Title: (And I Would Drive) Onto the End With You

Notes: Title from ‘Demolition Lovers’, by My Chemical Romance. The lyrics in the title do not belong to me.

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Driving down the highway, silver road stretched out before him like a lover. Window down, radio cranked and singing along at the top of his lungs, Adam's never felt more alone.

Wind buffeting his face hard, rippling his hair and making his eyes water. He's alone but not really. The voices are keeping him company. And when he hears a familiar song come over the radio, bringing back memories of summer and brown eyes and sunlight, he snaps it off abruptly, breaking the knob without even noticing. He turns his headlights off and presses the accelerator down all the way.

He doesn't need to worry about dying.

He's already dead.

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Officer Jones is already cranky, and having to stay late to do paperwork just makes it worse. So when he sees a battered old car speeding by on the highway, he scowls.

That asshole could kill someone.

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Jones doesn't like this. The guy’s pulled over already, waiting for him. It could be the siren, and lights that clued him in, but there's just something about this guy that makes him uneasy.

He doesn't seem drunk, he's polite and precise, and when he steps out of the battered old car to greet the cop, Jones feels a wet warmth trickling down between his thighs, and he realizes he's wet himself. The guy leans in, smile white and shining and sharp, and Jones is shaking and moaning.

'Listen, mister, I got a wife and two kids waiting for me at home, so please-'

The man's teeth are even sharper than they look.

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When Patrick picks up the paper and his face turns white, Chris looks at John. They both know the same thing -- another cop was found dead, drained and laying by the side of the highway (at least he has the decency to move them), Chris thinks, but seconds later he thinks Adam has no decency at all, because he sees Patrick carefully snipping out the article and folding it so that the brazen title (48 inch Times New Roman) is visible.

Chris knows that this clipping will join all of the other clipping, in a battered shoebox carefully concealed under Patrick’s bed. He knows that this clipping will rest nestled on top of all the other clippings and battered notebooks and Adam’s partially crushed cell phone.

Chris thinks Adam has no decency. But sometimes he thinks he must, because Adam left before it wasn’t just anonymous policeman dead, before he killed Patrick and Chris and John.

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Adam’s got his highbeams turned on, both to warn and beckon. He’s not paying attention to the road, but rather, to the sunset. It’s dark eonough out that it doesn’t burn, and when he clambers out of the car to sit on the hood that’s pointing north, he’s scared. It’s pointing north, towards Chicago and Patrick and everything he loves.

Last night he dreamed, and he dreamed of open, welcoming arms and warm, brown eyes and a wide smile and a smooth, firm neck.

And he’s afraid.

He’s shivering, and it’s either from his lack of blood or from his thoughts, and he can’t really tell the difference and that scares him.

The sun’s sinking slowly like Adam’s heart, throwing brilliant displays of color up over the sky, but all Adam can see is red.