Author: Mad Poetess
Post Dead End and New Moon Rising
Lindsey almost has something.
Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Greenwalt, those guys. Sadly, not me.
Lindsey says: When you've got nothing, you still fight like a bastard to keep
it, 'cause it's all you've got.
He's got a truck, and a guitar, and a hand that mostly doesn't write things he
doesn't tell it to, anymore. Got a posterboard sign in the back, under a chunk
of cinderblock, that says, "Cops suck."
Speeding ticket in the glove compartment for going 67 in a 65 mile an hour zone.
He's not planning on paying it, but it makes him laugh when he takes it out and
reads it, so he keeps it there, tucked into the accordion file with the
registration and the receipts for the windshield repairs.
When you've got nothing, you hang onto it so tight, you can hear your joints
bubble and squeak, as you grip the steering wheel.
This town's got nothing. It's another faceless strip mall that sucked its money
from the highway running through it, and lost anything it ever had that made it
look like a town. Might be houses and schools, out in that dark place beyond the
K-Mart, but the biggest light on the road is the Motel 8 on the leeside of the
Parking lot full of diesel rigs and guys with potbellies leaning against the
cabs, cigarettes permanently dangling from their mouths. Toss the dead ones onto
the gravel while they chat. Well, mumble. Truckers don't chat. They mutter, and
they curse, and they throw beer bottles at the stage, as Lindsey found out when
he played in the little bar in northern Tennessee, and he picked the wrong song
on the wrong night-- but they don't chat.
They flirt with waitresses, though. The skinny, vanilla-haired woman in the pink
uniform is leaning over the counter, doodling something on the check of the guy
who came in just before him, the one with the double trailer of Beck's beer.
He's ready to leave, drawling his last come hither, my room number's 176,
bullshit, and Lindsey's just settling down to biscuits and gravy.
It's not that she's ignoring him; just the opposite. He's got that look, where
they all want to mother him or fuck him, and some of 'em can't decide which. You
know, except the one he actually wanted, who already had someone to do both
with. That's why he chased this one away, when she homed in on him like a shark
on a bleeding limb, the minute he sat down and stowed his guitar in the seat
across the table from him. She bent close enough that he could smell the tang of
bleach in her hair, while she asked him if he wanted grits with his sausage, and
he's pretty sure she uses the exact same shade, though her ends are split and
frizzed with it.
It's why he clipped his words off, not quite snarling, when he told her no, and
looked out the window at the parking lot when she tried to give him the eye.
He's got... No. He doesn't have his pride, lost that long ago, before he ever
sang "Do Re Mi" in a bar full of California lawyers, and realized the only one
who knew what the words meant was the green guy at the back, who kept shaking
his head, like *Lindsey* was the one who didn't get it. But he's got his memory,
of what he'd been pretending he had, woman's soft smell in his apartment, her
clothes scattered across his bed. And from later, when she smelled of blood and
he knew the helplessness in her voice was a game, had always been a game with
him, he's got the memory of her fangs sliding across his adam's apple, and not
He doesn't want to mix that up with a peroxide waitress in a smoky midnight
truckstop, who called him honey, when she slid his plate in front of him.
When you've got nothing, you hold onto it until your fingernails break, then you
grab on with your teeth.
Cowbells jangle as the door opens. Room 176 rolls out, and Lindsey almost drops
his eyes again, except the guy who slips in through the closing door makes him
laugh around his mouthful of biscuit, and he has to grab a swig of cooling
coffee, just to keep from choking.
It's himself, standing politely in front of the Please Wait To Be Seated sign.
Oh, this guy's smaller, thinner. Rusty colored spiky hair that looks like he
slept wrong on it and really doesn't give a damn -- but he's Lindsey, all the
same. Jeans, plaid jacket against the midwestern winter. Canvas duffel over one
shoulder, and -- here's the kicker -- guitar case in his other hand.
Lindsey looks, without looking like he's looking. In the nightlit window, he
sees his own reflection, sipping coffee now, and the other guy, alone at a
table, making a meal out of the buck ninety-nine breakfast special. Egg and
toast and a strip of bacon, and he almost looks like that would feed him, but
not quite. That's not food; it's for putting some kind of taste in your mouth
after a night of nothing but cigarettes and the same kind of coffee they're both
sucking down. Lindsey doesn't do the cigarettes, but he's heard the truckers
talk about it -- how they'll only order the special in the middle of a run, when
they don't dare eat enough to get sleepy, but want something in their mouths
that isn't menthol, for a change.
