

Nate said:

Nathan shrugs at the lack of exact destinantion, glancing over his shoulder as they change lanes and quickly amping up their speed to bearable just-over-the-limit levels. Now that Logan’s inside, the half-muted music on the radio filters through, almost too low to be decipherable; Dazed and Confused. Nate spins the dial even lower as they take off down the freeway, and replaces the returned GPS in its cradle.

Logan… Logan seems like a good guy. An honest guy, at least, which is the sort of man Nate finds himself at ease with; someone down-to-earth. He even manages to crack a smile at the other man’s long-winded, if humorous explanation of events – detours and all. The expression sits awkwardly on his face, honest though it is, as though it hasn’t felt at home there in some time; as if it’s a fight just to smile at all. Nathan’s rather wan state of being is easily dismissed as tired, a guy who’s been driving too long and stressed out from a move, perhaps – quick and dirty excuses, if Logan’s looking for them.

And it’s not far from the truth, either, even if it’s only half the problem. It makes the little lies that much easier to swallow.

”I’m from Vegas,” he begins, pausing briefly to mull over just how this story can unfold. ”Well, Illinois, really. Lived in Vegas for almost fifteen years, though, so it’s as much as home as anything. Full name’s Nathaniel Everett Hart, but I don’t think ’neeeeh’ has quite the same ring to it as ‘Lad.’” He lifts one hand off the steering wheel to waggle it in the air at the pronunciation of his own initials. ”Worked at one of the casinos there for… well, for as long as I’ve lived there, I guess. Ran security.”

A subtle tension is released in the clenching of his hands on the steering wheel, the only outlet for any markedly deep emotion as he speaks; even his pitch is otherwise casual. Nate wishes he had something else to keep in his hands – a drink, even, though he finished his coffee long ago – a holdover from his cigarette problem, a fixation for something to keep him occupied. The steering wheel will have to do.

”But I’m moving now, if you hadn’t figured that part out.” Captain Obvious, he. Nate chances another glance at Logan, wry expression on his face. ”Some bad… lifestyle changes went down. Need a change of scenery, y’know?” A pause. Perhaps it’s not the best idea to insinuate that he was on the run in a shitty-ass car with a small collection of personal belongings. ”…Work problems, I mean. I promise I don’t have a warrant out for my arrest or anything.” He manages a half-hearted laugh.

”…Only problem is, I kinda put in my two weeks before I’d figured out where to go. Figure I’ll just drive until something clicks, y’know?” Or until he drove himself into a ditch. Whichever came first.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Logan. said:

There is not much to look at out on this stretch of Arizona interstate and so Logan takes to watching Nate. The younger man has a thoughtful way of talking that Logan takes as not a hippy but the idea is still there, so it kind of sticks. Sorry, Nate. There’s stubble on Nate’s jaw, a strained smile on his lips, and if Logan had to guess, he’d place the guy somewhere in his early thirties. But it’s that smile that catches Logan’s attention. Now, Logan is no mind reader, but there’s a story there, written into to the awkward skew of Nate’s smile that he thinks can’t be attributed solely to road fatigue.

Logan’s eyes catch on the waggle of Nate’s fingers and he laughs a good-natured chuckle that somehow seems to fit him perfectly. Logan can generally figure out whether or not he is going to like a guy within five minutes of talking. Nate, he decides, is agreeable enough and as far as the hitchhiking lottery is concerned, Logan feels like he may have just hit the jackpot.

Nate’s reassurance that he is not, in fact, a wanted criminal earns another laugh from Logan. “You’re alright, friend, you’re alright.” His compliments are never empty and never given freely. Logan’s a straight-talker unless it comes to his Aunt, but that’s a different, slightly embarrassing story. He understands it, though, chasing the horizon until the past is nothing more than a distant memory.

“Safe harbor.” He says in a way and tone that suggests he both agrees and understands. “The weather gets bad, the ship starts pitching and rolling, but you sail on until you find fair weather and safe harbor. I get it.” Nautical analogies are kind of a thing of Logan’s, a habit picked up from his grandfather. “Hell, I’ve been doing the same now for around twenty years.” Alaska is family and home but Logan has a spirit that refuses to settle. Putting down roots has never been an option.

“I’ve been to Vegas, once. Stayed there for not much more than a few hours, but it was…” Logan finds that he doesn’t have anything particularly nice to say, “ …Vegas.” Too many people, too many lights, too many degrees Fahrenheit. “Have to imagine that wherever you end up is going to be a huge change.” Discerning gray eyes settle onto Nate’s sunglasses, onto the side of the man’s face.

“But I guess that’s what you’re after.” There are unwritten rules about what lines to cross and what lines not to when dealing with strangers. Logan has met the type that pour their hearts and woes onto him within minutes, but he has Nate pegged for the other type -- The lone wolf whose business is his business, thank you very much. Still, it’s natural for Logan to be curious.

“You know what I’d like to see?” Logan breaches with an opened mouthed, lopsided smile. “A Vegas boy trying to make it in the deep south.” He sends a look around the cabin, takes in that stale stench of cigarettes and beer. “Hell, with this car, you’d blend right in.” Nate, Logan decides, needs to learn how to make that smile of his a little less forced.

