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Title: Any Road II
Author: Scy
Improv: fur, spill, gender, salted
Pairing: Lindsey/Gambit
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These boys have been sorely abused, in all of the wrong ways. It stands to reason then, that I do not own them
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to 'Any Road,' which is housed at the Improv archive and my own site. Elements from a smaller work have been added to new ideas, and this is the version that I am most pleased with. This story was written to a variety of things, among them: 'The Saint' soundtrack, Vast, believe it or not, Aqua, and Poe.
Dedication: To Lar for 'Due East' and her sorrow at not having enough Lindsey around. Kassie, because when she found out that I was writing the first one, she nearly broke her brain. It was cute. Zahra and Criss, for various whines when it was not easy to write. As well as Rabbit, who agrees that Washington could do with this sort of visitor. And, to anyone else who let me rant about this story.

It had been gusty for several days, and listening to the clang of music and the rumbling seemed to tease the wind up from where it crouched at the the sides of the interstate, waiting for a cue to wail at doors and coat hems.

The first hour in the car had been awkward, a little, the way that neither of them were ready to do something as unwise as let their lives and defensive gaps spill out before a stranger, when the other person was most likely not telling the truth.

Lindsey wasn't a towering figure, by the had all the meticulous layering of tendons that any conditioned creature might, underneath a glossy coat shining with the meat gotten through deviousness, there was a far more canny beast. He saw his passenger glance down at the seam where his wrist met new flesh and absently noted that the scar had faded to a mere violent bruise ringing his arm, as brows rose for a millisecond in curiosity that faded just as rapidly into silent *coolness*. The roads wiggled further toward sea level; and the damp air forced them to cajole more heat from the arthritic heater. He thought it might be the plan of some sort, two southern boys traveling towards Seattle, freezing as each day passed.

But, gradually, each of them began to settle into the idea of a companion next to them, someone that might be able to listen without too much babble. Which was when Lindsey's shoulders unknotted from the cramping that had been in them for a longer while than he would have liked to remember. It was not as though some serious massage therapy wasn't going to be necessary, but things were improving.

The man beside him, breathing and distinctly not trying to talk him into something is acceptable, because he hasn't been around anyone not having motives up their sleeves instead of arms, and he thinks that he might like the fact that this person seems to be wearing gloves that cover his hands, but not his fingers, the little bits of dishonesty that can be forgiven for showing naked digits like that. And the coat is also something that he notices, it appears to be sort of its own identity there, not really flapping, but a bit of billow to it movements over his body. Like a fur covering without the hair. Leather, and personality is possible.

It is plain that Remy smokes, the way that he holds the pen that marks down their route along the thrice-taped map out of the glovebox. Like he knows just the way to balance a fatal addiction with life and make it appear the only way that things should be. Lindsey can appreciate that, tried to do as such himself, and did not so much fail as slip and tumble onto his own desires. But, eventually ,he learned how to sublimate idiotic dreams that would never come true beneath the necessity of breaking free in order to survive and even triumph over the forces that were trying to break him and his spirit.

Lindsey knows that this man is not human, but not a demon, he doesn't think, and if he is demonic, he is the most politely horny creature that Lindsey has had the pleasure of groping with, and he doesn't mind the eyes which are wide and glowing at him in the dark/flashing of a street lamp. He's had love and crushes, and that sick, stupid wanting for Darla, so the need for this man is shocking to him, and for a minute or five, he cannot properly get his mind to agree that this is a different situation than teeth and cords around the neck, or a blade chopping off his hand.

It wasn't as though he had never looked his those of his own gender with speculation way, just that it was a strange way for him to be looking, without having to hide it, really. He might be hiding it, but this new person wasn't sure of his moods yet, hadn't gone through horrendous cases with him, suffered board meetings and all of the other less discussion worthy events that had nearly ended his life. No, this guy just sat next to him in a the truck, switching places when they heeded to go somewhere and occasionally fell asleep while Lindsey was driving.

