I was inspired by the writer Artemisdesari who wrote about one of my favourite characters in another fandom riding a motorbike. It was a *very* nice image indeed. Then I thought, well, Gilligan has a bit of a motorbike obsession himself, at least he's mimed riding one at least twice that I can think of. So I've written this ficlet, because I'm now going to spend the day imagining Gilligan in bike leathers. O.o Thanks, Artemis :)
Queasy Rider
His booted foot slammed down on the pedal and the motorbike gunned into life, belting out a throaty roar to rival any King of The Jungle. The man grinned with satisfaction. This was what he liked to hear- the eager response of his machine as he got ready to ride out into the great blue yonder. He gripped the handles hard, licking salty sweat from his lips as he felt his heart hammering in rhythm with the beast between his legs.
But wait. The man realised there was something missing.
He reached into the inside pocket of his leather bike jacket and pulled out a pair of shades, their lenses black as night. He snapped them open with a deft flick of his wrist and placed them one-handed on his face. He smiled as the world darkened, became sinister and mysterious.
Just the way he liked it.
He gunned the engine and engaged the gears. He pulled in a deep breath and twisted the throttle. With a howl of rage, the snarling bike leapt forward like a tiger unleashed from a cage, chewing up the tarmac and sending out a shower of dirt and gravel behind him as he sped off down the open road, his chin set firmly against whatever the world might throw at him that day.
"I had another motorcycle dream last night," says Gilligan, pegging his spare pair of jeans to the laundry line.
"Oh yes?" Mary Ann's ears prick up immediately.
"Yeah. I was riding down this desert road." Gilligan tugs gently on the legs of his jeans to straighten them out and then digs his hand into one of the front pockets. He pulls out a soggy pack of baseball cards. "I wondered where these went," he muses.
"Did you have your sunglasses on?" Mary Ann asks, casually removing one of Ginger's dresses from the basket and shaking it out.
"Yeah. I felt like James Dean."
Ginger's dress slips out of Mary Ann's fingers and falls into the sand. "Oh, darn!" she exclaims.
"It's usually me who's the butterfingers," Gilligan grins.
Mary Ann shakes as much of the sand off Ginger's dress as she can. "I was imagining you on your motorcycle and got distracted," she smiles, looking up at him kind of sideways because she's suddenly embarrassed to look at him face on.
Gilligan has always wanted a motorbike, but he's only recently begun dreaming about them. The first time he mentioned the sunglasses, Mary Ann dropped an entire coconut crème pie onto the floor of the supply hut.
The second time he mentioned a pair of black leather boots, and that made Mary Ann burn the dinner, something she never, ever did.
The third time he mentioned a battered old bike jacket, and Mary Ann had to put down the stack of dishes she'd been holding just in case she dropped them all and everyone came running.
Then, one night, Mary Ann also dreamed about Gilligan on his motorbike, but in her dream she was there too. She was his pillion rider, his girlfriend, her face pressed against his back and her arms wrapped around him for dear life as the machine hurtled along, sending up clouds of dust into her eyes and turning roadside trees into blurry smears of green and brown. It had been one of the most wonderful dreams she'd ever had, and she'd been sorry to wake up from it. All day long she had remembered the feel of soft, sun-warmed leather on her face and the way she had been pressed up against Gilligan's lightly muscled body as the motorbike leaned into turns, roaring and rumbling beneath her as they rode along without a care in the world, two people lost in each other, destined to never grow old.
"I've never ridden a motorcycle in real life." Gilligan seems to have forgotten he's meant to be helping Mary Ann with the laundry and is just standing there, wistfully gazing off into space. "I think I'd be kind of scared." He glances at his fingers, locks them together. "But in my dreams, it's real easy. I just kick down on the pedal and twist the handle and next thing I'm King of the Road."
Mary Ann laughs. "That's wonderful! You must get a real sense of freedom."
Gilligan nods. "Yeah, that's a good way of putting it. Like nothing and no-one can stop me."
Mary Ann reaches out and socks her friend gently and playfully in the ribs. "I've got news for you, Gilligan. Nothing and no-one can stop you in real life, either."
"Except for the Skipper," Gilligan sighs.
"Not even the Skipper," Mary Ann smiles. "Besides- the Skipper's your best friend. He loves you."
They carry on pegging out the laundry. Gilligan falls silent. Mary Ann wonders what he's thinking about. She wonders if he's imagining he's riding his motorbike, conquering the desert highway like the modern version of a hot-blooded Sioux warrior instead of standing in a patch of damp sand, meekly and obediently hanging up a millionaire's wet clothes.
"Gilligan," she says at last, moved by the intense look on his face, even in profile.
His mouth is slightly downturned as he lifts his head to look at her. "Hmm?"
"You'll get that bike one day. I know you will."
"You think so?" He sounds hopeful, his expression immediately brightening. He's so easily made happy, she thinks. He's so optimistic, so accepting, so patient.
And she knows he'd look amazing in leather. Because she's seen it. She's felt it. She's been there.
"I know so," she says, and she means it.