Jasper has his foot down on the accelerator and is doing his best to block out the dull but persistent pain in his hand from the gunshot wound.

"Where are we heading now?" Eleanor asks as they speed through the French countryside in a blur.

"That information is on a strictly need to know basis," Jasper replies.

He always insists on being so infuriatingly elusive.

"You spend your life acting like you're practicing to work for the fucking CIA. Honestly, I think that if I asked what your favourite sandwich is you would tell me that was classified information," Eleanor replies, rolling her eyes.

"That is classified information. Especially any mention of my favourite type of cheese," Jasper deadpans back, smirking slightly to himself.

Eleanor gives him a cross look and returns to staring out the window.

A few seconds later she shifts restlessly in her seat and starts fiddling with the radio, switching from station to station trying to find something she can at least listen to. She gives up disappointed a minute later.

Now she's leaning over from the passenger's side of the car to look at his hand and his face to check he's not in danger of collapsing. She's been doing this every couple of minutes and Jasper is finding it increasingly irritating.

"You know I could drive," Eleanor suggests as she considers Jasper's bandaged hand on the wheel.

"You know you can't drive," Jasper replies back, pointing out the one obvious flaw in her plan.

"I'm pretty sure I could figure it out, I mean how hard could it be?," Eleanor replies back confidently. Being a Princess means whenever she wants to try something, someone will normally let her do it, unless her bloody mother gets involved, that is.

Jasper's thoughts flash back to coming back to find her standing in front of the washing machine on their first night in France to find every button on the machine flashing while it makes an urgent beeping sound which makes him wonder if its going to explode.

"Like you worked out how to use the washing machine?" He asks, his mouth quirking.

"Yes," Eleanor nods sincerely. "That wasn't too difficult to work once I got the hang of it. I don't think it would take me too long to work out how to drive a car."

Driving down the motorway at 80 miles an hour with murderous thugs possibly in pursuit of them are hardly the ideal circumstances for a Princess with no driving license and no sense of boundaries to learn to drive.

Jasper tilts his head to the side. "Yeah, I'm going to say no to that idea," he replies gravely.

"Fine, have it your way then," Eleanor says huffily, turning her back to look out the window.


Dawn is breaking over the countryside when he finally pulls over, a red streak of light illuminating the black of night.

Now they're back on English soil once again, and he's still not sure whether he's doing the right thing or if he's crazy to be back here once again, closer to whoever is plotting to kill the Prince and Princess.

Eleanor's been asleep since before they reached Paris. He silently opens the car door and watches her for a moment, thinking that in her sleep she looks like everything a Princess ought to be.

Injured hand and all, he picks up the Princess like she's made of glass, trying not to wake her, lifts her to the door and taps the code into the keypad, then carries her inside and deposits her on the couch.


Man Jasper you're such a killjoy. I mean what's wrong with Eleanor terrorising the people of France by driving into things at 80 miles an hour?