The special's not the only thing he's heard that about. He gets bored, on the
road. Likes to pretend he's going somewhere, besides away from L.A., and if he
picks one who doesn't tower over him or piss him off enough to make him want to
chase the guy around the parking lot with his pickup, he can manage to distract
himself from where he'd probably rather be. Got a mouth on him, he's been told
more than once -- long ago by his daddy, later by people who thought he'd listen
when they said it would get him in trouble -- and it's good for more than giving
head. Spin a pretty enough song about where he's heading, what he's doing with
that guitar and that truck and the sign in the back, and he might even get to
receive, instead of give. Gets his room paid for sometimes, too, even though he
doesn't need it.
This one needs it. Buck ninety-nine, and he's still counting change out of his
pockets. Lays a crumpled dollar bill on the table, finally, then pays his check
with quarters. Something like class, Lindsey guesses. He's not sure -- he never
really had it, just learned how to fake what other people did, the ones he
sensed knew what they were doing. At heart, he's still counting his own change
when he leaves a tip, even when it's a five, for a five dollar meal.
The waitress gives him a confused look when he follows the other guy out the
door, guitar case in hand. You didn't want me, but you left me the same tip as
Room 176, when I would've done you for a smile? What are you, crazy?
Probably. When you've got nothing, you hang on to every little thing that comes
your way, even your own insanity. He finds the guy with the guitar leaning
against his truck. Sharp green eyes. Pretty. Pretty quiet. Very quiet.
"Take it you need a ride," gets him a nod, and a grin that says they both
recognize how stupid the question was. "Where you heading?" sounds wrong coming
out of his mouth, but someone has to say it, and he realizes it's not going to
be his buck ninety-nine twin. Who, up close, isn't anything like Lindsey at all.
Wears the same clothes, but he leans against the truck with a twitchless grace
that Lindsey could never carry off. Breathes air in and frost out and doesn't
even wrap the jacket closer around himself.
Then: "Nowhere special," and that lazy smile again, and damn, Lindsey likes him.
He really wasn't intending to like him, had thought he knew exactly what he
wanted when he rose from the booth and followed. He'd offer a ride, they'd
drive, somewhere along the way Lindsey would sing him a story, and it'd be
something a little different to hang onto later, after he dropped the guy off in
some other faceless highway town.
Now he's not sure, and he laughs, nervously, when he offers the line back.
"Nowhere special? I always wanted to go there." It's a riding off into the
sunset line, in the middle of the night, and it's wrong, because they don't know
each other at all, but it's right, too. It gets the smile to bend, just a
little, at one end, and Lindsey's insufferably pleased with that.
His name is Oz, and he holds both guitars, one on the seat beside him, one
between his legs.
Oz doesn't give a last name, and Lindsey doesn't ask for one, though he finds
himself offering his own, something he doesn't usually do. When it's all you
have, you hang on tight, parcel that information out on a need-to-know basis. Oz
doesn't need to know, yet here he is, nodding again, and that small motion seems
like payment for Lindsey's trouble, or something. Leaves him caught between
feeling accomplished, that he's pulled a reaction out of his passenger, and
vaguely slutty. Because he would have given it up for free, just like that
On the highway, heading nowhere special, Oz watches the dark cornfields roll
past, and Lindsey watches Oz. Knows Oz knows he's watching, now, which doesn't
piss him off as much as not being able to *not* watch. He likes this guy, and he
doesn't particularly want to. He wants this guy to coax him into telling a
pretty lie about where he came from and where he's going, but somehow "nowhere
special" came out, the truth, and there isn't much to say about that. He wants
Oz to ask anyway, and Oz won't say anything.
Makes him feel like a puppy, yipping for favors. Lindsey talks, to fill the
silence, and he *never* does that, with his carefully random truckers, in room
176. He makes them ask him, uses his mouth for his own purposes, not to get some
kind of reward. He doesn't give anything away, doesn't sell it, trade it, just
plays the game to amuse himself.
He's not supposed to have to ask the questions. "Care if I turn on the radio?"
