Driver's SeatAuthor: trascendenzaFandom:
Painkiller Jane (TV)Pairing:
Jane/MaureenWritten For: lyssiePrompt:
baby, life is like a ride on a freeway.Rating:
PG-13.Driver’s SeatI’m the kind of girl who likes rides.
For my seventh birthday, my dad took me to Disney Land. Nice, right? But I mostly just wanted to sock Cinderella in her pretty little face and check out all the rides.
My dad told me the rides were “too scary” for little girls. Luckily, even as a kid, I had a great bullshit-o-meter. I waited until he was in the bathroom, and ran away, riding everything until I was so dizzy I couldn’t get away from the guards he sicced on me afterwards.
It was worth it.
“I don’t know, Jay,” Maureen said, craning her neck up at the behemoth structure of metal railings and rattling cars, skepticism tracing her eyebrows. “I like my rides horizontal. If you know what I mean.”
Jane rolled her eyes—it was hard to miss the innuendo when Maureen’s fingers were fluttering so suggestively across her hips in conjunction with the now-dancing eyebrows.
“No sense of adventure, Mo.” She took a step back. “I’ll bet you a month’s pay that this ride will be more thrilling than Bob the Wonder Comb Over is in bed.”
Maureen’s punch to her shoulder fell short as Jane, grinning wickedly, casually leaned away to avoid it.
Maureen’s eyes narrowed; she recognized an irresistible goad when she heard one.
*I like it even better when I’m the one steering the ride.
Germany, 1997, my first time on the Autobahn. The car nearly shook apart underneath me—probably shouldn’t have taken my test run with such a piece of shit. But it held, maybe because I didn’t give it any other option.
I’m not one for vacations, but let’s just say if you ever needed a guide to the A8 Südautobahn: I’m your gal.
“Fucking men!” Maureen yelled, throwing open Jane’s front door so hard it probably left a hole in the wall.
“Don’t tell me,” Jane said, flipping off the TV and getting up to grab the wine, “You rocked his world and he was sawing logs two minutes later.”
“I didn’t even come close
,” Maureen sighed.
*Now me and Mo—we couldn’t be more different. Hell, she drives like my grandmother. Maybe a little slower. Always holding back.
It’s like she’s saving it all up for something.
And I wanted to know what.
Jane pressed the buttons on her door and the windows opened; Maureen’s voice barely rose above the roar of the wind and These Boots Are Made For Walkin’
blaring on the stereo.
The speedometer inched higher, flirting 95.
Maureen’s hand clutched onto Jane’s thigh, nails wrinkling denim.
Jane’s whole body posture was an intense sort of relaxed: she was so focused that it could be seen humming even in the slouching curve of her shoulders.
125 and the car shrieked, the well-honed German parts singing this is what I was made for.
Taking her foot off the accelerator, she took the exit and snaked her right hand up Maureen’s back, gripping her fingers onto Maureen’s neck. They flew across the dark road, bumping viciously at the sudden transition from freeway to rural paving.
Jane started whispering when they passed a jagged rock formation on the right.
“Three… two… one…”
Brakes squealed, and spinning out, Jane used all her strength to control the steering wheel with her left hand while she pulled Maureen against her with her right; they collided with all the momentum of the swirling wheels, lips fusing as the car turned in barely-contained revolutions.
When motion stopped, Jane’s headlights faintly showed the outline of a cliff not a foot away from the side of the car.
“Wow,” Maureen breathed, her pupils dilated wide with shock.
*I don’t bother with amusement parks anymore. My life has just about all the excitement in can handle, and Mo still hasn’t stopped bitching about what she calls my “inability to vocalize wants in a non-lethal manner.” Whatever. She got the message, and I don’t even complain when she falls asleep.
Two years later, and she’s still riding.
You ask me, that’s the important part.