between sound and silence.

.note — I feel as if some context is necessary to understand how this story works (I say this as if I know what I'm doing, lol). It's meant to be a *very slight* AU in which everything from the canon story still happens, but with minor changes such as Zack being able to drive (sort of) and the amount of time Zack and Rachel were separated before Zack rescues her from the rehab facility is significantly shorter.

Also as an aside, this story is nonlinear.

「distance gapes as wide as a wound.」

「— tuesday : 3 a.m. 」

It isn't until the dark and delicate hour of 3 A.M. that Zack gets sick of the silence and flips the car radio on. He usually doesn't last this long —an hour and forty-seven minutes— in the absence of sound. He's a creature of agitated nerves, always in need of someone and something to remind him that he's alive and the godforsaken world is still spinning. But that world is unusual tonight. Typically there are lousy drivers for him to curse at and long-lingering red lights for him to complain about. He feels more tense than usual as he oozes the car into the fast lane, irritatedly tapping the wheel with his index finger.

Rachel, on the other hand, has her own duties to attend to. She rides in the passenger's seat wearing a slumberless expression and her favorite white sundress. A roadmap spills out in her lap, but she hasn't had to consult it ever since they reached the highway. Her role in all of this is, primarily, navigator, and secondarily, treasurer, and tertiarily, complaint-listener. The third usually equates to not much more than nodding softly when Zack points out what he calls a 'piss-shit driver'. About 20% of those 'piss-shit drivers' are those who hold up traffic with texting. Rachel herself doesn't particularly care for cellphones. She carries one in the black pouch nestled on the side of her seat, but never reaches for it unless absolutely necessary. On these long drives when the road speeds by like a heart beat and the city lights melt in technicolor, she relishes the natural, the quiet, and the beautiful. The harsh light of an artificial screen hurts her already-tired eyes.

She peers out of her window, taking note of the exits they're passing and the truck stop up ahead.

This is their fourth straight hour on the road. Their fourth out of a cumulative seven. How many total hours their trip will add up to, she hasn't a clue. Everything about their journey is slapdash, starting as little more than Zack barging over to her before noon, tossing her a stolen wallet and telling her to pack a bag. "We're going on a road trip."

She obeyed, simply because she had no reason to refuse.

There was no way to have predicted the change in weather they'd face as the distance between them and where they've come from gapes wider. Eighty-seven miles per hour brings out an uncharacteristic cold to the summer air, but Rachel keeps the window rolled down because she knows Zack can't handle the stuffiness.

The song on the radio is lawless— scruffy guitar riffs and a jumble of cymbals and drums. Not her kind of music, but certainly something that would keep her awake if she needed it. She wonders if Zack's tired, too. He doesn't seem the type who'd enjoy long drives and cookie-cutter stretches of scenery. Admittedly, she hadn't actually believed him when he said they were going on a road trip. But if there was anything she had discovered, it was that he was predictably unpredictable, and there were always going to be times when he overturned her expectations.

"Ray."

She glances over, but he's watching the road.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"Say something, then," he growls, jamming a few buttons and turning the dial under the radio. Something shifts and the vents in front of the passenger's seat slowly leak warmth. He glances across for a split second before rolling up the window on her side until it's only a crack. "Don't tell me you only packed that sundress."

"I have other clothes, too."

He clicks his tongue and turns away— gestures that suggest his restlessness. Her gaze dwindles to the hand gripping the steering wheel and the finger that continues tapping at the leather with increasing speed. His body is rigid like a bottle closed up tightly and his eyes fizzle coldly as he stares down enemies only he can see.

"Zack, are you hungry? There's a diner up ahead. Exit 240."

"You wanna go?"

"If you want to."

She doesn't expect him to swerve. To flick on his blinker for mere seconds before careening across two lanes with such reckless speed that her shoulder blade strikes the door with a emthud/em. She glances over again, but Zack grits out nothing more than, "Exit 240, right? I need to get into that lane."

Rachel doesn't advise him on driving, mostly because she knows it nettles him. Besides, he isn't a lousy driver by any stretch. His awareness is meticulous and his agility is incomparable. He handles the car as deftly as he does a blade, maneuvering in and out of lanes whenever he identifies a faster course through traffic. Of course, all is not forgiven when it comes to his flippancy towards speed limits. Zack considers them gentle suggestions, optional and fully able to be ignored if he doesn't find them agreeable (he never does). He's received a few parking tickets (which have found new use as gum wrappers and paper airplanes) because of said levity. He's also prone to road rage and will actively roll down his window to shout profanities at whomever made the mistake of cutting him off or whipping out their cellphone in front of him. Rachel isn't sure how they haven't been pulled over and the fact that Zack doesn't actually have a license hasn't been discovered.

Within the next fifteen minutes they bumble into a parking lot dotted with rain puddles. Turquoise and hot pink neon lights from the establishment's obnoxious store front reflect in each little pool. The sign on the building that reads "open 24 hrs" flickers between life and death at uneven intervals. It's an odd building (gaudy decorations thrown over an ugly underbelly), and the cobwebbed light fixtures and fractured railings hint at the establishment's age and how much care it's been given in recent years.