Nate said:

Even the road is a particularly boring vista; just afternoon on a weekday, and there’s little traffic on this empty stretch of ground, driving Nate to slump backwards in his seat and tap at thumb on the wheel. Maybe it was good timing on Logan’s part, to show up in the shoulder just when a distraction was needed most – maybe it was luck, which would be a nice change of pace. It certainly isn’t fate, which has never been kind to Nathan and is better assumed nonexistent… but it’s enough that Logan is here, isn’t a crazy psychopath (as of yet), and has managed to make him smile at least once.

Small steps.

Nate shrugs at the continued discussion of his old home. Vegas isn’t everybody’s idea of a good time, but he’d adjusted to the lifestyle easy enough, back in his early 20’s – the nightlife was attractive, then, the bright lights welcoming, the heat sultry. The plastic façade may have worn thin over time, the veneer crumbed, but it had still felt something like home.

Maybe he’s just getting old.

”It’s not a bad town -- no more than any. Just time for me to move on. Slow down, or something.” He doesn’t like to think about where he’d be, had things been different. Getting away still seems like the best option – to let go, to not hold on to things – even if it’s not exactly solving any of his issues. Julian had grounded him. Now escaping seems like the only coping mechanism he has left. ”Sounds like you’ve been all over, though. Never found a place to settle in?” God – would he?

”Any change is good, right now. But the south?” Nate pulls a wry face, doubtful, distracting himself with more innocuous aspects of the conversation. Logan is decent, decent enough to make him less wary of open discussion, but loading the guy down with his personal problems in the first ten minutes of meeting him probably isn't the best intro. Better to press forward.

”Not sure I’d fit in there, even if…” He narrows his eyes playfully, the hint of a smirk creasing the corners of his mouth. ”…are you making fun of my particular choice in vehicular mobility? Because she can just as easily dump your ass on the side of the road.” Another side-long glance, eyes bright; Nate pats the dashboard affectionately.

”...Though she does kind of stink, huh.”

Logan. said:

”Vehicular mobility.” Logan finds that choice of wording more amusing than he should and decides to file it away for later use. ”It has character, I’ll give you that much. And sir, I do apologize if I have offended and pledge to hence forth be more sensitive to you, and your powder-blue desert chariot. ” A man does not spend twenty years traveling the country alone without picking up a few eccentricities. His are mostly speech related, a sort of language that is a hair askew from the norm, but he’s eloquent enough to make the words flow.

”Even if it smells.” There is that quick upturn of his lips, the one that highlights his laugh lines; it makes him look both younger and older at the same time. ”And I, of course, mean that in the most non-offensive way possible.” He feels like there’s enough good karma between them now that he doesn’t have to push for conversation. Logan relaxes and leans back against the headrest, eyes trained forward onto the interstate. He smiles good-naturedly at whatever Nate has to say, if he has to say anything.

When he travels, usually it’s alone with him doing the driving, and driving typically puts him into a trance. Logan is not behind the wheel this time, though, and he finds he has not much more to occupy him than his thoughts. Desert scenery whips on by and he supposes it has its own beauty – all red earth and open sky, with a few touches of color as reminders of life – but nothing compares to the valleys and forests, and mountains of his home state.

He wonders if he’s homesick but that thought doesn’t last long, because it, as ever, is followed by a lingering bitterness. Logan does not like where his particular line of thought is going and so seizes onto the nearest distraction – Nate. ”Looks like there’s a small town up ahead.” The blue signs are covered in icons indicating food, rest, gasoline. He turns his head, looks at the driver. ”You up for stopping to get a bite to eat? My treat.” The coffers might not be full but Logan sure as hell is going to pay his way. Dead weight isn’t exactly his style.

Nate said:

Nate just stares straight ahead and nods sagely at Logan’s recitation of his words. That’s right, that nod says. Vehicular mobility. ”…I sold my car,” he admits with a half-smile – almost a guilty confession of why he’d be driving his rustbucket, steady though she is. ”It wouldn’t fit all my stuff, and probably wouldn’t be nearly as useful.” A beat. ”Though I did look better in it.”

Conversation almost comes naturally, now. Whatever magic is in Logan’s rugged charm, it’s working in the right sort of way – enough to make Nate feel at ease. The idea of just communicating simply with someone who doesn’t know his history, his problems (getting away from all those knowing, piteous looks – oh, poor Nate)… it makes it that much easier to pretend things are alright. Things will be alright.

”Lunch would be great,” he adds, stomach rumbling as if to confirm the decision.

The turning signal bings! out a cheerful chime as Nathan makes for the right-hand exit, little station wagon bumping along good-naturedly. The sign on the side of the road reads Ash Fork – Pop: 457, and Nathan knows they’re not in store for a rousing good time – but along this stretch of I-40, any place to stop and refuel the tank (both literally and figuratively) is something of a blessing. A motel, a gas station, a diner; there’s not much to the guts of Ash Fork, but it’s just off the interstate and there’s food to be had.

What more does a man need?

For lack of any other choice, the diner it is. The station wagon’s wheels crunch over a gravel parking lot before they come to rest beside the aptly named “Everready,” the neon sign of which buzzes alarmingly as they exit the car. Nate locks it up manually and follows Logan in, where a disturbingly cheerful server seats them, bubblegum popping as she speaks. The place itself is fairly empty, home to only a few truckers at the bar and a squabbling family in the opposite corner, likely on some awkward vacation to the Grand Canyon.

”...What brought you out this way, anyhow?” Confident enough to pry, now, are we? At least from behind the cover of a poorly laminated menu. But without knowing Logan’s background, it’s just idle conversation – the persistent idea that there had to be a story there. Logan, after all, seems full of them.