Like it's not his truck, like he's not the one doing Oz a favor. But it earns
him a shake of the head, and he bounces inside. Happy puppy. He suspects Oz is
laughing at him, but kindly. "ZPL good?" It's
seventies-eighties-nineties-rock-country-whatever, guaranteed to offend
everybody and nobody. Strong signal -- he's had it halfway through the state. Oz
nods again, but doesn't look away from the window, and Lindsey feels he's
The song's whiny, post-Seattle stuff that misses the whole blowing-
your-head-off-is-stupid point. It grits his teeth, and does nothing to slow the
inevitable opening of his mouth and moving of his tongue. Speeds it up, in fact,
makes him want to be more entertaining than this song, to apologize for
subjecting Oz to it.
"What do you play?" His own question makes him cringe, but Oz looks sharply at
him, and Lindsey knows he wasn't misheard. It's a bass; he can see it's an
electric bass from the size and shape of the case, and Oz can see he sees it's a
bass, like Oz can see the case between his legs holds an acoustic.
"A and E. And I'm working on B."
"Nice. And me and the chimpanzee agree that someday soon, you'll be a
celebrity." Wavers between accomplishment and stupidstupid, not sure if they
were playing tagline or not. Angry that he cares.
Pleased, when Oz smiles. Really smiles. "Well, maybe not soon."
"Rock?" he guesses. You'd think the hair, the ripped t-shirt with the band he
doesn't recognize, would make it obvious, but he's been fooled before. They
don't all wear cowboy hats.
"Devon used to think so. Then again, he thought kd Lang was a man." Oz scratches
his chin. Adds, as if it's just occurred to him that Lindsey has no idea what
he's talking about, "Lead singer. Spent a lot of time trying to get straight
enough to find the stage. Sometimes he even remembered to bring his pants."
He's asking the right questions, to make Oz talk, and Lindsey gives up on being
pissed that he's asking them at all, since hearing that voice say that many
words in a row is doing things to him that make him squirm in his seat and
pretend it's just that they've been driving for two hours. Something about the
voice. It's the only thing he really has on him, see, besides the sacrosanct
guitar, which doesn't count. That's not up for trade -- you don't sell, you
don't lose, you give up everything before you let that out of your hands.
Lindsey knows that, so the voice, used so sparingly, seems the most valuable
thing in the truck with them right now.
It makes Lindsey want to rub himself against the gearshift, and offer him
anything just to keep talking. Almost anything.
Oz had a van. He lost it in New Mexico, when three tires blew out and the engine
fell into the road with a clunk. It was kind of like a Marx Brothers movie, he
said. Only more surreal.
Lindsey doesn't think Marx Brothers movies are surreal. Doesn't think they're
funny, either, but maybe he's been missing something. He's definitely missing
something with Oz.
Like how he can just shrug, when he says it. Left his van beside the road,
packed what he thought he could carry into the bag that's sitting in the truck
bed now, grabbed his bass, and moved on. Headed for nowhere special.
Lindsey doesn't get how he could let go of it. Van he'd had for years, almost
everything he owned. Stuff from wherever home was. Memories of his band. Oz just
shrugs at him again. "I didn't lose anything by leaving it." Lindsey shakes his
head. Yeah, he left things in L.A. Almost everything. But he left them on
purpose. Life he hated, things he wanted to forget about, wipe out of his memory
by never having to look at them again. What he needed, he took with him.
He says about half as much, and Oz nods. "Yeah, I get that. For me, though, it's
all about portability." He taps his head. "I don't need the things, because it's
all in here."
He still doesn't get it.
"A naked man never has to worry about pickpockets," Oz tells him. Lindsey thinks
about Oz naked, and misses hearing where the quote came from.
Maybe Lindsey gets it, sort of, but he doesn't believe it. Doesn't work for him.
He's met too many people, and things pretending to be people, who can take away
what you have in your head. As easy as taking a house or a car, or breaking a
window to steal your guitar from the front seat of your truck, which is why he
always carries it in with him, when they eat. Oz always leaves his in the truck,
and he doesn't get that either.
It's become an always. He's been two nights and two days with Oz, heading
nowhere special, which is vaguely east, and already he's thinking in always.
They always stop at little places like the truckstop where they met. They always
have a waitress who looks both of them over, decides they're starving, and tries
to give them free pie for dessert. Pun sometimes intended. Lindsey always pays,
and Oz always acts like it's no big deal, because Lindsey doesn't want it to be
a big deal.
