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Pain. That's what Winnie was feeling.
Pain in her lower back, likely from the uncomfortable position she could only assume she'd been sleeping in, judging by how her body was positioned. (And, naturally, the couch she was placed on.) Pain in her left forearm, which upon looking at it seemed to come from the bandaged section of it, small traces of blood peeking through like the light did through the battered blinds. Pain in her sides, just above her hips, which upon lifting her shirt up a bit, seemed to come from bruises — the kind that can only be achieved by someone grabbing tightly, as if she had to be held in place for something. They were slightly hand-shaped and everything.
'Ooh, getting a bit saucy now, are we?' Winnie immediately brought her shirt right back down over her. She didn't know there was someone living here! (Though, in retrospect, she should have known. You don't get put somewhere by the sky or anything, there has to be a cause. ) 'Don't worry, I don't bite. Just thought… We barely know each other, you know? You don't want to be too fast about it. Loving takes time, after all—'
'That's not what I was doing and you know it,' came the reply. She looked up at the new figure, who put her hands up as if in surrender. She was fitted in a tank top and jean shorts to the knees (Jorts? That's what she'd heard them being called, at least); a stark contrast to the dress shirt and pants Winnie was wearing. It made her feel awfully out of place in wherever the hell they were, like they were going to go out to the ball game or whatever and she wasn't prepared at all. Something about her gaze was… intimidating, yet friendly as if she could kick her ass right then and there or treat her to a nice dinner date depending on the day. (Frankly, she'd rather not have the former happen. I don't think anyone would, really. That is, unless you have a thing for getting your ass kicked, in which case it's a whole other story—)
Where was I? Ah. The stranger. Of course. She sat down next to Winnie, passing her a cracker. 'That's for now, just to get you a bit of energy. Uh, don't worry about your… everything. I've kept your stuff, it's in that corner over there,' she said through a bite of another cracker, gesturing to a corner (with her bag in it, thank God!) with the remains.
Winnie got up, wincing as she put pressure on her arm, and picked up her bag from across the room. 'Is there a reason I'm here? Did you do this?' She gestured to her arm.
'Oh, we're skipping the pleasantries, I see, I see. (I'm Montag, by the way. If it matters.) Anyways, you were following this guy, right?' (Winnie nodded.) 'Right, and I doubt you know but that man is a wanted criminal. He's got cops and detectives and whatnot all going after him like hounds! To be honest, it was a matter of time before he'd pull a gun out on you,' she — Montag — said, flourishing her hand at Winnie's injury. Man, a gunshot? Horrible!
''Sides, what's a lady like you doing around these parts? You're definitely not from around here, I'm guessing.'
Winnie reached into her bag and brought out her ID, presenting it as one would at the entrance to a bar. 'Winona Smith, private investigator. I happen to be hunting down that criminal you speak of, I knew full well.' She stood still for a few seconds. 'Damn it, he got away—'
'Hey, hey, chill. Calm down. 'S all good. I turned him in this morning. Got a really good sum for it too.' Montag leaned back on the couch, picking at the lint on it.
'You're… a bounty hunter? Really? I wouldn't think you were.'
'Yep! Where else d'you think I'd get so many scars from?' Now that she thought about it, Montag did have a lot of them, almost etched onto her arms, some skin more blotchy than others. Though from what it looked like, more of them seemed to be burn scars more than anything. A firefighter? It would explain the muscles that Winnie had decided to ignore in fear of expressing the Big Gay to someone she'd just met.
Alas, she had priorities. Like getting home, and unlike the Big Gay. 'And how did I get here? You couldn't have just… hauled me here. With your own two hands, I mean.' As her companion stood up, she flushed a bit at that. Cute.
'Oh, yeah, um, I did actually. 'Course, I bandaged your arm up first, but then I just…' (With permission, Montag swiftly lifted Winnie up with a grunt, in what she thought was a fireman's lift? Fitting. And really attractive. ) '…Got you like this! Granted, you felt heavier than you are now. I'm guessing you weren't conscious.' Thankfully, Montag had the decency to put her down. How kind.
Winnie set her sights on rummaging through Montag's cupboards in hopes of finding something to eat that wasn't crackers. No offence, naturally, but they aren't very nutritious on their own. Montag decided to go up to her and ruffle her hand through the other's hair, which was met with a whine and then a second hand, moving it out of her hair and onto her cheek.
'Wow, okay. I said loving takes time, Winnie. You can't have fallen that quickly.'
'Well, it's hard not to, with… your everything. I've known you for, what, one night? If you can draw me in just from that, you have some kind of power, my friend.' She turned around, holding the other's hand and bringing them down to rest between them.
They very well could have kissed at that point. Montag could have easily pinned her partner to the counter, closing their gap and running her hands through that soft hair…
But she didn't. After all, loving takes time. Acting on anything right now would be too rash, too unadvised, too sudden . Perhaps it would've been better if they danced around each other, coming into contact for a matter of seconds before drifting away again. Such is the way of a bounty hunter. It seemed that Winnie noticed also, as she brought her hand up to plant a kiss on it.
Montag held up her phone between them. 'Your number, my fair lady?'
'Gladly, my dear,' she replied, taking the battered old thing and putting a number and a 'PI Smith' into it. Her smile at that moment was endearing, lovely even. Awfully gay of her, she knew, but still. You can't deny simple fact.
The two of them stayed together for a few more hours, involving actual breakfast, redressing Winnie's wound and maybe a bit of handholding (which, for the record, meant nothing).
When it came to the point where Winnie left, Montag merely provided her with directions into town and saw her off. In all honesty, it was sad for both to part. Perhaps Winnie would come back another time, and pester Montag to show her the book collection she kept in her walls, or they'd go out and tell each other stories of their lives. Soon, she decided. Soon.
'Let's hope we chase after the same criminal again in the future?'
'Definitely.'