Rachel slides out of her seat and follows behind Zack to the front entrance. They both duck inside to the smells of charbroiled meats and stale alcohol. A few stragglers hang around, the societal dregs of the night, attempting to finish off the last of their wine as they stumble blearily through the hours. There's light music and even lighter chatter, though no one offers so much as a greeting as the two find a booth in the back near the restrooms.

Aside from a gash in the gray wallpaper and a tiny flip-top trashcan that's been all but forgotten since the lunch crowd left, the restaurant seems mostly clean and kept.

Zack unceremoniously flops down on the cushiony red seating and leans his head back so it rests against the wall behind him. A heavy sigh escapes him, but no words follow.

With more grace than Zack could ever hope to show, Rachel slides into her side of the booth and takes up one of the menus that rests on the table. The laminated paper smells strongly of French fries and other generously greasy offerings, but because she isn't quite starving, she turns her attention to the menu's lighter fare.

She scans through the bubbly lettering for a moment before remembering something quite crucial. Her eyes flitter across the table as she reaches over for Zack's menu as well.

"Zack, are you deciding yet? I'll read it to you."

"Huh? Doesn't it have pictures?"

"Only for a few items."

Zack peels his body from the couch, almost reluctantly, and grasps the menu. He stares at it for several seconds, a blank expression crossing his face before he looks over at Rachel.

"Read it."

As she reads through each item, it occurs to her that she doesn't know even the fundamentals about her traveling companion. The little insignificant bits of data that make up Zack Foster are lost to her. Favorite color, favorite music, favorite food. The realization has nagged at her before, and at times, she's even told him, "I want to know more about you." Every time she asks, he regards her with pensive silence as if he's trying to discover what she's up to, as if he's surprised he could take up a corner of anyone's thoughts. Nevertheless, he's never denied her an answer, and for that she's both relieved and grateful.

"What would you like to eat?" As the words leave her, she pictures his old room. Snack foods and soda bottles scattered across the floor. He's survived for so long on a diet of excess salt and refined sugars, bereft of vital nutrients and vitamins. This is probably his first real meal in a long time.

"That last one you read sounds good."

She lifts her finger from the menu to see the item he's referring to is shepherd's pie. An odd offering for a diner, but it sounded appetizing if not a bit heavy.

"And you?" he asks, pinching at a straw wrapper.

"I want to try the broccoli cheese soup."

"You're just getting soup?" his expression flickers somewhere between annoyance and incredulity before turning disdainful. "You're already thin as a blade."

"It's okay, I'm not very hungry."

At that moment a waiter wanders over. He's a portly man whose dress shirt is having a hell of a time staying buttoned against his girth. His oily brown hair, the other notable feature about him, is clipped in a peculiar bowl cut that seems to have a life of its own, bobbing up in down with him as he strides to their table overenthusiastically.

He poises a tiny notepad in his hands and a megawatt smile on his face. "Hey there, folks. What'll it be?"

"I can emhear/em his shitty haircut," Zack grumbles, only for Rachel to prod him ever-so-gently. She knows that the waiter's beaming face is agitating him, but killing him would be entirely unnecessary and probably impossible even with so few people around.

Rachel decides to order for the both of them, leaving Zack to prop his chin on his palm and turn towards the window in vexed silence. He doesn't speak up again until the waiter asks them about drinks, to which Zack immediately demands his third coke of the day. Rachel advises him to go for water instead, and although he tells her to shut up, he grumpily changes his order to water anyway.

The waiter chirps affirmatively before leaving with their scribbled orders clutched in his hand.

Silence pools between them, as it normally does. The diner's music has changed from something classical and rich with violins to velvety smooth jazz. In spite of the relaxing music, tension still grips the night. Zack remains rattled on his side of the booth: tapping his finger against the edge of an empty dish, fidgeting his leg underneath the table, and glancing about at their surroundings. He's always been hypersensitive, but even the smallest semblance of calm he normally exhibits seems to be fraying.

"Zack, are you okay?"

He offers a noncommittal "yeah."

She peers beneath the table where his other hand is and notices he's gripping the car keys tightly.

Ever since she had met him on B6, he's been brazen, inexhaustible, and always forward-moving. How many times had he told her, repeating it like a mantra, "let's go," whenever those golden elevators opened to reveal a new floor of risks and hazards. He didn't like being tethered to one place, lingering among the same scenery. Movement meant change.

She doesn't know how he got his hands on those keys, who he might've ambushed and stolen them from, but she can imagine that once the idea to do so entered his mind, he chased it down desperately. A car can travel so much faster and so much farther than his legs could ever carry him, so once the opportunity to leave the same scenery of desolate alleyways and broken streets appeared before him, he took it.

Ever since he got those car keys he's never let them go, gripping them as if they were an answered prayer.

As she watches him stare down at his hands across the booth, Rachel knows that their journey is without physical destination. He'll drive as many miles as it takes to get there. He'll make as many stops as he needs to until he finds it.

In the diner, at the dark and delicate hour of 3 A.M., it occurs to Rachel that Zack is searching for healing.