They always sleep in separate beds, and Oz always pretends it's not weird that
he's driving like a drifter, eating truck stop food, seems to have no job, but
can afford a double at the Motel 8. Lindsey always avoids saying anything that
would imply he could afford the Radisson Suites, if he wanted.
Two nights isn't always, though, not really. It's two nights, and on the third,
Lindsey's lying awake in bed, in the dark. He knows Oz is awake, the easy way,
because Oz is sitting in the window, watching. Singing, actually, something low
and rhythmic that Lindsey can't quite make out. Slim bare shoulders outlined
with silver behind them, head tilted as Oz sings upwards, to the roundness in
Lindsey listens, and isn't surprised when he gets hard. Hell, he's been hard the
last two nights, lying a few feet away from Oz, feeling like the space between
the beds is an ocean, and he'd fall in and drown if he tried to cross. Oz hasn't
invited, and he's not *quite* that eager of a puppy, Lindsey isn't. Not quite
willing to give up that much of the nothing he has left, to crawl into that
other bed and offer himself without encouragement.
He's surprised now, though, that he's *so* hard. That it aches, that the soft
movement of Oz' voice makes his dick throb and his fingers want to reach for it.
He's shocked at himself, when he sits up in bed and asks. "What song is that?"
It stops him from thinking about trying to jerk off without Oz noticing, so
maybe it's a good thing, even though it's made Oz stop singing. Made him look
over at Lindsey.
"Not really a song. More like a chant. Then again, I'm not really a singer."
No, he's not. Not like Lindsey, who sings maybe a little better than he plays,
and plays pretty damn good. Oz' voice is made for backup, and quiet whispering,
and telling you the strangest things with a perfectly straight face, leaving you
to decide whether you believe them or not.
Like Lindsey asking him, again, what's the song about? Chant, rather. And Oz
saying, "It's a Tibetan thing. Anti-werewolf charm."
Lindsey sees the maybe serious, maybe not, face, and asks, "You're singing a
spell for keeping werewolves away?" He's sure there really is one, sure if he'd
needed one in the course of his duties at Wolfram and Hart, someone would have
looked it up for him, in Records and Research. He can't quite imagine it would
be what Oz was chanting, though.
"Doesn't keep them away. Keeps you from turning into one."
He's not sure if he's supposed to laugh or not. "Does it work?"
"So far." Oz moves away from the window, to his bed, and sits on the edge.
Lindsey does laugh, now. Then he stops, when Oz doesn't join him, and he knows
he read the look wrong. "Usually," Oz adds.
"You're a werewolf."
"Recovering." Then Oz laughs. It's small and odd. Warm and bitter at the same
Lindsey desperately wants to fill the silence again. He especially doesn't want
Oz to realize he's harder than ever, under the covers. Something about Oz
offering that up to him, another gift of that voice. Something he knows is the
truth -- not just the crazy little guy with the electric bass *believing* it's
the truth, but real. There's a werewolf in the room with him, during a full
He wants to give something back, some valuable truth about himself, but he's got
nothing, that he's able to let go of. Well, almost nothing. "I'm a lawyer."
"Recovering. Now I've just got a little evil hand problem." He's trying to
remember which one, since it isn't the transplant that keeps creeping towards
places it shouldn't be.
The laugh this time is free and open, and sweet as cold, clear air. After a
while, Oz says, "You know, I can smell you."
Lindsey pretends, for a second, that he doesn't. Then he's glad Oz can't see
him, because he's too old to look edible with a flush high on his cheeks. He'd
just look silly. "So..." Since he's got nothing else to say.
"So I should finish that chant. Not *supposed* to need it anymore, but I don't
like to play with that."
Oz is up and across the room, by the window again. Lindsey wonders if Oz can
smell him from there. Smell his arousal spiking as the quiet music begins again.
He can't do it. Can't let either evil hand get up to what they both want to,
even if -- and he's pretty sure it's true -- Oz wouldn't mind, because he gets
it. Gets a hell of a lot more things than Lindsey does. Can't do it, though -
too much like crawling across to the other bed would have been. Like throwing
himself to the sharks. Lindsey needs something for his hands to do, so he
reaches down. Side of the bed, where he keeps the guitar case. Didn't used to be
so possessive of it, but now that it's all he's got...