Logan. said:

Ash Fork is not much to look at and it has a way of blending in to the desert landscape that makes it feel old, worn, and like it grew out of the sand on its own accord. Logan adjusts his hat, pulls it snug, when he gets out of the car and takes the lead. Inside he offers the waitress a smile, slides into his side of the booth and fishes his glasses case out of a shirt pocket.

He puts on a set of black-rimmed reading glasses and is skimming the menu when Nate asks his question. Gray eyes flick up to meet Nate’s gaze and they don’t let go. Logan’s expression is schooled into a blank mask like Nate may have just crossed one of those invisible lines strangers do not cross, but the idea is dispelled when Logan cracks a small smile and ducks his head back down to reading the menu.

Logan can’t give the man the truth of it but that doesn’t mean he has to lie, either. He settles on a more wide reaching, umbrella sort of explanation behind his traveling habits. “Told you I’m not one to settle.” He says, eyes shooting up briefly to Nate before he takes to reading about lunch specials. Logan could leave it at that but doing so would feel cold, impolite, even. “It’s not like I haven’t tried.” He has given it a good few attempts, actually. “It works for a while but,” Logan presses his mind for the best way to explain it, “You ever wake up and feel like the world is a little less colorful? Like the people around you aren’t so familiar, strangers even.”

The waitress chooses that moment to stop by and Logan gives her his order – a burger with fries, something easy and safe. Once she leaves, Logan returns his reading glasses to their case and his pocket, and picks up the conversation. “Hell, maybe I was the stranger, I don’t know. Anyway, that’s usually my cue to pack up and leave. Always looking for greener pastures, I guess, and why not Kansas – or thereabouts.” Shoulders roll in a shrug. The waitress moves by and sets a pair of water glasses on the table. Logan drinks from his idly, seems to be thinking.

”What about you?” Fair’s fair. ”Why East. Why not West or North, even?” Logan prefers the West Coast, as long as you take California out of the equation. He eyes Nate, thinks of Vegas, and figures the guy is headed towards New York or Boston.

Nate said:

The faintest hint of amusement etches itself across Nate’s stoic features as those reading glasses come out. He hadn’t expected that, and the surprise is almost as good as sudden fatherly refinement on the older man’s face; he’s gone from rugged hick to scholarly in a span of seconds.

The expression fades in the dim silence following his expression, and the werewolf drops his eyes back to his menu. Logan’s explanation somehow isn’t satisfying, all vague and clouded and masked with an appropriate amount of redirection, but Nate’s aware enough to not press the point further. It’s not as though he’s being entirely honest, either – Logan doesn’t have to talk about anything he doesn’t want to. The conversation, predictably, swings back his way, and Nate peers above his menu in response.

”Mm,” he mumbles, assenting but not quite satisfied. ”Yeah. I know that feeling. One day it’s just different, and bam, you don’t work anymore. Everything else kept moving and you stayed still – or maybe the other way around. But the pieces stopped fitting.” He had changed, but everyone else had, too. There would never – could never – be a reconciliation.

When the waitress returns he orders a coffee and the meatloaf (because Nate is, if anything, a fairly stereotypical meat-loving carnivore, and figures requesting a steak at a diner might be a little out of their league) and sips pointedly at his water, glad to have something to replace the menu in his hands. While his little cigarette problem is admitted and even embraced, Nate can’t stand putting other people out because of his problems – he takes care not to reek of the things, and wouldn’t be caught dead smoking indoors. Because of this, his anxiety often outs itself in other, minor ways: his fondling of the glass, largely, even when uninterested in the drink.

”Greener pastures…” Nate manages, thumbs ringing around the cup’s rim. ”Sounds about right. I’ve been to California before, y’know – it’s not as great as they make it out to be.” There’s that smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Nate has a feeling Logan will understand what he’s talking about. ”And the turn to head east came up first.” A shrug, blasé. He hadn’t really thought about a destination much – just put the shit in the car and left.

”No reason, I guess. I’d thought to make for a city, but… I think I might need a break. Something’ll hit me on the way.” Or something wouldn’t, and he’d spend the rest of his life driving around until he snapped. ”I’ll end up where the jobs are, or – or even start something for myself. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

Their waitress returns, on queue, and drops off their meals. Nathan distracts himself with it momentarily, pushing the food around like a disappointed child. This is as close as he's come to expressing himself in what feels like years, and though he gave up on his therapist months ago, Nate clings to the moment warily, uncertain.

”…How do you handle it?”

There’s a wistful look that settles over his features. The pieces stopped fitting. Nate has managed to sum up Logan’s inner turmoil or inability to settle down –or whatever the hell it is—in a single sentence. He can get along with nearly anyone. He can use his rugged charm to ease his way into a close-knit town – and he’s tried and he’s done it. It never lasts. It never lasts because nothing has felt quite right, like he’s trying to live another man’s life and the pieces don’t fit.

“As good a reason as any.” Logan has been there plenty of times. Somehow one turn off just seems better than the others, even if they’re all an equal mystery. Nate has a way of talking that is clear and calm , but Logan can’t help but feel there may be a degree of uncertainty there, lurking beneath his polished vocal veneer. The fact the guy is moving with no set destination in mind helps to feed the suspicion.

