Seems Fine
--
Brooklyn was genuinely entertained, for the first time in quite some time. His partner had acquired some sunglasses; big red Lolita specs, with heart-shaped frames and blacked-out lenses. He must've picked them up at the last gas station, along with the stick-on gems dotted across them.
"You want one?"
"No thanks."
Mystel ignored this, peeled off the last gem - a glossy green star - and stuck it to the side of his partner's face. Mystel was also genuinely entertained, even more so when rummaging in the bags between his feet yielded a lollipop.
"Strawberry? Oh, score." He stuck it in his mouth, and spat out the wrapper a few seconds later, grinning. "Nnn! S'nishe. On't uu lie 'andy?"
"Hmm? No, not..."
"Ah HA! 'Erbet lem'ns," he declared, triumphantly producing the packet. "Shcore?"
"Score. Thanks. Take that thing out of your mouth."
"Nuuu."
"Fine."
Disappointed by the abject lack of scenery, Mystel tweaked at the car radio until something lively came out of it, then leaned right back in his seat, still grinning. Brooklyn obligingly flattened the accelerator.
"Wheeeeeee!"
--
They'd met at a gas station, two days ago on the other side of the city. Out on a juice-and-liquor run and completely lost, Mystel had stopped to ask directions from the lanky individual sat smoking on the verge. Already quite busy smoking on the verge, Brooklyn hadn't been looking for attention, but found himself amused by the blonde's ceaseless chatter and wild gesticulations. They'd got talking about jewellery. Eventually left the station five hours later, in a cherry-red MG that from that point on was considered stolen.
The MG had lost some shine on the way through Vegas's dusty roads, but remained impressively red. Mystel loved it. He loved anything bright; in fact, he was the one who fetched the bright things out from behind the dingy counters and inside the humid back-rooms, while Brooklyn leaned solicitously on the front of the counters with a semi-automatic. Reminded the white-faced, shaking staff not to pull any alarm switches as Mystel chatted away to them, picking out the very brightest jewellery with a Glock on one hip. It worked nicely, and after the first hit the incidents merged together. All the stores were cool and dark compared to the blazing dry heat outside, all the sales assistants terrified, all the getaways a rush because who knew when the alarm was actually sounded and would the cops show and if not then where to next? They'd slept parked up in a suburban driveway, giggling half the night at the thought of waking up in jail.
Once out of the city, they'd taken to turning over gas stations, for fun and candy. Free fuel and tacky holiday merchandise. Rarely cash. Since leaving the jewellery stores behind, Mystel had put on as much of the takings from them as possible; rings hopelessly too big for him slid around his thumbs like napkin holders, which was partly why Brooklyn did the driving. Not that it was difficult, on the bare desert roads, just boring. Mystel didn't like boring, and found the gearstick a challenge with both hands encrusted in gold and silver.
--
Two hours later, Mystel's jazz-karaoke session with the radio was rudely interrupted by sirens. He twisted around, peering between the headrest and his raised sunglasses at the fleet of flashing red-and-blues.
"What's up?"
He looked back around to see Brooklyn offering him the semi-automatic with one hand, eyes still on the road. The blonde waved at it dismissively.
"Nothin' much."
He sat down again and felt the car pick up speed. Saw the blazing afternoon sunshine catch every facet of every jewel strung about his person, and admired it. The sirens gradually grew louder, the flashing lights closer.
"What're you gonna tell them," Mystel asked, conversationally.
"Oh, nothing."
"I'd say I wanted somethin' bright."
"Fair enough," the other murmured, ignoring the mirrors and smiling out over the windscreen.
"And I was fed up with smiling at stuff," he added, wrinkling his nose, "and playing pretend to people." Brooklyn glanced at him and laughed.
"I was fed up with having no people to pretend to."
"That's fair enough, too."
"I thought so."
At that, Mystel began to laugh, too; after all, the lights were brighter than anything.
--
Another of these fics feather-duster is uncertain about the origins and quality of. General blame to be directed at Kelirehenna, a.k.a. Female-Mystel. And ff dot net's dismal lack of a "Lollipops" genre category.
And what happened next? Work it out yourself. Send theories on a postcard, marked "Lollipops". Best one wins a prize.
Review and you get an entirely fictional pair of heart-framed sunglasses, because I love you!