Which he thought was a kind of honor, because it was obvious to him that Remy didn't just keel over for anyone, and not with someone he didn't trust enough to use as a pillow. That he did a lot, curling up in ways that were so felt that if they'd had a mental health professional around, they might have diagnosed him, but Lindsey didn't care, he just liked the fact that Remy could fall asleep at any time, and that he seemed intent on catching up on all the sleep he ever lost, while in the company of one Southern ex-lawyer.

A special responsibility to be trusted with this man's rest, and he knew that he was getting too maudlin for the situation, but it had been a long time since he was supposed to take care of someone in the non fatal, obstacle removal sense. He liked it. Not becoming a nanny or anything, children were noisy, but this might be something to add to his list of 'what I wouldn't mind doing while driving cross-country to nowhere.' Remy grinned, sharp gleam of teeth, pointed humor, and Lindsey didn't mind the being out of the joke. Most of the time, Remy would mutter in French about things and then bob his head conceding to some argument he had either won or lost.

Lindsey watched, as the Cajun easily insinuated himself wherever there were attractive women, and men, and then made it seem as though he had always been there, would be, and had to be for things to work. That was the best way to describe his suave undulations into groups, at least to Lindsey, and that was when he wasn't admiring the ease with which he got laid.

Now though, he found that he was glad when Remy refused company and came to sit at his table, he didn't want to think about why though, and when Remy smiled, forgetting was remarkably simple. Once in a while, he wondered where Remy had come from, what he did for a living, but he remembered that he didn't really want to talk about his former life, and so he wouldn't ask. He had learned from example.

When he and Remy spoke, the Cajun was unfailingly polite, if vague. It was only when Lindsey pressed on the matter of wishes that he caught a hint of anguish in his companion's past. Normally in high spirits, Remy avoided the inquiry of where he'd most like to be with all the finesse of a harassed senator.

But he knew things, had seen and was more and more interested in the past of his companion. The way that he spoke very off-handedly about foreign countries with the flippancy of someone who had 'been there, salted the earth, nothing more to do,' and it was Lindsey's guess that such a place had been reached in at least a few of his relationships.

From what small insight he had been given, Lindsey concluded that a woman was involved in Gambit's self-imposed exile from home and family, just as the lawyer had his own femme fatale behind him.

Still, pressing too hard about anything would do nothing useful. He gets that this man will dance off with his ghosts, teasing and beautiful, but if there is something given, some trust, he will reciprocate in artful perfection.

It wasn't a conscious sexiness, of that he was absolutely sure, things like rubbing lotion on palms couldn't be planned out as 'if I do this, it'll make everyone unbearably hard and they'll all like me.' No, it was just the way he swirled the raspberry or almond hand cream around because his hands got dry, and he liked the smell and didn't care that guys weren't supposed to smell like fruit, unless they wanted their images to get smooshed. He was smiling to himself, a private joke, and there was a flash of teeth.


The acting is never awarded. In front of friends, for enemies, not showing true emotion because that could weaken, cripple and lead, inevitably, to death painful and long. If not of the body, then the mind. They would love to squat down inside his mind, raking up all of the secrets that he still keeps from them with telekinetic fingers, and smiling those omnipotent *we can do what we want because we are the good guys* smiles that never fail to make him shiver. And then he smiles back, in a very dark humor that is sure to annoy or frighten them just a little. Not enough for a mental probe, but sufficiently making his point. *Stay the fuck outta my head*. They are learning. Not speedily, but that is a fault of their upbringing. For most of them, survival was not contingent on learning quickly. They are unaware of the skills that are really needed to live without the walls that protect and confine them. Even Xavier, with his wonderful mind that can leave his body and go wherever he wishes, is still stuck, in a chair, in a giant house.

And now he is riding in a very decrepit pickup, whose driver seems to have no destination in mind, and is as much a cipher as any of his teammates have ever been. The accent is something of the South, the drawl that is coating the more stiff notes of an education which was obviously considered necessary.

Lindsey doesn't self-promote, which makes him more agreeable with the Cajun's temperament, and they do not often engage in conversation which is not: meandering to a point of some morality, or the discussion of any of the events in the world that they have heard when they stop for gasoline or supplies of the body.

There is a very crisp flex of strength to him. A kind of 'don't push me, or *things* will happen.'

Not that he was a mutant, but no one here really was. There were different creatures to be wary of, though some of their abilities seemed very much like those of 'homo superior.'