Their food arrives quickly and Logan knows he’s in store for some pre-heated, pre-cooked calories. He grabs a fry, plops it into his mouth, chews and takes to watching Nate’s less-than enthusiastic display. Could be that the younger man isn’t hungry, or it could be there is something keeping his appetite muted. Logan bets on the latter, all things considered.

Nate asks his question and Logan appears to be in no hurry to answer. He takes a large bite out of his burger – the patty turns out to be dry—and chews thoughtfully. Logan gets the feeling he should say something encouraging, something along the lines of everything works out, don’t worry, but he can’t. He does not know Nate enough to make an informed call, but he gets the indication that as much as this guy might be hurting or confused, or whatever, he’s not after inspiring honeyed words.

An honest answer for an honest question, then.

”I keep moving. I pick up hobbies. I do whatever I can to keep myself occupied.” This is all from personal experience and Logan hopes Nate understands as much, that there’s no catch all approach. ”I figure as long as I’m working towards something – doesn’t matter what, I’ll end up where I need to be, eventually.” Nate is allowed to mull things over as Logan tends to his meal. He plucks a small red pepper from his plate and eyes it. It’s meant to be a garnish, a touch of Arizona flare. He’s curious, he bites into it, he regrets doing so immediately.

Logan is chugging down the rest of his glass of water and fighting off tears, and wondering why the hell he thought that would ever be a good idea. When it feels like he can breathe again, he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffs.

”And sometimes I do stupid things to remind myself there’s still experiences out there I've never had.” And to apparently suffer through. It’s an honest statement, though. Logan is something of a thrill seeker, an adrenaline chaser. Figures it’s why he’s suited to the hunting business.

Nate said:

Rather than dwell on dark thoughts, Nathan absorbs himself in his meal, finding an increased appetite as the conversation lulls and returns, ebbs and flows. The potatoes are powdered and the meat is half cold, but he’s grateful enough for the company that the taste hardly registers, all just mixed together into one somewhat enjoyable mash of sustenance. He washes it down with a swig of his coffee – too sweet – and leans back, blue eyes ghosting upwards to watch Logan.

The man is an enigma. Uneducated, seemingly, but possessing a way with words, their backgrounds more alike than either would predict; a traveler. Something from nothing. Nathan admires that in a man, though the lurking suspicion that Logan isn’t being entirely straight with him still lingers.

It doesn’t matter, now. The advice Logan gives – the help Nate is seeking – is honest enough that he doesn’t quite care what secrets the older man holds close to his chest. He returns to his meal, thoughtful.

”Bright sides,” he responds, finally, the last of the potatoes on his plate having disappeared. ”Finding the good things that keep you going.” He hadn’t pegged Logan for a “bright sides” sort of guy, but it’s more of a honest evaluation than a false sweetness; there’s truth in the words, good with the bad. It’s possible to keep going and keep moving if you make the experience an enjoyable one.

Nate just isn’t sure if he can do that anymore – find wholesome pleasure in any of this. Julian is dead. Even the times when he feels happy feel like a betrayal; like now, with Jules fresh in his mind and Logan making a fool of himself, when an unconscious smile can’t help but move across his lips. In a moment of desperation, he reaches a hand towards the garnish on his own plate, plucking the pepper from its stem with his teeth and crunching into it – seizing the brief emotion to push those dark thoughts from his head. It's been long enough that he's almost frightened at the ease with which he dismisses the memories, that face.

Bright sides. Don’t drag everything down again; just go with it.

”You’re right about one thing, you’re definitely not from around here.” The pepper burns, his face suddenly flushed, but southwest cooking has already got the best of his taste buds in the last ten years – very little will ever feel “spicy” again. ”Can’t handle a little pepper, gringo?” The added inflection is made more ridiculous when coming from a very obviously white guy. Giving in, Nate takes a long draught from his glass of water before flashing Logan a smile.

”But goddamn, this food is one life experience I wish I'd passed over."

Logan laughs. He is as open with his expressions, with his emotions as Nate is closed. He may have a lot to hide, he may speak between the lines and glaze over the exact truth with an approximation, but his laugh is honest. That counts for something.

Nate’s face is red and he’s calling Logan out on his whiteness, but that’s just fine because at least the guy is sharing in on the joke – and something tells Logan that there hasn’t been much joking in Nate’s life lately, from stress or from whatever ghosts are chasing him East and away from home. If all it takes to get Nate to crack a real smile is Logan making an ass of himself, he figures it’s a fair trade.

”I like you, Vegas.” The nickname comes naturally and Logan decides he likes it, and that Nate is just going to have to live with that.”You’re alright.” There is a glint in his eyes and he smiles.

He finishes off what he can of his meal and when the waitress pops over for the customary would you like dessert, or can you please leave so I can turn your table, Logan fishes out his wallet and pays – for both of their meals. When Logan leaves a generous tip, he tells himself it’s to pay it forward, to brighten a hard working American’s day. It has nothing to do with trying to impress a Vegas boy with hippy hair by way of his commendable generosity.

That would be ridiculous and it wouldn’t make a lick of sense.

Time to hit the road, he thinks. ” Your desert chariot awaits.”

The interstate rolls on and on, and Logan makes some idle chit-chat. He figures they’ve had enough of the heavy-hitting questions to mull over, keeps it light. He talks and he listens, he tells a story about the Bering Sea and how the crew tied him outside to a pole when he was a greenhorn because he didn’t box the bait properly. There’s a warmth and wistfulness to his voice when he tells his stories; he seems to light up and slip into a comfortable skin when he talks about his time on the fishing circuit.

