When Muses Attack

She opened the door and turned to slide out of the truck when he spoke again.

"I'm in love with you."

Her stomach lurched and so did the world. She hung there, clutching the door and the door frame. Far, far below, it seemed, she could see dust and pebbles on the ground. There was a bottle cap, too, upside down and rusted. She'd have to be careful not to tread on it.

She eased out, placing her bare feet carefully, then turned on her heel to face him, still holding the door. He was still sitting in the driving seat, seatbelt fastened, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead down the long, rutted road.

His hands moved on the steering wheel, but they didn't let go. "You wanted to know why. That's why."

"I don't know what's more scary. That you know what I wanted to ask you, or that you... you--" Her voice failed her.

He turned his head, then, dark eyes locking onto hers. "I love you."

Other men - other women, even - used those words as a bargaining tool, a demand, a question. She'd never known him to be anything other than ruthlessly straightforward. He dealt in facts and finalities. Like death.

She unpeeled her fingers from the door. Her mouth was dry. "I don't... I mean..."

He let go of the steering wheel at last, but only to flip down the sun visor, retrieve his shades and put them on. The scars on his tanned hands showed white. "You wanted to know why: I told you. I love you, so when you needed--" he hesitated, lifting his hands to look at them, curling the fingers into fists, "--what I have, I was there. That's all."

"What," she said, trying for a light bantering tone in a voice that shook, "are you going to watch my back for the rest of my life?"

He angled his head her way, eyes hidden, face inscrutable.

"Christ, Michael! You're scaring me."

"Goodbye Sarah." He leaned over and closed the door, the purr of the engine became a growl, and he pulled away very slowly, so that only the faintest whisps of dust covered her toes.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE??? AND WHY ARE THEY IN MY HEAD??? And yes, whoop-de-woo, we have another anti-hero type. *beats head on desk, sobbing* Why God, WHY?!?

You know I love them, really. *leering*

Actually, I love it when story telling happens like this. I see it, I describe it, and only after I've written it do I start to see the significance of what's going on. Pure magic.

Of course, I have several other stories in the queue ahead of this one. I'll have to be patient. *sigh*