A person had to be smarter here or so isolated and lacking in knowledge as to be unnoticeable. Somehow though, Remy thought it was reasonable to assume that Lindsey'd had a bit of experience with monsters, and that in doing so, he'd found some of their nature in himself.

Remy can identify with that alteration, pushing morality around so that it allows for some kind of adaptation over time, making everything work while the mechanism may be somewhat odd to an outside observer. Surviving was the most important thing, that and having a bit of fun.

Letting his head fall back onto the headrest he noticed the care put into the elderly truck, the owner was aware of the age of his vehicle, yet there was enough affection that kept it running and outfitted with new parts whenever they were needed. Such attention to the smallest things, Lindsey must have been something in a suit, and the snort of laughter is more "true" than anything has been in a long time. Then, Lindsey glanced over to see what had roused him out of contemplation, and Remy let his face relax into the deliberate lines of Desire.

And Lindsey smiled back.


He was convinced that it was the sporadic bursts of air from the heater that was what it had to be, all of that hotness melting his brain and all of his good sense was going out his ears. Not attractive, not at all. His shirt was rucked up from twisting around in the night, and he hadn't known that there was so much of that tanned skin to touch and maybe his fingers had to do some more exploring, independent of good manners.

Without saying it the message is delivered, and Lindsey likes this commentary through fingers and deep, strange eyes. An aspect of fun to this man, the kind of wanting to do things which are crazy and illegal, but worth it in more than just acquiring wealth, but the 'I did that, and well too,' attitude that Lindsey is wanting lately. He left his job, the trap that it was, and he needs to have something more interesting and challenging to keep his mind several steps ahead of his sometimes bumbling feet.

The careful way that Remy leaned in to taste Lindsey's mouth led the ex-lawyer to believe that the Cajun was at the very *least*, very well-taught in the physical dances of seduction and pleasure. Enough that a mere brush of stubble and lips had Lindsey seriously questioning the wisdom of postponing further contact of their bodies. But he had to drive, there was the proper lane of the highway, a bit off to the right, and Remy didn't seem bothered enough by the gear shift being an obstacle to his goal, and contented himself with teasing rubs of his fingers over Lindsey's neck, and under the collar of his jacket.

He wasn't sure why he wasn't scared of this man, who clearly was not altogether human, and had secrets too many to even begin to contemplate. Maybe it was because he had gotten used to the way that everyone hid what they really were in Los Angeles, and that this man was a pretty diversion if not a fellow wanderer, trying to get away from what had made him who he was. Too much in common, dangerous to get so easily comfortable so soon, but Lindsey found that he didn't want to stand back and be cautious, that he was enjoying the thrill of ignorance about blood type and club membership, and salary. It made this all more real and special, an interlude that might be short or long, depending on what was ordained, and that he could remember when he was alone again.

Another whisk of roughness over his face convinced Lindsey that driving was not only hazardous to his health, but a poor substitute for the chance to have some interaction with someone who was not after his life, but rather his body, in a very naked sense that he agrees with.

Moves towards Remy, and gets to rub his face in the hollow of the other man's shoulder, a 'getting to know you' bit.

And he thinks that he is steadily becoming anti-buttons, or clothing, because all of that prevent him from getting at that body, and tasting it in its entirety. Maybe he was having a conversation with his jeans because he hadn't looked up from the denim in nearly five minutes. No, it wasn't his denim that was holding his gaze, but that on Lindsey, and several neat, patently impossible manipulations of body and cloth had them both divested of their pants. Then, Lindsey was able to get his taste of that body.

Remy smells like stew yet not, just the spices and a cologne that isn't store-bought, but that must come from his sweat, because no matter how Lindsey tongues the crease of elbow and the seal of bent limbs, he cannot find any seam to the scent's distribution. Made for him by him, a pheromone thing, maybe? But he draws them easily without tricks. So just a part of him

Cannot fathom how skin can be so soft with that muscle underneath, and Lindsey wants only to *touch* all of it, under the coat and soft shirt, and hope that there is a return in there somewhere.