He is hopelessly homegrown and ordinary.

Their meal sticks to his gut and as the sky starts to bleed red and orange, Logan starts to nod off. He makes these small, noises of agreement to whatever Nate says that prompts him to do so. Tries be polite, tries to remain attentive. Tries not to be the old man who neglected his afternoon nap. Ends up being the old man who neglected his afternoon nap.

A dip in the road jars him awake and Logan rubs a tired hand over his face. It’s dark out and the station wagon’s headlights cut into the night. He is not sure how long he’s been out, but figures it had to be over a hour, probably more. There are no signs to guide him and so Logan looks to Nate.

”Where are we?” His voice is a little hoarse and he thinks that maybe they’ve hit New Mexico by now.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Nate said:

Nate’s distracted enough – dare he think, enjoying himself enough – that he even forgets to make a fuss about the bill. It doesn’t hit him until he’s fuelling the car up down the road, and by then it’s too late, Logan’s won. The ridiculous tip should have attracted his attention, but in his good humor he’d blown it off as part of Logan’s generous tradition, and it had largely escaped his notice.

Logan, 1; Nate, 0. You know, excluding the gas and the driving. But he’ll find a way to even the score.

The easy way in which the afternoon glides by is relaxing, simple. It’s a change Nathan needs, and he lightens up as the hours wear on, punctuating lulls in conversation with a radio tune or two. He feels no obligation to keep Logan occupied, and the same seems to work in reverse, their momentary silences as natural as anything: no expectations, no demands. Logan’s stories may consist of words and concepts that Nate only has the foggiest perception of (baited a what in a who?), but they’re funny nonetheless; Nate counters with a few tails of Vegas debauchery, and by the time the chatter wears thin and the other man is nodding off, the smile on Nate’s face has lingered for a good while.

Nathan lets the man sleep. It’s probably a wonder he made it this far – and no, not for his age – but between the near-heatstroke of the morning and the humming rumble of the newly christened Desert Chariot, there’s little to keep Logan awake. Nate would probably sleep, too, if insomnia wasn’t a frequent visitor in his skull and, well, if he weren’t behind the wheel of a few-thousand-pound vehicle of pain and destruction.

It is dark when he hears Logan stir beside him, and a quick side-long glance confirms that he’s woken up. They are alone on the black motorway, guided only by the bright flash of a reflector and, in the distance, the growing lights of an oncoming town.

”Grants, New Mexico. Outside of Albuquerque. I’d hoped to make it there tonight, but…” Nate shrugs, running a hand over his face; the turning signal chimes happily as he changes lanes, making for an exit. ”Think I gotta stop for a while. Grab a cup of coffee… take a nap.” He smirks at the last comment, teasing, but it’s just as true as it is a joke; five hours since their last stop is wearing, particularly when added to what he’d driven before he’d picked Logan up.

"Should be a motel or something we can stop over in." And with Logan's ascent - though likely without it, as well - they'll head off with that plan in mind, before Nate falls asleep at the wheel.

Logan. said:

”Motel sounds good.” Logan responds with a rueful smile. He would offer to swap, to let Nate sleep while he drives, but Logan’s still tired. Road fatigue hits him harder these days and there is a part of him that knows it has nothing to do with his age. Something he can worry about later, or file away and ignore, the latter of which he will do because that is how any good, red blooded male deals with his problems.

They pull into town and Grants, New Mexico looks like any other watering hole. There’s the row of restaurants– most chains, some local – on one side of street, and on the other, the bright, colorful signs of motels. Logan suggests the Motel 6 because he’s been at the interstate-wayfarer game for years, and the chain has never done wrong by him.

A balled fist covers a yawn when they pull into the parking lot and Logan doesn’t bother getting his things, figures it’s best to see if the motel has appropriate accommodations first. He steps out of the Desert Chariot, feels the familiar ache in his lower back, and breathes in deep the dry desert air. Mostly he’s taking his time because his legs are still trying to wake up from sitting so long.

Inside, Logan greets the attendant – a college-aged mousy girl – with a smile. It doesn’t matter which man made it to the desk first because Logan’s already digging out his wallet and debit card – just in case. He asks about available rooms and she says there’s a few. A number of singles, a number of doubles. It’s just one night in Grant, New Mexico and Logan doesn’t see much sense in shelling out money for two separate rooms. Still, it’s probably best he asks.

Gray eyes shift to Nate, and Logan’s not missing the way the girl keeps averting her eyes back and forth from Nate and the computer screen, all shy like. Nate, looking road-worn and tired, has still managed to win a fan and Logan finds this more amusing than he should.

”You’re not shy, are you, Vegas?” He teases and leans against the front counter, looking like he’s enjoying a joke that no one else is clued in on.

They’ll probably fight –politely—over who pays. Logan will be insistent but with enough cajoling, he’ll let Nate even the score. Nate’s victory, should he have it, will be short lived because Logan will be determined to find a way to tip the scale of generosity in his favor.

Nate said:

It’s best that they pause for a while, put another round of food in their stomachs and get out of the cramped confines of Nate’s station wagon. With all his things crammed into the back, there’s hardly any room to recline the seats, and Nate would really rather get off his ass for a few hours anyway. A walk might do him good, and he’s pleased to see that the little main strip of Grants is all close to the bright little motel Logan recommends, a few restaurants and shops worth checking out when he can’t sleep three hours from now. It’s certainly not a town that he feels any calling towards, but a decent stopover along the way.

