Third Valentine Request Ficlet - Going Faster Miles an Hour
For memlu, Going Faster Miles an Hour, Trigun, Wolfwood and Milly, 1,020 words.
Um, Happy Valentine's Day? Only a month and a half late.
"How’s about we go over this again, big girl. Why’d you come into that store?"
Milly has to lean forward so she can shout in his ear over the deafening wind, as the bike zips along the highway. He growls a bit when her helmet knocks against his, but she leaves it settled there and shouts.
"I was going to buy a set of pearls for my big sister. It’s her 21st birthday next week, and it’s her Golden Birthday - you know, she’s turning 21 on the 21st and - "
"That's not what I meant!" His head whips back unconsciously, putting her balance into questionable territory. Her fingers sink tighter into the leather jacket over his stomach in response.
"Why did you go into that store with all those cops out front?"
"Oh! Well, I saw you through the window and I thought, 'You don't point guns at a priest! That's no way to treat a man of God!"
"You didn't think it at all odd that the police were threatening a priest inside a jewelry store?"
"Should I have?"
"Considering the 'priest' was robbing said jewelry store, definitely. But ya know what they say about hindsight."
"My daddy always said that focusing on it too long was a good way to get yourself slapped, but I never quite understood what he meant."
He laughs loud and full. He is much more pleasant when laughing, she decides, but that's probably true of anybody.
"You're all right. I like funny girls. But, okay, you charged into the shop because you're a good little Catholic girl, but what were you doing with the gun?"
"My big brother - the one who's seven years older than me, not the one that's five or two years older, or ten, he's the second oldest boy, fifth oldest overall - he makes me carry it when I go into town. He always says," her voice shifts into a mock baritone, "'Girl like you needs protection with all these people around; town's a dangerous place.'"
Milly feels a strange surge of pride when he laughs again.
"No offense, but I think the town requires protection from a girl like you if you're walking 'round armed like that."
By now Milly's head is swimming, not only with the thought that he's right, someone did need protecting from her, but its combination with the cloud of smoke that surrounds this man. No one in her family smokes - a rarity these days - and his hair and jacket are drenched in the smell, and the white nub hanging from his lips ensures the scent doesn't escape with the wind. She leans back, hands still planted on his hips, and marvels at how different the cornfields look from a motorcycle - the stalks she's used to seeing from her bedroom window blend into a single stream of yellow.
They stop for gas when they're half an hour away from Wichita, and she almost falls on her butt when her legs turn to rubber beneath her.
He grabs her arm and starts talking about seaweed or sea legs or something but she's just wondering how he manages to smirk like that and never lose his cigarette.
They lean against the white brick of the station while an attendant fills up the bike's tank.
"Mr. Priest," she asks, "why were you robbing that store?"
He quickly clamps a hand over her mouth and looks directly into her eyes as he speaks softly.
"One, we don't talk about these things with law-abiding citizens so close by. Two, I'm not a priest. I thought you figured that out sometime around when we muscled our way out of the store and dumped that get-up, collar and all, in the dumpster."
He removes his hand from her lips, and his eyes wait to gauge her reaction.
"Oh! I did think that was strange, but I just thought you must have had your reasons, like maybe, God told you to, so you could feed starving orphans or take his message to people in Africa."
"Is that why you're so calm about all this? You think we're on some journey to help out orphaned Africans? Sorry to disappoint you, but you're just on the road with a common crook. No holy men here."
She stared into his cool blue eyes and stated in her firmest voice, "You're going to hell."
"Well, just as long as it ain't jail."
He relaxes against the wall again, and the silence is only broken by his smoke exhalations and the clattering as the attendant replaces the gas pump. Money changes hands, and the last words spoken echo in Milly's ears.
Jail. Is she going to jail? The gun had shot off by accident, but the only people who know that are this man and herself. And if he calls himself a common crook, chances are high his words aren't worth much of anything to anyone. She knows that crying won't do her much good, but it feels like the only thing she can do right now.
"Ya coming, big girl?"
The smile he greets her with is kind, and she knows that this man is good, even if his job isn't.
"Where are we going?"
"As I see it, my bike is a beautiful ride, and I will miss her so, but she's just not practical for two people. Plus, I just slipped the gas jockey 50 bucks, as he happened to mention the radio saying something about a couple and a bike roughly matching our description. But, not to fear," he adds at Milly's gasp of fear, "I happen to know someone nearby who owes me a favor. So I think we'll be able to find a vehicle with the proper number of seats, a suitably nondescript color and, if we're lucky," he smirks, "a soft-top. I'd miss the wind in my hair."
As he says this, he snaps Milly into her helmet with a reassuring pat on the top, and helps her balance on the motorcycle. The engine roars to life and as they ride off it isn't sunset, but Milly feels like it should be.
end
A/N: I freely admit that this is not actually much of a story. It's more like the beginning of an story, in which Wolfwood and Milly are on the run, pulling heists throughout the Midwest in the late '50s. Their love is a constant thing - she doesn't always approve of the things they do, but she's always there to back him up when he needs her. Milly always calls Wolfwood "Mr. Priest," no matter how often he tries to make her stop.