Wants the intelligence that floats in those eyes, the below bright lights living that they are both so good at, and that Lindsey has missed. Has longed for the ease of not having to pose in front of endless ranks of officials, and then be sent back to the office to do even more work all over again. Yes, and Remy understands that. 'How' is difficult to pry out of him, vague mumbles as he unbuttons the flannel and rolls sleeves up away from forearms that have been tanned by artificial bulbs and that are only now returning to the natural baked tone that he misses.

Sheer luck to find an expanse of road that wasn't lit by highway patrols and the lights of humans, but when Lindsey pulled over, Remy practically yanked him over the gear shift and onto his lap. Very talented; dart of tongue under his chin, sampling the moisture there, running it around his mouth, and Lindsey has to kiss that satisfaction.

Glad that no one here is female and even slightly blond. That hate again, and Remy, sensing it somehow, eases Lindsey down to press against his groin, a soothing grind that should be more aggressive but now serves to pull him out of wherever Darla has thrown his desire.

"Real bitch, eh?"

Softer voice than before, and he likes the curling nuances of words and tone.


The vulnerability of being only human has been translated into 'Oohh boy, and yes, again', and he doesn't think that being the softer one matters so much anymore, just the fact that he is being touched so cleverly with fingers that have intelligence in their contact with his body is enough to convince him that his species doesn't matter, he is not weak, but new and to be explored. Cherished possibly, likely definitely, and he has absolutely no problem with any of that, except he wants some ice cream in the near future, and that sounds very good.

Staring down at his ribs, which are showing more than they did when he had a career and rules and was reminded on a more than daily basis that he was Owned. He sort of likes the honesty of not eating enough, working to make sure that the skin is tight, but he is fit too, which makes up for the way his ribs are shiny under his skin.

This new one doesn't seem particularly bothered by the fact that Lindsey is thin, he himself is rather lean, and Lindsey is trying to avoid the very obviously overused 'greyhound cliche', but it fits and he grins, mentally picturing a canine in place of this man, and when the coloring is all wrong, maybe a wolf/dog cross would be more correct.

The man is not telepathic, which is a nice change from some of the people he has known and does not react when Lindsey snickers inside his head, only when he feels more than a trifle nervous do large hands, without the 'going to hurt you if you don't do what is right' vibe coming from them prod at his shoulder in a movement of checking up on him. That is good too, and when those hands examine him, he allows it, and doesn't do much besides. Enjoy, maybe hum something Dylan-esque under his breath, he likes Bob, and wishes that he'd replaced his tape of 'Blond On Blond', it got eaten by his truck, which was jealous that he was singing and not paying attention to the way that the engine was laboring.

Remy is very male, but a different sort of *edible* than Angel. The vampire was Power and Threat, and Justice Or Maybe Not, whereas Remy was lines of skin and muscle that were not gentle, but didn't have the danger that Angel had just by wearing a coat or standing up straight. And he likes being around Remy, the man is warm, heat and emotion that he thinks leaks off him in sloppy comfort. Unable to explain how that is possible, but it is welcome this far North, up in places where wind and rain make it colder than he could have anticipated.

He dislikes the urge that has been present inside his mind, instructing him in the Art of Brooding, or 'How To Make Yourself Miserable, And Finish Off The Schemes Of Everyone Else. Though, here, there is no interest in being depressed, and the second time that his thoughts turn to Los Angeles, and in the middle of a good turn, or roll in Fortune, there is a sense of *disapproval and concern*. He knows what it feels like to have someone in his mind, and understands that what he feels is not his own consciousness, and that wakes him out of the wallow he'd been in.

*warm, comfort, nice, softness*

Definitely not what he thinks when he is lying tangled with someone in his truck, his thoughts are more along the path of-

*Ouch, what the hell is that? Need to adjust the seats again, not enough room, well, that was nice*

Part of being part of the wonderfully structured family of Wolfram and Hart was the training, being able to recognize the traps of one's adversaries and avoiding them. Whatever their nature and origin. However; there was most certainly not enough information on the appeal of having a life disassembled by vampires, starting from the outer form inwards to the spirit. Lindsey makes a mental memo to send something along those lines back to Los Angeles. Might keep the rest of that bunch from getting consumed by Angel. But, then again, he'll just discard that idea.