The lobby is brightly lit, a cheap, faux modern decor with excessive plexiglass and minimalistic finishes ruined by vending machines and some unearthly rumble of piping beneath the floor. Logan beats him to the front desk, asking all the right questions about accommodations and availability, and Nate chimes in to voice his opinion that one room would be fine; whatever’s least expensive. He has no reason to be picky when he just needs to rest his eyes.

”I’ve got this.” Nate’s quick to slap his credit card down on the counter while Logan is still shuffling with his wallet. ”You’ve got your car to fix, remember? And I just sold mine.” He slides the plastic and his driver’s license towards the doe-eyed girl. He seems not to notice her bashful glances and prominent blush until Logan sneaks in his comment – and his nickname – and Nate can only respond with a halfhearted glare, the little upturn in the corners of his mouth giving it all away.

”Just fine, thanks,” and he resists calling Logan something cheesy like sailor. ”Why don’t you go find the room? I’ll pull the car around.” He tosses the other man his key card, their room number punched at the top, and assuming there are no further complaints he sets out to do just that.

Nate spins the car about the parking lot and backs it in outside their temporary home, grabs Logan’s back from the back and his own overnight duffel, and returns to their appointed rendezvous – where his friend is likely waiting. Unfortunately, what greets him inside is a surprise; Nathan runs a hand over his face with a sigh after dropping their bags to the floor, hiding the queen-size bed that dominates the small room from view with his palm. Jilted receptionist taking her revenge, perhaps?

”I’ll… go get that changed. Huh.”

Logan. said:

Logan obediently heads to the room with keycard in hand. He slides the card through the door slot and pops it open, leaves it ajar to provide Nate with easy access. The room isn’t huge. The walls are stark white and the carpet is a dark color with a disorientating pattern – perfect for hiding imperfections and old stains. There is a stale feeling of sterile cleanliness floating around and it’s clear the room hasn’t been aired out for a while.

Oh, and there’s the bed. As in one bed. As in the only bed in the room.

He is standing near the foot of the offending furniture, scratching at his chin like he’s dealing with a conundrum, when Nate makes his appearance. There were plenty of rooms with two beds and somehow they ended up here. It is always the mousy, unassuming gals that turn out to be evil, vindictive masterminds, and Logan supposes it’s only fair after he embarrassed the girl.

”Don’t see a reason to make a fuss.” Why risk being given the runaround by a vengeful put-out girl. Besides, they are two grown men and Logan has spent months at sea, living in close quarters with other sailors. Sailors too tired from hours working on deck to attend to personal hygiene. This, comparatively, is nothing for him to bat an eye at. ”You take one side, I take the other.” Simple. Easy. It doesn’t have to be weird if Logan doesn’t let it.

Logan ambles over to Nate and bends down to retrieve his bag. He stands straight, looks at Nate, can’t quite fight the crooked smile forming on his lips. ”I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He isn’t sure why he says it, but teasing the younger man has apparently become a thing.

The older man takes his bag and sets it on the side of the bed he’s claimed as his own. Taking the bed or the side closest to the door is a habit of his. An easily missed gesture of protection learned from being both an older brother and, once upon a time, a significant other. He unzips his bag and looks through it, careful to avoid giving away the revolver tucked safely in a different compartment.

”You mind if I take the shower first?” He’s not getting into bed feeling like the desert chewed him up and spit him out. Again, walking down the interstate in the midday sun – not one his best ideas. He throws a look in Nate’s direction, smirks. ”Age before beauty, after all.”

Nate said:

Nate shared the better part of his bed with another man for the last ten years; it’s not modesty that’s got his stomach tied in a knot. Intimacy – whether intentional or not – is something he’s avoided these past few months, frightened of the emotions and memories tied to it. But there’s something reassuring about Logan unpacking his things on the bed, carefully placed between Nate and the door, and Nate jumps on that before his hesitance has a chance to say no.

…What’s the worst that could happen?

”…She’d probably just move us to a single,” he finally agrees, nodding slowly. This is, of course, all muddled up in the fact that Nate suddenly and inexorably doesn’t want him to keep his hands to himself, and really, maybe he should just go exchange their rooms, but the car’s parked and their stuff is here and damn, it just seems like so much effort. How sad.

And honestly, if Nate doesn’t know any better, he’d say Logan is flirting with him.

Shutting the door behind him (and double-checking the lock), Nate shuffles to his side of the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt, too exhausted to give this whole problem any more thought. Twenty more minutes and he’ll be asleep, for however long that lasts, and in the morning they’ll be back on the road and none of this will matter. He’s from Vegas, after all. He knows how to handle this.

”Or sweat-stained before clean, but whatever makes you feel better.” He cracks a tired smile at Logan from the bed, kicking his shoes off. ”I’ll just catch up on my beauty sleep, then. Wake me when you’re out.”

Slacks unbuttoned, hanging loose about his hips, and shoes now removed, the dark-haired werewolf simply deposits himself on the bed with a groan and puts a pillow on his head for good measure. By the time Logan extracts himself from the shower, Nate is passed out and snoring, the pillow thrown to the floor and a hand over his eyes.

