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Our trip began in the darkness. The orange street light glow of LA giving way to the gentler clear skies and stars of the countryside. Mile after mile of asphalt disappear as we head East. Headed away from our problems. The radio whispers to us, sometimes music, sometimes talk. A soothing companion for the miles ahead. For the moment, Lynard Skynard croons /Sweet Home Alabama/. I wonder where a sweet home is. Is it in Alabama? Or is it elsewhere? Perhaps it's in the arms of the one you love?

Slash sleeps in the passenger seat beside me. His dreams are obviously plagued with the horrors he's seen as he twitches and moans, tiny flinches and pathetic cries. We may be leaving the house of horrors behind but the events of the past few months will plague him forever.

On and on, the wheels forever turning. Forever moving. Forever running.

~~~~

I'm dozing, not really sleeping, unable to chase away the thoughts that circle my mind like hungry hawks. How will I ever forget the death of my mother? How will I ever forget waking up to the enemy raping me? I wonder how Izzy thinks running is going to solve this. Axl's in the hospital, probably paralysed, but it won't stop him. The guy's an unstoppable machine, a machine that will no doubt find us wherever we land.

"We'll revert back to our normal names," Izzy's husky drawl whispers.

I must have spoken out loud and I open an eye to look at him. His face is in shadow, the only light coming from a cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth. The breeze from a cracked open window curls the hair that lies in his neck. He doesn't look at me as he speaks, instead keeping his eyes on the road. Have I become a burden to him? An unmovable burden that he has to move from place to place for the rest of his life?

"B-But..." I whisper. "He knows your name."

A single nod is all I get as smoke seeps from his nostrils. He looks like a dragon, eyes lit with the fires of anger as the smoke curls from his angular nose.

"I'll go under another name," he quietly replies, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. "But he doesn't know yours. Well, I don't think he does."

I nod, curling tighter as I rest my head against the seat. I can hear the road moving beneath us, the chackunk-chackunk-chackunk of the wheels hitting the uneven parts. We really are moving, really are going.

"I need to pee," I nervously whisper, not wanting to break Izzy's concentration.

He's changed so much recently, so fuckin' much. All of a sudden, it seems like I've taken on the submissive role in our relationship. I'm now the one who takes the orders and listens intently. That's if we even still have a relationship.

The car begins to pull through the late night traffic. There doesn't appear to be a lot; apparently not many other people have the same idea as we do. I wonder where the other cars on the freeway are heading? Are they running from abusive partners? Maybe they're running from the law? My mind spins as I make up a tale for each tail-light that disappears in front of us. The Nevada plate is running from the Feds, some kind of drug deal gone wrong in which several people died and he's got to take the rap for it. Hell, he's driving like his life depends on it. The Oregon plate is driving a little slower. The driver is probably crying over some broken relationship. She found her husband in bed not with a younger woman, but with a younger man. A real younger man, young enough to be lower in age than their teenage son. So she's called the cops and now she's making a run for it with their son. Just to be safe. The Wyoming plate, well, I'm not sure why they're out at this time of night. Maybe they are on a drug deal? I wonder where they're going? Maybe they're from the government, off to look at some strange story of UFO's and ghosts and other strange things that some unhinged member of society has cooked up. But is there anyone more unhinged than us? Those that let a killer and a rapist live in their basement? The one that caused me to take drugs and force my lover to the streets to make money for my recovery?

I sigh as I look at Izzy, my eyes heavy. I don't know if he's forgiven me for putting him on the street. I'll make it up to him, really I will.

The car coasts to a stop and Izzy shuts off the engine. I squirm a little as I pull myself from my curled up position. My muscles ache as I open the door, pretty much throwing myself to the ground. Groaning, I get to my hands and knees and begin to fight with my zipper. Kneeling up, I carry on struggling with it, tears beginning to well up in my eyes. I don't want to wet myself, don't want it to be the last indignation of the failure that I've become.

Suddenly arms go around me and fingers easily undo the zip. Tilting my head back, I find Izzy holding onto me. The eyes that were previously filled with the dead look of the hunted are now soft, caring almost.

He strokes the hair from my face as he gently kisses my cheek, and whispers, "You can go now."

Almost crying in relief, I do, my eyes locked onto Izzy's. His recently hard face is now relaxed, his fingers still gently stroking my hair as his other hand aims my cock away from my pants. I could find this situation sexual, but I don't. It's just another nice thing that this man has done for me. He could have left me kicked against the curb weeks ago, but he hasn't. He's been loyal and caring. He's given up his dignity to see me on the road to recovery. And now, hopefully, we're on that last stretch of road.

Kneeling there in the dirt of the road, I carry on looking at him long after I've finished peeing. I hope that my eyes convey exactly how I feel for him: love, adoration, deep-seated feelings I never thought I'd have. This man has made such an impact on my life that I could never leave him behind. Ever.

His forehead rests against my temple and I can hear him whispering in my ear, his arms tightening around me.

"I love you..." he whispers, the barriers he's built over the last few weeks obviously beginning to fall. "I'll never leave..."

The tears that have been hanging on my eyelashes begin to fall, washing away the fears that had tightened my body to the point of breaking.

Turning, I wrap my arms around and press my lips against his. I can feel him shaking beneath my fingers, pitifully trying to hold back his own tears. Running a hand into his hair, I kiss him harder, encouraging him to let out the emotion of the last weeks.

Suddenly it all comes at once; tears and sobs. Rough kisses as we cling to each other, whispered apologies breathed into the other's mouth. Our bodies give up and we collapse to the the gravelly ground, our arms around each other the only thing that's holding us up as we make out and cry. Tongues touch against each other, sending healing shivers of pleasure through us. There's no shame as we sit and cry, legs and arms tangled around bodies. Any inhibitions that had come back have now dissolved into nothing. This is what we needed: something to give us a push. Something to send us on our way. Something to crush the fears that we were using and abusing each other in the way that Axl had done. Not just to Izzy but to me as well.

Eventually, Izzy pulled away, eyes forever dark, his chest rising and falling as he pants. He tugs on my hair and gives me another tiny kiss.

"We need to get goin'," he whispers.

"Where to?" I ask quietly.

His lips twist into a smile and I catch a sparkle dancing through his eyes. "New Orleans."