It's an easy melody. You can barely even call it that, just an up and down
sing-song, with a little dip in it, every third round. Every time Oz cocks his
head at the moon. Lindsey finds a way to play the chords soft enough that he can
still hear Oz' voice. Wonders if he'd hurt anything by improvising a harmony
line, then just does it, humming in the right places to fill the spaces between
Oz' drops and rises. Makes it hard to hold the guitar, sitting in bed, feeling
himself rub against the wood through his boxers. Then again, it's not bad. He
could almost pretend it's accidental, if he were bothering to pretend anything,
He's not. Nothing to pretend he's doing, or not doing, now. It's just their
voices. Lindsey doesn't even know what he's singing, if he's weaving himself
into the spell with his homemade counterpoint, becoming part of Oz' fight
against the moon, or his love affair with it. Doesn't matter. This is something
he can do, can share. Has to. It's not even a choice. It just comes out of his
mouth, out of his fingers.
Then... then it's over. Oz stops first, and Lindsey finds an end. He's not
perfect at improvising, not with a partner, but he manages not to make it
awkward. Just a fading brush of the strings that he lets die away into silence.
When he looks up, Oz is standing in front of him. His eyes... His eyes look like
they've swallowed every bit of light shining in from that full moon out there,
like it's just a dead piece of rock hanging in the sky now. It's not fancy talk,
Lindsey pretending he doesn't know where he comes from. Oz' eyes are *glowing*.
Silver in the darkness of the room, the green reduced to a little ring at the
edge of his irises. It's wild. Crazy. Crazy as Lindsey knows Oz isn't. Wild,
He's standing there. Still. Then he's not, he's taking the guitar very gently
from Lindsey's arms, and putting it in the case. Sweet to it, like a lover.
Tucking it in to sleep, and then he's back, something strange making Lindsey's
face crinkle. He smells, Lindsey realizes. If Oz can smell him, he can smell Oz,
now. Stronger than man musk, but not like a dog, the closest to wolf he's ever
met. Makes him scared, and eager, and reaching, then pulling back.
Bouncy puppy, Lindsey. He feels ashamed, that he can't even stop himself from
bouncing at this, this attention. This glowing stare from a creature who's not
quite human, but never evil. He's never known a not-quite-human who was *never*
Then Oz is crawling up on the bed, and his knees are on the outside of
Lindsey's, and his hands press Lindsey's shoulders to the headboard, and he's
*strong*. God damn, he's strong. Lindsey could die here, now, if Oz wanted him
He doesn't get off on that. All that time in L.A., he lived with the wolf at his
throat one way or another, and it didn't make him hard, not the good kind of
hard. He gets off on Oz, though. On the way he's lowering his face to Lindsey's
shoulder, and sniffing. He gets off on the growl, he does. On the hands pressing
him hard enough that the wood of the headboard hurts his back -- because they're
*not* trying to hurt him, not more than he wants. There's no threat here, just
thanks. He can feel it, in the rough tongue suddenly scraping against his
collarbone, in the eyes that look up at him, in the mouth that warns -- "Don't
let me bite you."
He's rolling, suddenly, Oz beneath him, staring calmly up. "I don't mind." He
makes a horrible wolf puppy. Oz is too nice, not to laugh at him when he tries
"You would. It's contagious."
He thinks about bodily fluids, and how he's got nothing Oz could catch, and Oz
has nothing that won't come from a bite, and he reaches for his wallet anyway.
Because. Because it's in his mind now, and he feels like he'd look stupid in
front of Oz, if he didn't.
Oz is taking it from him, getting up, and that's fine, that's just fine. Tearing
it open with his teeth, which is silly and so goddamn sexy it makes Lindsey want
to grind himself against Oz so hard and fast that there won't be any need for
the condom. But he doesn't, he stays there against the pillows while Oz slips it
on. Just watching as jeans are shucked, latex rolled over long, thin cock that
juts darkly in the moonlight from the wide open window, or maybe from Oz' eyes.
Hands against that cock, graceful, strange. Then, suddenly, through the fabric
of his shorts, against his own. Blankets kicked away, and looking down at guitar
player's hands, like Lindsey's hands. Just like he'd looked down at all that
time before Darla, and all those times she was there but not, out chasing her
past as hard as he was running from his own. Not his hands, though. Not his
because his mismatched ones, the ones only he can see don't match, are in Oz'
hair. Soft tufts of red tickling his nose with the wolf-scent, tickling his
fingers with smoothness while Oz is busy pulling his shorts down and tickling
Christ, it's too fast, hot skin on his hot skin, and he shudders. He can't come
now, he'll look like a fool. Bouncy puppy. Come now and he's got nothing for Oz
but a place to put it.