Logan. said:

”You’re a riot.” Logan is shaking his head and wearing a smile when he slips into the bathroom. The door shuts behind him and he strips, and his light demeanor slumps to the floor with his clothing. He is tired as all hell and while the good-natured thing isn’t an act, it can be exhausting to keep up regardless. There’s also the issue of an attractive younger man laying in bed on the other side of the door. Logan can play it cool all he wants, but it’s been forever –a few years – and he can’t help but entertain thoughts that leave him feeling like a dirty old man.

He supposes that’s what the shower is for and turns it on, lets it run cold. The dust and wear of the day sleuth off his body, escape down the drain. Logan spends a good amount of time leaning against the tile wall with his head braced against his forearm. It’s a state of silent meditation but Logan’s not mulling over the meaning to life, he’s trying to school his thoughts so he can come out acting normal and not at all like the old cad he’s seemed to turn into.

It takes him a while, but he feels like he gets there. Logan towels off and pulls on a pair of black boxers. Takes out his small hygiene kit, brushes his teeth, and considers his reflection. He does not do this often because it’s been twenty or so years that he’s been out to impress anyone. There are more lines on his face than he remembers but he still feels strong, bum knee and chronic back ache aside. He’s all broad shoulders and lived-in musculature. A thoroughbred compared to his brother’s draft horse frame.

In the end, it doesn’t matter because two ships passing in the night and, Nate’s kind of a good guy. An attractive good guy but still a good guy and, hell, it has been that long, hasn’t it. Logan glares at the mirror, tells himself that he is an upstanding gentleman and gathers his clothing, leaves the restroom. He’s packing the old clothes into his bag while watching Nate’s sleeping form. It goes on long enough that he starts to feel like a creep and so he distracts himself by making good on the younger man’s request.

A hand settles on Nate’s shoulder and Logan jostles him awake. ”Nate. Shower’s all yours.” If the younger man makes like he doesn’t care and just wants to sleep, Logan relents and goes to his side of the bed. Regardless, Logan feels like he won’t be getting much sleep after all – and not for the reasons his degenerate mind has been entertaining.

Nate said:

It’s from dark dreams that Logan shakes Nate awake, shadows in his eyes and confusion on his face.

”Fuck, Jules—“ he grunts tiredly, sitting up … but no, it’s gone, whatever half-remembered vision of a past life swept away with sleep. He hardly catches his own slip, instead just dropping back to his pillow and running a hand down his cheeks; it remains, pulling the skin of his face downwards comically, as he stares up at Logan.

”’m good. Come sleep,” he offers, shifting himself back into the warmth of the bed. Nate shuts back down, still half-clothed, and lets the weariness reclaim him.

It’s hours later, an unsatisfying number no matter the improvement over other nights, when Nate wakes up again; one of those quick turnabouts that feels as though he never shut your eyes. He’s uncomfortably close to Logan, having maneuvered his way under the blankets during his fitful rest; the sheets are tangled, the pillows scattered. The man removes himself gently to avoid wake his bedfellow, trying not to be distracted by any expanses of exposed skin or just how close Logan lingers. Nate can smell him, sharp and certain, and he redoubles his efforts to escape in a rush.

Slipping off into the darkness of the room, the next sound is that of the bathroom door clicking shut and the shower warming up, leaving Logan to himself. The black-haired werewolf emerges clean soon after, damp and shirtless, and settles in a heap in a chair by the door.

Nate cracks the nearby window, silhouette illuminated by neon and incandescent light, and reluctantly lights a cigarette drawn from his discarded jacket’s pocket. Though he’s not normally one to smoke indoors, Nate’s nerves are shot and it’s a terrible nightly routine, one he doesn’t have the energy or will to resist or take outside – he exhales a slow curl of smoke into the night, unable to remember for the life of him if he even requested a smoking room.

Logan. said:

Wide awake with no hope of sleeping. Logan closes his eyes and wills his mind to shut down but thoughts persist. He feels like a wolf in sheep’s clothing laying next to Nate, more so now after the younger man unintentionally revealed this ‘Jules’ of his. There was a fondness and familiarity in Nate’s sleep-heavy voice that is unmistakable. If Logan was feeling iffy about entertaining thoughts about Nate before, now he feels downright wrong.

In his bag is his old magnum, the gun he uses to kill, the same gun he used to put a bullet into a seventeen-year old kid’s head. He doesn’t feel right. It’s that familiar and sinking crawl inside of Logan, the one that makes him turn tail and run, as if he could outrun it, leave it behind. He turns his head, his eyes settle onto Nate’s sleeping face. The younger man is close, close enough for Logan to feel his body warmth and want more of it. This is dangerous, he thinks. Lines that can’t be crossed, he thinks. It becomes evident that he must come up with an excuse to cut their trip short.

That is the nature of his thoughts –escape—as Logan tries and fails to find slumber.

The mattress shifts, the sound of running water hisses muffled through thin walls. He throws an arm over his eyes and sighs. Logan is in the same position when Nate comes out of the restroom. It’s clear he hasn’t come back to bed and doesn’t plan to when Logan hears the breath of a lighter.

Well, hell, it looks like he’s not the only one having problems sleeping. Logan sits up, bare feet on the floor. He leans forward, arms braced on his thighs and watches Nate. There are a number of friendly things he could say here – trouble sleeping? Smoking’s bad for you, you know. He’s too tired and feeling too much like an old circus lion forced to jump through hoop after hoop, and so he settles on --

”Who’s Jules?” If he can’t cross the lines he wants to, why not cross some others?

