wordsontongue | Along for the Ride

Title: Along for the Ride
Author: *kalypso /

koulagirl666
Characters: John Ryder, Viggo Mortensen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Beta:

j_ryder448
Prompt(s): #8: picture of a passenger
Disclaimer: I don't own Viggo (he belongs to himself) or John (he belongs to Platinum Dunes et al), and I don't intend to imply anything about them.
Author's Note: Spoilers for 'The Hitcher' (minor), AU Viggo. Implied background het

It's raining pretty heavily, like you haven't seen it do in a good while. You have to remind yourself that it's a desert, practically, and extremes are to be expected out here in Nowhere, New Mexico, otherwise you'd be thinking that next there'd be frogs. Probably are, somewhere, but not here. You have enough livestock to worry about anyway; your load is unstable and they're panicky back there, probably just cold, but what do you know, you're just getting them from A to B and taking the paycheck back home.

You almost miss him, but you see the car and slow down, just enough for him to approach and get caught in the flashing of his hazard lights. It's not exactly allowed, not now, anyway, in these times, but you help him get his car off the road and let him up when you're done; he just asks for a ride to the gas station, says there's a tow truck there, and you remember it as soon as he tells you it's not far. You don't see the harm in helping him out, and the quick smile that crosses his face makes you think it could even be fun.

He's quiet, and you don't mind having the company, but he avoids your questions until you stop asking them completely. He's wet through, though, so you turn up the heat and wait for him to stop shivering. You don't mind the extra warmth, either, but it's different having someone else in the cabin; it feels dangerous, and not just because there's a no-passengers rule that you'll be breaking if anyone finds out. He stares out the window, away from you, and you think about the lines you saw on his face and how they'd look in black-and-white. His skin seemed to absorb what little light there was rather than reflecting it, and the way he hides from you, far hand in his pocket and the other still on his thigh, makes you wonder where he's from.

"Not far now," you say, just to fill the air, not because it's almost true; he starts, and you think of a colt you picked up from market two years back, broken before it was old enough. "I'll just drop you there, if that's okay."

That's when he looks at you.

In this light, you can see all the creases that radiate from his eyes - he used to smile a lot, and laugh, like you - and the way his eyes seem deep and expressionless despite the pain you're sure he's feeling. He hasn't shaved in a few days, most likely, and he looks... you remember seeing that look in the mirror when you bought the farm and moved away from everything you ever knew, when she left you and took your son. He has a ring on his finger, but you know, somehow, that if you ask, he'll say he doesn't have a wife.

So you don't ask. He nods, and soon he stops shivering, even though you know he must still feel the cold all through to his bones. You still feel that cold, some days, even when you're outside and under the sun.

You see the gas station up ahead and you ease off the pedal until you can just guide the truck in, easy as pie. He nods a thank you and climbs out like he's used to the height, even bangs on the door to let you know he's clear.

You want to wait to make sure he can get a tow; everything in you screams at you to stay and ask him to come back with you, let you sketch him and find all those lines underneath the stubble you're only now realising you want to touch, but there's one thing you know beyond that which gives you the strength to move on: if you push him now, he'll snap.

If he's anything like you, he's going to break down before you can build him back up; the destruction will be glorious, and if you could stick around, you'd love to watch it unfold. You have a load, though, and horses to feed after that. After, though, and if it's meant to be...

... but you're listening to the radio, two days later, and you're left wondering whether you could have changed it all. Your hand starts to sting and you realise you punched the stable wall; there's splinters in your knuckles and you've started to bleed. The horses start to shift in their stalls and you let them be. You go inside and draw him from memory, as you saw him, before you forget what could have been.