It's okay. Oz holds him tightly, and he's not coming or going anywhere, except
heels over head. Legs bent up, pushed so far back he half believes his knees are
hitting the headboard, left to hold them there himself as Oz reaches down, and
Christ... again. Lindsey doesn't ask, doesn't have the breath to ask, assumes it
came from his pockets and is glad Oz thought to pack that up when he left his
van, because he needs it. Definitely needs it as slippery fingers stretch him in
ways he hasn't been stretched often enough not to need it.
It's sudden, and he's thankful for that. No warning when fingers are replaced by
cock, just the wider stretch and tiny flicker of sick ohmygod and then in. Deep
in, his body shaking against the pillows.
Oz is looking at him now, which he thinks might be embarrassing if the lights
were on, and Lindsey tries not to wonder how much better those silvered eyes can
see him, than he can see in the dark. Oz is... bringing his face close and lips
on his and kissing. Pressed close with this man inside him and lips and what was
that about bodily fluids? But he's not biting, just lips sliding against
Lindsey's and tongue, and if this taste is wolf, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
Sweet wolf, spicy and sharp in his mouth, and a soft thrust against him that
makes him see things in Oz' eyes. Silver sparks, the light wavering.
Thrust again and again, and the silver is inside Lindsey's eyes. Given to him,
lighting up his head and the room and just everything. When you have nothing...
when you have nothing you can't pass it on like this, filling somebody up until
he screams, growls, scrabbles at your back. Draws you closer and begs you to
scrape your teeth over his nipple, just a little. Just a little isn't a bite. Oz
has everything, and he's giving it to Lindsey, in this dark motel room that he
can't even afford to pay for. Giving Lindsey exploding pleasure in his head, in
his belly, shooting from his cock to warm the space between their skins, and the
gift of *not* biting him. Oz pulling his mouth away from Lindsey's skin, as he
comes, and howls, loud enough to be heard back in that truck stop, probably.
Loud enough to be heard two days ago, if Lindsey had been listening.
He waits until Oz has fallen asleep beside him, to get up. Thanks god that Oz
isn't a cuddler, that there are no arms to disentangle from his, that it doesn't
wake Oz when Lindsey rolls away and stands up. Staring at him in the moonlight.
He's naked, blankets and sheets pulled from him. The moon behind Lindsey now, he
can see every inch of Oz. White muscles in repose, not so easy to see in
t-shirts, but here, laid bare: he'd be stronger than he looked even if he
weren't made of magic. Hair tangled and scrunched and looking no different than
it will when he walks out the door in the morning. Cock no longer dark with
blood, but soft against a shock of bright red almost-fur. Sleeping as deeply as
its owner, resting on the pillow of a pale thigh.
Oz is naked before him, and Lindsey knows he wouldn't care. It's that easy for
him. To give that up, give away everything he has, because Oz is just like that.
What he is, he is. What he can, he shares. His thoughts, his music, his body.
He's not worried about losing anything, because he carries it with him.
Lindsey gets that.
He gets it, and it makes him pack faster. Grab his pants and his bag and god,
yes, the guitar case, he's not leaving that. Keys on the table and don't let
them jingle. Please god, don't let them jingle. Don't let the door creak, don't
let the draft of cold air across his skin wake Oz up.
Don't let Lindsey turn back around and look at him. If he looks, he won't leave.
He doesn't look. He's out into the cold and the wind is at him and it's
*snowing* and he hates the fucking midwest. But the truck starts first time,
miracle he hadn't even asked for, and he's free. Out of that parking lot and
back onto the highway, and headed anywhere but nowhere special. Anywhere but
Oz says: A naked man never has to worry about pickpockets.
Lindsey says: when you've got nothing, you fight like a bastard to keep it,
'cause nothing's worth fighting for, when it's all you've got.
He's fifty miles away and squinting into the snowstorm, before he admits he
still has Oz' guitar. Propped against his own in the passenger seat, because Oz
always left it in the truck.
He doesn't turn around. He knows Oz won't mind.