#ficcage

“The 5/8ths wrench, come on.” Sloane sticks a hand out. “I need to fix this before we talk about whatever you’re here to talk about.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I know you’re here and you can hand me the wrench I need.” Sloane wiggles her fingers and is rewarded with the sound of more footsteps and a weight in her hand. “Thank you.”

She expects whoever it is to back off as she starts tightening the bolts that hold the side of the wagon in place, but instead the footsteps get closer. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing up my baby.” Sloane slaps a hand against the metal siding of the wagon. “He got a little dented last time I took him out, so I’ve gotta make sure he’s all good to go.”

“Why do you call your wagon ‘he’?”

“Because no woman would ever give me this much trouble.”

The mystery visitor laughs, sounding startled, and Sloane grins to herself. “You know anything about battle wagons?”

“I know they’re illegal,” the visitor says.

“No, I meant the fun things.” Sloane finishes with the bolt she’s tightening and moves on to the next one. “You ever been in one?”

“Uh,” the visitor says. “No?”

“I’ll take you out in mine sometime.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, why not?” Sloane can’t tell who the visitor is, but her voice is familiar, so she might as well offer. Besides, she’s always happy to show off her baby. “My boy’s the fastest out of all the wagons out there.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I call him a lot of names during races, but most of them aren’t nice enough to repeat.”

The visitor laughs again. It’s a nice sound, and it makes Sloane smile as she moves on to tighten the next bolt. “So you’ll let me ride in your battle wagon?”

“Babe, I’ll let you in my battle wagon any time.”

“You really have no idea who you’re talking to right now, do you?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might,” the visitor admits, “but it might not. I’ve always wanted to try racing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let you drive the first time out, but we could make it a recurring thing.”

“Oh, could we now?”

Sloane smiles to herself. “It depends how the first time goes.”

“What exactly would the first time be like?”

“I’ll take you out near the cliffs, drive you around. I won’t take you racing with me, but we’ll go pretty fast anyways.”

“Do you flirt this much with everyone who visits you?”

“Only the people who hand me wrenches when I ask them to.” Sloane finishes with the last bolt and turns around, ready to see her new date is, only for her stomach to drop to her shoes.

It must show on her face, because Lieutenant Hurley - Lieutenant goddamn Hurley, from the militia, who’s been trying to pin Sloane for some larceny charges for weeks now - Lieutenant goddamn fucking Hurley gives Sloane this weird half-smile. “Not who you were expecting?”

“Uh,” Sloane croaks, mind racing. “If I put a tarp over the wagon, will you pretend it’s not there?”

Hurley arches an eyebrow. “Oh, so now he’s an it?”

This is, Sloane thinks almost hysterically, not how this conversation was supposed to go. It was supposed to end with her and some attractive, benign woman going on a racing date, and then Sloane probably never taking her out again because most people can’t handle Sloane when she’s driving. It’s not supposed to be the attractive, benign woman trying to arrest her.

“He’s an it when I’m talking to a cop,” Sloane answers. She means it to be sharp, but her heart is beating too high in her chest, and her voice just sounds strained. She just asked a cop to go illegally racing with her. There’s almost no way this doesn’t go wrong.

Hurley must take pity on her, because she sighs. “Look,” she says, and takes a step closer. It takes all of Sloane’s energy to keep herself from taking a step back. “I came here to interrogate you.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, new evidence, and all.”

Sloane laughs. She can’t help it. “I think I just gave you some pretty compelling new evidence.”

“You did,” Hurley agrees, and Sloane braces herself. Instead of following that line, though, she looks over Sloane’s shoulder, back at the wagon. She doesn’t look like she’s about to arrest Sloane for having it, or for racing it. She looks… well, she looks like she wants to go for a ride in a battle wagon just for kicks.

I can work with this, Sloane thinks, and decides to be brave.

“You know,” she says, and waits for Hurley to look back at her, “I was serious a minute ago. Anyone who looks at my boy the way you do deserves a ride, cop or not.”

“You’re asking me to break the law,” Hurley says. Sloane can’t read her voice.

She shrugs. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m just letting you know that I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

Hurley tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You’re not what I expected.”

It hits Sloane harder than she thought it would, and it takes a second longer than expected for her to catch her breath. “Neither are you, Lieutenant.”

“But this can’t be blackmail material,” Hurley says warningly. “This can’t be you going, ‘oh, captain, I caught this lieutenant breaking the law, can I get off the hook for being arrested?’ This has to be-”

“About the wagon,” Sloane finishes, and traces a hand down his side. Hurley’s eyes follow the motion. “Believe me, I wouldn’t risk you turning me in for racing if I didn’t think you were actually interested.”

“And do you think I am?”

“I think you’ve proven that you’re interested. The only question is-” and Sloane takes a measured step closer to Hurley, leans in- “do you think you can handle being in a wagon?”

Hurley smiles, lightning-quick, so sharp it almost sends Sloane back off balance. “Unless you get tires with better treads, I think I can handle it. I’ll be back here tomorrow night, at seven.”

“The treads on the tires are fine,” Sloane says. She recognizes the sparkle in Hurley’s eyes a second too late, and she nearly scowls as she realizes the tire thing was a joke. “If you know so much about battle wagons, why don’t you build one?”

“Because I need to ride in one first.” Hurley turns, and Sloane can’t help but grin at her back as she walks out of the garage. “Seven o’clock.”

“What if I’m busy at seven?”

“Then make other arrangements.”

“You’re assuming you’re awfully important to me, aren’t you?”

Hurley glances over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “Aren’t I?”

Sloane shakes her head. “I’ll see you around, Hurley.”

Hurley makes her way out of the garage, and Sloane looks back at the wagon. He still looks like he’s in good shape, but the tires do look rough around the edges. Not too rough for Sloane to race in, but maybe too rough to take a date for a drive. Maybe Hurley knows a thing or two about battle wagons after all.