So he knows about all manner of bonds, tests, and whatever psychic probes can exist, at least from his part of the world. And there is something very blunt about this putting forth of emotion, and he knows what it is.

Realizes that this connection does not lie, does not have the capacity for deception, any misdirection will be avoided, that even if mouth does not speak, the feelings will tell him what is going on. Not words, not mind-reading, but more like reading auras and feelings. Wow. How adolescent of him. Lets his shields, the ones that he has built around himself as a method of keeping alive and sane while in the fortress of Wolfram and Hart slide downwards as slowly as if he were in a car and wanted to unfog the windows, but wasn't sure how damp it was outside.

Remy doesn't respond at first, watching him with eyes that gleam.

Not a demon, but not like him. Blessed relaxation, he doesn't have to pretend to like or act as though he is impressed. A weight is gone, and he can feel himself again. Without having to worry about having his brain sucked out through his ears or something of the like. Don't have to touch to feel, but he is beginning to like the way that Remy's fingers feel on his new wrist, tracing the scar, nuzzling at his nape, whiff of air on his cheek, and a laugh that is raspy and very, very honestly amused at his wonder. He is not the only one who hides.

Glad that he is so ordinary, a hardy breed of human, not overly gifted, but intelligent, and that gives him an advantage that most of the higher-ups never consider. He can go places that they are not allowed, because of commitments with devils, but he knows so many things, and is still free. Of them, he got out before the worst things happened, funny that losing his hand was not one of the most horrible possibilities. Failure was torture absolute. A possibility for the future that doesn't want to rip his throat out, but who will give him a taste of clenching muscles and life, without tossing him out of bed later.

Yes, someone who is mildly annoyed that his mind has gone off on its own again, and he gets knocked over, head missing the door handle by millimeters, and then Remy is above him, shirt gone like a magician's trick, and then Lindsey's too. Just their underwear keeping bodies from total contact.

Remy has these long, impossibly wired legs, and his back, counting vertebrae, there seem to be more connections of flesh than a normal person has, and Lindsey contemplates how flexible this man must be.

A grin in his direction confirms those lascivious imaginings. Oops, and then not, because Remy doesn't mind, he understands, and would be more than pleased to demonstrate for an appreciative audience.

With little space and a wanting shared, there seemed no opportunity for anything overly fancy, just Remy lowering himself onto Lindsey, and the two of them pulling as close as they could.

This close, there were no images of vampires when his mind lurched awake, no cool flesh, soft, but so toughened, and no scent of blood on the air that *whiffs* over his cheeks before Remy lowers his head and makes a very concentrated assault on his collarbone. Not so rigid, this one, will allow Lindsey to tumble them over, so that the ex-lawyer is more in control, and as he has sorely lacked such, it seems to be what he needs. If there is skin on skin, Remy is pleased, and only wriggles in a way that ought to be the most ridiculous action, but which is actually a calculated slide across Lindsey's cock, and his boxers need to be somewhere other than on his body.

Rain outside is just another fact of where he is, as opposed to 'was,' and he has figured out that moving the tiniest distance away from Remy will allow him to remove the constricting garment preventing him from having a lovely time of things. Beneath him, Remy does roughly the same, and the pairs of boxers land on the floor with a very soft *fwump*.

They get caught in a kiss, both not voicing the thought of how *good* it is to be able to do so without being killed, or rebuffed, whichever is the worse. Then, Remy's hand finds Lindsey's cock, and closes around the hard length with an authority that has Lindsey's hips jerking forwards instinctively. With his new hand, he reaches down to reciprocate, and they discover a rhythm of stroking and pressing against one another that soon has them trembling on the edge of climax. Remy pulls one hand free, still maintaining the pattern they've established and reaches between Lindsey's legs, fingers unerringly finding the small hole. One digit teases at it, and then, as it slips inside, Lindsey cries out in release. The especially intense movement on his cock sent Remy over as well, and they lay together, sticky and gasping for breath.

Remy is nearly asleep when Lindsey gets enough mental coherence to reach behind the seat and grab the blanket that is there. He drapes it over the two of them and then closes his eyes.


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