|| ronance oneshots from AO3 ||

|| The Ghost Who Walks ||

|| This is written by @Roast_Beef_Flavoured_KoolAid on AO3!! Its probably im my favorite oneshot! ||

|| Angst and fluff ||

~

There's a mystique to the American south. Where so many decades of hate and murder float on the breeze. Bronze eyes of footsoldiers stand tall as a the magnolias erected to strike fears into the paraiahs of skin. Proud men on horses addresses the crowd as equals and his horse sneers at the bodies under it's hooves. Red dirt painted with black blood. Not all men are created equal under the southern sun.

- Nancy Wheeler

"No, I'm not pulling over." Steve whines from the driver's seat. It's too late to stop now. His parents are already going to tear him a new one if he shows up any later than tomorrow and they still have over six hundred miles go. A cup of lukewarm water splashes over him. His hands immediately fly to his hair thankful it's dry. Dustin groans from the passenger seat, "Dude, you almost ate dirt like five times."

"I just need some coffee man. We gotta make it to Miami." Steve rubs his eyes hoping to keep him awake just a little bit longer. Dustin looks afronted, "You need a bed. Pull over at the next exit. There should be a motel."

"I'm not sleeping in a crusty motor inn, asshole." He's about to pass by the exit when Dustin grabs the wheel yanking it towards the dinky road. Regaining control he's pissed that he can't correct it back onto the interstate. The service road ends leaving them to turn onto a bridge leading into a small town. If this kid is going to get them killed he's going to murder the twerp.

Twin Indian Motel breaks through the southern pine greeting them with a neon Native American throwing a tomahawk, classy. A couple dozen cabins form a lasso around the parking lot with the front desk being the biggest building. Steve orders Dustin to stay put while he secures them a room. The owner standing at the desk looks as reputable as the buildings. Where the cabins were covered in chipped cheap paint exposing the decades old wood his hair has pretty much abandoned him. He smells of ancient cigarette smoke and stale beer. Scratching his pot belly he coughs out, "Room's fifteen a night. Got a guest make it twenty and I'll watch."

Slipping him fifteen Steve swallows his disgust. The man leans forward on the counter flashing his yellow tobacco stained teeth he pushes the keys across the beat-up wooden counter. Cabin seven. His gruff voice wishes him a good night. Back out in the courtyard parking lot he spots it tucked into a corner out of sight of the pervy proprietor. He thanks some god without a name and takes the parking space infront of it. "It's got... charm?" Dustin comments unhelpfully.

If it weren't for him they wouldn't be stuck in this dump, but he's too tired to fight it. Dustin runs his fingers along the twisted rotting low metal fence. The kid tries to run his rust laden fingers along Steve's exposed arm. In the nick of time he pulls it away griping about tetanus. Their room looks about as clean as a train station bathroom and Steve believes they wouldn't need a lamp as long as they had a black light. It's decked out from floor to ceiling in faux wood-paneling. Sheets looking older than his parents, furniture from his childhood, and a bathroom that's seen the Mayflower.

This is the night they die. Definitely.

"Just for the night." Steve mutters aloud dropping his bag onto the mattress that plumes out with something that is definitely not smoke. Dustin pulls out a garbage bag from his and lays it out on the bed. It's a one bed room so Steve opts to sleep on the lounge chair tucked in the corner. He tries not to think too hard about the mysterious stain on both sides of the cushion. Listening to the crinkle of Dustin snuggling into the plastic like it were a sleeping bag he falls into sleep.