Two months on the road and she drapes her arm around his shoulders as they coast through open plain, her face soft and smiling and turned to the scenery but her arm is warmer than the sun beating down. She tucks her feet underneath her, sweat slick on the leather seats and the wind whips her hair out of her ponytail and it flutters around his face, free. His hands feel sticky on the wheel.

"Arthur," she says, turning back to him, and he doesn't take his eyes off the road but her smile is brighter than the sun. "I'm hungry."



Another fifty miles of dust and fields and they roll into a little town with a weather-beaten sign and a population of six hundred and twelve. There's a bank, a diner and a police station, and they park on the street and head inside to eat, taking a booth by the window. It's a pretty area, thriving trees and cut grass verges, and the waitress is young and pretty and she smiles at Arthur as she takes their order and calls his accent cute.

She has a hamburger, a milkshake and pancakes covered in maple syrup. He has a sandwich and cup of coffee that he holds with two fingers and doesn't drink. They don't talk as she eats, and Arthur spends equal time watching her and watching out the window, one marked car outside of the station, no one inside, and two cars pass but most people are on foot, outside and enjoying the sunshine. There's nothing notable going on.

She finishes with a flourish, wetly smacking her lips just to annoy him, and she just beams when he arches an impressive eyebrow at her. They don't say much to each other, not when anyone else can hear them.

He pays in cash and they leave, and the waitress wonders why cute guys always end up with the girls in short skirts.



"Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt!" and really, what is the point when someone always tries to be a hero? Small towns are the worst, she thinks, because people actually care, and her bullet rips through the shirt of the man two steps away from grabbing Arthur. He crumples, and Arthur nods his thanks, and they finish bagging up the money and leave. She points her gun at a screaming woman, hysterical and shrill but Arthur pulls her away by the wrist before she pulls the trigger.

She wasn't going to actually do it, she insists, and Arthur is silent but he doesn't let go of her hand until they reach the car. She doesn't mind.



She takes out the police car as they pass, two shots into the wheels and they're driving away before anyone in a uniform can even shout at them. Small towns are easiest, she thinks, but not always the most satisfying. She secretly hopes they have a back up tucked away, something that will come screaming out a side street and start chasing them down and she'll climb in the back seat and shoot and duck and shoot until she hits something vital and it will veer off with a screech, maybe even crash into something and burst into flames and she and Arthur can pull over and watch.

Arthur doesn't like it when that happens. The tires sing as he stamps his foot down but no one is following, and he slows down before the town is even out of sight. She sprawls across the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard and she feels like laughing but Arthur has that face on, the frown that means she's going to get lectured as soon as they stop for the night.

He's not that much older than her but sometimes she feels so damn young in comparison. She still thinks life can be just like a comic book.



They drive for hours, and it's getting cold and dark and boring by the time Arthur decides it's time to stop. It's too risky to find a motel, they're miles and miles away but news travels faster than they can these days (she was so thrilled when she first saw their faces on TV, a local report of a bad mistake but Arthur had balked at it and they were off and driving again within ten minutes, the twin beds not even touched) and so he pulls off the road towards a cluster of trees, sheltered enough to be ignored at a glance. It's not perfect, but it will have to do.

She grumbles, something about money and spending and why not, dammit, but climbs over the door and switches the bags in the backseat for the blankets in the trunk anyway, throwing one a little roughly at Arthur. He catches it and slides down so he's spread out across the front seat, knees bent up against the cushioning and he pulls the blanket over him without another word.

She feels a little put out, so she throws a pillow at his head. He sits up, spluttering.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Talk to me," she demands, not looking at him as she jumps into the back seat and sits with her legs crossed, feet under her knees, pulling the blanket up so it covers her shoulders and leaves her head floating above, ghostly in the starlight.

"Go to sleep," he replies, sighing, and starts to lie back down.

"I'm cold," she tries. "Warm me up." She doesn't know how to ask.

He freezes at that, propped up on one elbow so he can peer at her over the top of the seat. There are no lights but the moon is bright enough to leave hints, the way her arm isn't quite covered by the blanket, the fact that she's taken her hair band out and her hair is falling over her shoulders, the curve of something that might be a smile.