Nate said:

Nathan’s head lifts, eyes returning to focus in the dim light of the room, and his gaze falls upon Logan. He makes no effort to look away as the man sits up and watches him in return, and feels only a remote pang of guilt at having woken him. This day’s worn thin for everyone, and it only make sense that the older man – so casual, so kind – might finally be annoyed with him for his constant evasion, his irritating depressive nature. For waking him up.

Logan’s prying question, such a jarring contrast to their prior mutual detachment, is the last thing he expects to hear.

Nate chokes in reply, a gagged sound cut off in his throat; the surprise and the pain at what it dredges up is a hard thing to stifle. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute and not at all, time left to expand and contract in paradoxical permutations between the question and his reply.

Another deep drag on his cigarette, another moment in thought before he can muster a response. ”Julian." A breath. "He’s dead.” As if that describes it all – as if that lets Logan in on his world. As if he can reduce Julian’s life to those two words. ”Five years… we were together five years.” And that’s that; Logan will regret that awkward moment where he let a gay guy snuggle up to him in bed, and Nathan will never be able to look at him again anyway, for the sympathy he’ll see in those eyes. But it’s the first time he’s managed to admit as much out loud since the whole incident happened, and he can’t help but feel some relief relax the muscles in his chest – as if in telling some dark secret, it makes the load easier to bear.

Acceptance is the last stage of grief.

”…Bad habit,” he mumbles in unrelated explanation and with a nod of his head at his cigarette, redirection obvious. The man leans back tiredly in his chair, eyes downcast, energy drained. ”I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He can’t help but think their little road trip is coming to an end.

Logan. said:

It figures. A beautiful boy with a broken heart. Logan feels dirty, like he’s offending the ghost of Julian by being there, regretting thoughts he should not have entertained in the first place. A circumstantial joke, here, and one with a lacking punch line. A hippy and a sailor walk into a motel room and -- nothing happens.

Logan looks away, down at where his fingers have threaded together. ”I’m sorry to hear that.” Words that Nathan has likely heard enough for them to always sound stale. Five years is a long time and Logan can relate to the commitment but he does not say as much, in fact, he gives nothing away in return. The awkwardness they so expertly avoided and staved off closes in at full force, and with a vengeance.

”We can’t all be saints.” The conversation changes and Logan is relieved. He stands, digs through his bag, retrieves a clean set of jeans and a black t-shirt. He’s dressing when he says, ”Don’t worry about it, I was planning on getting up early, anyway.” It is a lie –the first straight lie he’s told. There is something so incredibly wrong with lusting after Nate now that Logan knows about Julian. Knowing it’s wrong won’t be enough to stop him, and so Logan decides it’s best they part ways.

”I’ve always wanted to check New Mexico out. Never had the chance before now, figure why not seize the day.” It takes Logan a considerable amount of effort to not wince at the sheer lameness of his words. An obvious excuse that makes him seem like the ultra-straight guy running scared at the idea of, dare he say it, a gay man. There is safety in that lie and so Logan makes no attempt to rectify it, or clear up any suspicions.

They have done nothing and yet Logan feels like it’s the shameful morning after when he can’t look a person in the eye. Like his short-lived adventure with Nate was a mistake, if only in theory. Zips his bag up with a little too much force, grimaces because a small act like that, from Logan, is telling.

”I’ll… buy you breakfast before I head out, if you want.”

He turns to face Nathan, crosses his arms over his chest, stares down at the sitting man. Nathan and Logan walked into a motel room and nothing happened, and Logan promises himself it’s for the best.

Nate said:

Nate wants to feel bitter. Wishes he could, even. Wishes he could replace any of this feeling – this combination of awkwardness and hurt – by taking it out on Logan. His wolf would have liked that, but he can hardly feel the beast beneath his skin these days, its growl all but silent; there is no anger for him to muster and no fire to fuel. In all honesty, he likely doesn’t need to say anything to make Logan feel guilty about asking his question, about violating their unspoken contract. The man seems decent enough to resort to shame when it’s warranted.

He stubs his cigarette out on the sill uncaringly, avoiding any risk of the other man’s damnable eye contact.

”Beautiful country. You’ll love it.” The truth behind Logan’s words is laid flat; get lost. Rising, the werewolf pads silently across the room to his things, dresses, and repacks what few items remain. There is a heavy weight in the room that he cannot seem to escape, no matter the layers of cotton and cloth, no matter the fresh air imparted by the still-open window. It is done, and Nate knows it; it was too soon to begin with. He shouldn’t have attempted something so casual as friendship with all this shit running through his head. Shouldn’t have even let it slide towards something worse.

You ever wake up and feel like the world is a little less colorful? Like the people around you aren’t so familiar. Strangers even.

The problem is in thinking you were ever familiar to begin with.

Nathan declines breakfast, too politely. Save your money, or something pointed like that. The charade is over, the dream of a day lost with a vengeance worse than a regretted one night stand, and he can’t stand to play a part anymore. They part, finally, awkwardly, and Nate leaves Logan in the parking lot after a promise that he won’t wander any more desert highways; there are forced smiles and false words. It is enough that they try.

A streak of pink is dotting the horizon by the time Nathan exits, stage left. He drives, window down and one-handed; he drives, on more day away from nowhere, and little has changed. The landscape rolls on; he leaves New Mexico behind.

He leaves everything behind.