Author's Notes: Well here it is, the first piece of fanfic I've turned out in a while. One-shot? Maybe. Depends on what you people think of it.

Anyway, it's about what happens after Kyle left with Mila--just a short bit of writing about what it'd be like traveling across the country with him. Hope it doesn't bore you! CAKEMAN 3


"So, what's your name sweetie?"

Kyle sat back and crossed his legs, pointedly looking off to the side. He really didn't like this woman's attitude but, much to his annoyance, Mila either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I'm Mila." She smiled that disarming smile, and Kyle thought—foolishly—that maybe things would be all right. "We were looking for a good place to stay, but all the other hotels along the way were occupied or dirty. So may we please stay here?"

"Of course, dear. We have plenty of rooms available!" The woman behind the counter smiled warmly at Mila, and then shot Kyle that evil accusing glare that he'd grown so accustomed to lately.

He stood up, now fully tired of looking at the proprietor's face. As he approached the desk, the woman gave him what some might have called a smile; in truth, she looked more like she was baring her teeth at him. "Two rooms, then?" She asked.

Kyle walked up next to Mila and slapped his hand down on the counter—perhaps a little too hard. He returned the older woman's beastly expression two-fold, and a spark of life returned to his dull eyes for a moment, fueled only by his frustration and bitterness. "One room is all we can afford, thank you."

Of course, there was only one bed in their room that night. Kyle grumbled under his breath while he climbed out of his street clothes—Mila changed into her pajamas in the little bathroom up by the door. He probably could have gotten the woman to bring him a cot, but he simply didn't feel like dealing with her anymore. Let the woman think what she wanted—he and Mila would be gone by morning, and it would all soon be forgotten. He sighed and stared at his haggard face in the vanity mirror until he couldn't look anymore. "Mila," he leaned gently against the thin wooden bathroom door as he spoke. "Mila, you get the bed tonight, alright? There's an armchair here that I can sleep on."

"But Mr. Hyde, you need to drive tomorrow. Why would you try to sleep on a chair when you need rest?" He didn't even know why he bothered asking anymore, when he knew full well that she'd refuse him that decency.

It wasn't her fault—she was too naïve to know what their closeness implied, what it looked like and felt like to others. And somehow, Kyle simply didn't want to be the one to teach her.

"Mila… you don't have to call me 'Mr. Hyde.' Kyle is fine." After several months of her calling him by his surname, Kyle was starting to feel more like her hired help than like her… her what? What was his relationship to her even supposed to be anymore? What was a friend who was also a protector, a provider and a teacher? What was his affection for her—was he even capable of that? If he had love for her, and if he'd given it to her, what exactly was she supposed to do with it? A sad day, to be more fit for thralldom than love. But he didn't dare ask for more.

When she came back out into the room, Kyle was sitting there on the bed with the cheap cotton coverlet drawn up over his legs. He was reading the day's paper, a small-town rag filled with news that didn't matter to a passer-by—that scarcely was minded by the locals themselves. She looked at him for a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. He always seemed so sad, and she thought she knew why. His friend Bradley was gone—he was a murderer and a traitor, and he was too ashamed to face Kyle.

This was as much as she knew about the matter, though she'd often pondered those few things—that she was never going to see her father again, that she didn't know where he was buried, that she was traveling with the one who'd once been closest to her father's killer. And oh, the things she'd learned about her father's life, let alone his death: he'd lived off of the ignorance of the people around him, fooling people out of their money and, in Bradley's case, their freedom and their dignity. It was overwhelming, and sometimes she'd cry—she didn't know whom to cry for, though—and sometimes Kyle would wake up to hear her. He'd sit up and hold her without saying a word, and she'd never tell him why she was upset. Not that she could have. She wouldn't have known what to say.

Kyle finally set the paper down on the floor next to the bed, and the sudden noise shook Mila out of her thoughts. He pulled back the covers for her—Mila would sleep under the sheet. She only vaguely knew why there had to be something between them, and was certain she'd seen something like it on TV years ago. She couldn't remember though, and thought it was stupid. But she always tried to appease him in this, hoping he'd give her an explanation someday. She smiled at him and climbed into bed.

"Can I really call you Kyle?"

"Yeah." A pause, and then, "Honestly? I hate it when you call me Mr. Hyde."

"Really? Sorry…"

"Don't worry about it." He reached over and turned out the light. It was so pitch black in the room, but she could hear him as he slid down into the blanket and rested his head on the pillow. She always knew he was there—she could hear him even when he left the room, his words echoing in her heart, what he'd told Rosa that night… I want to set her free… she won't have to face this alone. She smiled and rolled over, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness.

"Good night, Kyle."