He doesn't know how to refuse her. He gets up and awkwardly climbs over the seat, settling down next to her in an ungraceful mess of limbs and she just waits, watches. He offers her his blanket and she throws the edge of hers over him so he can double it up with his own, and she can feel his body heat next to her, so damn close but he's so careful not to touch.

Absolute silence. She feels like she should be apologising for something, but that word never escapes her lips anymore. He is turned away from her, squinting at something in the far off distance and she stares at him, traces his profile and the shine on his bottom lip that just catches the light.

"Arthur," she whispers, shotgun-loud in the silence, and he flinches in surprise, turns back to her. She leans into his warmth and rests her head on his shoulder, shuffles a little closer so they are pressed together from their arms to their knees. They don't move for a long moment, tired and relaxing, and then he puts his hand delicately on her thigh, cold fingers on sun-warm skin, and it's possibly the most daring thing he's ever done. She exhales, not sharply, and thinks finally.

She turns and twists and unfolds her legs so she can straddle him and keep the blanket around her shoulders, wrapped around the both of them to keep out the cold. He stares up at her, a little dazed and his brow is furrowed, highlighted by the scant moonlight, but she places both hands on his chest and says, "Kiss me."

He opens his mouth to say something, and she knows how good he is at denial and persuasion and every trick that gets them out of every tricky situation, and she doesn't want to hear it again, so she leans down and presses her mouth against his unsuspecting lips. She knows how good he is at not letting himself want something, and so she doesn't pull away, even when he's frozen and unresponsive beneath her.

"Kiss me," she says, directly into his skin without retreating an inch. She can feel his heartbeat under her palm, and her toes are sticking out of the blanket and she just wants to warm up. To warm him up.

Forever passes and she almost gives up, but she pushes a little closer and moves her mouth against his and it's like something cracks, a heavy foot on a weak floorboard and suddenly he's there, alive under her and he kisses back, wraps his arms around her back then her hips, her thighs and back up to her waist like he can't settle, so much that he wants to touch that he doesn't know where to start.

It should feel like a victory, she thinks, but somehow it doesn't.



"I love you," he says, pulling off her top with one hand.

"I know," she says, and kisses him so he can't talk.



They switch at some point, so she's lying sideways across the seat and he's on top, warm and heavy without crushing her. The blankets are carelessly folded on the floor, having slid off without either noticing, and Arthur is only dimly aware of the cold air against his back as he slips on a condom (she pressed it into his hand and, for the moment, he doesn't ask) and pushes into her and she cries out, clinging to him with her arms around his neck, fingertips brushing his shoulder blades. She wraps a leg around his hips and kisses him, slow and lazy as they fall into a rhythm.

He circles her clit with his thumb as he thrusts into her and after a while she comes with a surprised gasp, clenching around him and digging her nails into his skin. He growls at that, a low rumble in his throat and it's so unexpected that she laughs and reaches up to kiss him before he can feel offended. He doesn't last much longer, one last jerk of his hips and he pulls out, sitting back on his feet to give her some room.

They flip again without talking about it, Arthur on his back with a pillow under his head and she's lying on his chest, legs lightly entwined and the blankets retrieved and thrown haphazardly over them again. She curls a hand around his arm and shifts so her cheek rubs against his skin, and she can hear his heart thumping. They listen to each other breathing, eyes wide open but neither of them makes a move to look, and eventually they fall asleep without a word.



"Al," someone says, and there's a hand gently stroking her hair. Her back is uncovered but warm, and when she cracks her eyes open the light is almost blinding. "Al," Arthur says again, "we've got to go," and the hand stops.

She thinks there might be sirens in the distance, but she doesn't want to move. She blinks, squinting a little against the sunlight, and watches her hand stroke up Arthur's chest.

He sighs and she feels it, so wonderfully real and alive underneath her, but Arthur wraps his fingers around her wrist and gently pushes her off. "We have to go," he insists and, oh, yes, those are sirens.

Right. "Where's my gun?"

They're going to be fine, she thinks.