Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and I don't make any money off of them.

A/N: Thanks as always to ritt, the world's best beta and sounding board! And thanks to ritt and Z who were with me when this little ficlet was conceived.

Traffic in Los Angeles was notorious for always being backed up, moving at a snail's pace when it was actually moving. The one exception being on the weekends when the flow was marginally better. However, this particular Saturday morning was looking like a Monday morning rush hour nightmare due to an accident further up Highway 101. Most motorists sat in their cars impatiently flipping radio stations or scrolling through their iPod selections as their frustration grew. There was one exception – a figure clad in black, sitting patiently on his motorcycle as he scanned the highway-turned-parking lot before him. Finding the vehicle he'd been searching for, a smile formed on his face and he glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was clear for him to split traffic. Confirming that there were no other bikes headed in his direction the driver eased from his lane and started off at a leisurely pace.

The broken white lines passed beneath his tires as if to point the way to his target. He grew closer to the small blue car and its lone occupant – a young, curly-haired man who was perusing a notebook as he waited for the road to clear. The rider eased back into the middle lane, keeping only two cars between himself and the target.

Now, he though with a smile, it's only a matter of time. He cranked the volume up on his iPod, invisible to passers-by due to the black, tinted helmet he wore. A grin lit up his concealed face as an oldie but goodie – and incredibly appropriate song – sounded through his earbuds. The man found himself humming along to the lyrics of "Highway to the Danger Zone" as traffic began to move again. Once it had reached fifty-five miles-per-hour, the motorcyclist eased out of his lane, revving his engine and preparing to approach his target. Taking a deep breath and suppressing a peal of laughter, he cranked his bike up to seventy and blew past the small blue car, close enough to hear the surprised curse of its occupant as curls blew into his face from the rush of air of the speeding bike. Once he was several hundred yards ahead of his victim, the rider took an exit ramp and disappeared into the streets of Los Angeles.


"What's wrong?" Don asked as his younger brother stormed into the restaurant where they had agreed to meet for dinner.

"It happened again today!"

Don waved a hand at Charlie. "Calm down, Buddy. What happened again?"

Taking a deep breath, Charlie managed to lower his voice. "Remember the motorcycle guy I was telling you about last weekend?"

"The one you claim buzzes you in traffic?"

"It's not a claim – he does buzz past me," the young man corrected as his eyes blazed with anger.

"Sorry, sorry," Don apologized. "I didn't mean to imply that I didn't believe you."

"No, I'm sorry. I just… it's really frustrating. This is the third weekend in a row that he's done it and it scares me to death every time."

Don's face grew concerned. "Do you feel like he's endangering you or others?"

Charlie thought for a minute before reluctantly shaking his head. "No. No, I guess he really doesn't. He doesn't seem to go too much faster than the flow of traffic, but…"

"You're never expecting it?"

"Yeah." He sat at the table and reached for a menu. "I looked at his license plate this time."

"Oh yeah?"

Charlie scowled. "He was going to fast for me to get all the numbers but I did get part of it." He smiled hopefully at his brother.

"Ah, wait a minute… Charlie, you know I can't use government resources just to track down someone who is irritating you on the road. I mean, you said it yourself – he's not a danger to you or others, right?"

"Right," he sighed.

"Besides, what exactly would you do with that knowledge? Revenge?"

Charlie blushed and shrugged. "I hadn't really thought of that yet. Just knowing who was doing it would be a start."

"Just let it go, Buddy. Eventually he'll get tired of doing this to you. But if you look him up, you'll just reinforce his actions by reacting to them."

"I suppose."

"Tell you what," Don suggested with a smile. "Dinner's on me tonight, okay?"

"You don't have to."

"I want to," Don insisted. Besides, he silently added with a smile, fondly thinking of the three-week-old motorcycle he kept hidden in a garage just outside of the city. It's the least I can do.

The End