Um, Happy Valentine's Day? Only a month and a half late.
"How’s about we go over this again, big girl. Why’d you come into that store?"
Milly has to lean forward so she can shout in his ear over the deafening wind, as the bike zips along the highway. He growls a bit when her helmet knocks against his, but she leaves it settled there and shouts.
"I was going to buy a set of pearls for my big sister. It’s her 21st birthday next week, and it’s her Golden Birthday - you know, she’s turning 21 on the 21st and - "
"That's not what I meant!" His head whips back unconsciously, putting her balance into questionable territory. Her fingers sink tighter into the leather jacket over his stomach in response.
"Why did you go into that store with all those cops out front?"
"Oh! Well, I saw you through the window and I thought, 'You don't point guns at a priest! That's no way to treat a man of God!"
"You didn't think it at all odd that the police were threatening a priest inside a jewelry store?"
"Should I have?"
"Considering the 'priest' was robbing said jewelry store, definitely. But ya know what they say about hindsight."
"My daddy always said that focusing on it too long was a good way to get yourself slapped, but I never quite understood what he meant."
He laughs loud and full. He is much more pleasant when laughing, she decides, but that's probably true of anybody.
"You're all right. I like funny girls. But, okay, you charged into the shop because you're a good little Catholic girl, but what were you doing with the gun?"
"My big brother - the one who's seven years older than me, not the one that's five or two years older, or ten, he's the second oldest boy, fifth oldest overall - he makes me carry it when I go into town. He always says," her voice shifts into a mock baritone, "'Girl like you needs protection with all these people around; town's a dangerous place.'"
Milly feels a strange surge of pride when he laughs again.
"No offense, but I think the town requires protection from a girl like you if you're walking 'round armed like that."
By now Milly's head is swimming, not only with the thought that he's right, someone did need protecting from her, but its combination with the cloud of smoke that surrounds this man. No one in her family smokes - a rarity these days - and his hair and jacket are drenched in the smell, and the white nub hanging from his lips ensures the scent doesn't escape with the wind. She leans back, hands still planted on his hips, and marvels at how different the cornfields look from a motorcycle - the stalks she's used to seeing from her bedroom window blend into a single stream of yellow.
They stop for gas when they're half an hour away from Wichita, and she almost falls on her butt when her legs turn to rubber beneath her.
He grabs her arm and starts talking about seaweed or sea legs or something but she's just wondering how he manages to smirk like that and never lose his cigarette.
They lean against the white brick of the station while an attendant fills up the bike's tank.
"Mr. Priest," she asks, "why were you robbing that store?"
He quickly clamps a hand over her mouth and looks directly into her eyes as he speaks softly.
"One, we don't talk about these things with law-abiding citizens so close by. Two, I'm not a priest. I thought you figured that out sometime around when we muscled our way out of the store and dumped that get-up, collar and all, in the dumpster."
He removes his hand from her lips, and his eyes wait to gauge her reaction.
"Oh! I did think that was strange, but I just thought you must have had your reasons, like maybe, God told you to, so you could feed starving orphans or take his message to people in Africa."
"Is that why you're so calm about all this? You think we're on some journey to help out orphaned Africans? Sorry to disappoint you, but you're just on the road with a common crook. No holy men here."
She stared into his cool blue eyes and stated in her firmest voice, "You're going to hell."
"Well, just as long as it ain't jail."
He relaxes against the wall again, and the silence is only broken by his smoke exhalations and the clattering as the attendant replaces the gas pump. Money changes hands, and the last words spoken echo in Milly's ears.
Jail. Is she going to jail? The gun had shot off by accident, but the only people who know that are this man and herself. And if he calls himself a common crook, chances are high his words aren't worth much of anything to anyone. She knows that crying won't do her much good, but it feels like the only thing she can do right now.
"Ya coming, big girl?"
The smile he greets her with is kind, and she knows that this man is good, even if his job isn't.
"Where are we going?"
"As I see it, my bike is a beautiful ride, and I will miss her so, but she's just not practical for two people. Plus, I just slipped the gas jockey 50 bucks, as he happened to mention the radio saying something about a couple and a bike roughly matching our description. But, not to fear," he adds at Milly's gasp of fear, "I happen to know someone nearby who owes me a favor. So I think we'll be able to find a vehicle with the proper number of seats, a suitably nondescript color and, if we're lucky," he smirks, "a soft-top. I'd miss the wind in my hair."
As he says this, he snaps Milly into her helmet with a reassuring pat on the top, and helps her balance on the motorcycle. The engine roars to life and as they ride off it isn't sunset, but Milly feels like it should be.
end
A/N: I freely admit that this is not actually much of a story. It's more like the beginning of an story, in which Wolfwood and Milly are on the run, pulling heists throughout the Midwest in the late '50s. Their love is a constant thing - she doesn't always approve of the things they do, but she's always there to back him up when he needs her. Milly always calls Wolfwood "Mr. Priest," no matter how often he tries to make her stop.