This will be a two shot; let me know how you like it!

Pairing: Aizen/Kurosaki

Disclaimer: I don't own bleach.

Inspired by Travis Tritt's song, Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde

The product of one too many Margaritas.

You Told Your Story, Now I'm Telling Mine

I never should have traveled to the United States.

My name is Aizen Sousuke, and I'm part of the Elite society in Japan. I have a corporation that I have nursed from a baby to a full blown powerhouse monster, I have a wife and a five year old son, and I am considered a genius business tycoon at the young age of thirty five. My wife comes from an old wealthy family who tends the local shrine in the town that I was raised; she and I have been in an arranged marriage contract since she was four years old. My son is the perfect aristocratic gentleman already, who bows to his elders and defers only to me. I have a summer home and a winter home, both done in the architectural style of my ancestors, and I pray every morning before I leave my house to the shrine dedicated to my deceased mother and father.

And, currently, I am sitting in a jail cell in the middle of nowhere in the United States of America.

But I get ahead of myself. I guess all I can really say is that It all started as a rather strange strain of occurrences that should have never happened at all. If I had only waited just a longer for gas, if I had only ignored the approach of that stranger, if I had chosen to give the business trip from Japan to America to someone else instead of jumping at the opportunity; well, I would have never ended up where I am now.

I was headed North to Pennsylvania from a meeting that I had to attend in Florida. The route I chose was an easy one; straight up the East Coast and through, what I had been told throughout the journey, was the prettiest side of the Country that I would ever see though I had my doubts. This place had nothing on Japan.

I had rented a nice, clean car. A silver Aston Martin, though I didn't really care for the car myself. It was easy on the eyes, however, and seemed to garner some sort of respect wherever I went. Couple that with the crisp white button up collared shirt that I wore layered over a charcoal black under shirt and red neck scarf, along with my charcoal black pressed slacks and shiny black leather shoes… well, no one seemed to bother me much at all except for ask me if I needed this or that.

I've been used to that sort of thing for a while now, though. I grew up in privilege and demanded nothing but perfection in my own home and life. I had servants to tend to the yard and gardens, I had servants to clean my house and cook my food, and I had servants to drive me to and from work back in Japan. I can't even remember when the last time was that I drove myself. It's a miracle that my secretary back in Japan was able to not only get me a passport, but a temporary drivers' license as well.

I had to stop in Virginia for some gas. It was in the middle of nowhere and I still can't recall exactly where I was, but it was one of those large Truck Stops where there is enough room in front and back to not only gas up trucks and cars but for people to park and sleep off their fatigue.

It was early in the day when I stopped for gas and a water. Not even noon yet, but pretty close to. I had already gotten my water and had it sitting in the middle console as I was pumping up that little silver car full of gas in order to take me another long leg of my journey.

The day wasn't anything special. It was a little too hot for my tastes; the thermometer in my car read an alarming 101 in the dashboard. But other than the heat being close to unbearable and my nerves running thin because of all the insane way that people tend to drive in the States, there was nothing to alert me to the fact that anything about the day was out of the ordinary.

So when a gruff, carefree voice yelled out "Hey, you!" I wasn't inclined to look up from what I was doing. Why should I? I knew nobody here in the states other than the people I was involved with business wise and none of them would be calling for me out here in the middle of nowhere.

The voice persisted and got louder and closer and finally I looked up as the gas pump clicked off to meet the most peculiar, and rather breath-taking, sight I have ever seen.

I swore it was a woman at first, which is a strange conclusion when I think back on it now. He was jumping down from the passenger side of the cab of a large truck. His wild, slightly too long red-blonde hair brushing against the back of his neck and scattering across his forehead is heavy disarray to touch the point of his nose. His tanned skin was only accentuated by the color of that unruly hair, and I was almost startled when a bright pearly white grin was suddenly turned towards me. I didn't notice that his eyes were honeyed brown until he got close enough to plunk his small duffle bag on the roof of my rented car, his grey tank top looking indecent to me even as my eyes weren't able to keep from scanning over lean shoulders, long arms, and tapered midsection. My eyes snapped up as I reached the waist of his rather tight blue jeans, his question forcing my attention back to his face.

"Where you headed, stranger?"

His voice was like poisoned honey, trickling over the distance between us and tugging at my sense of propriety as I took the pump nozzle out of the opening of my gas tank to place it back on its holster, deftly spinning the gas cap shut and clicking the door to the compartment closed before I reluctantly answered, even though my dark brown eyes had never left his own.

"Pennsylvania," I said in my heavily accented voice. I know he could tell I was from somewhere else the moment I opened up my mouth; the same way I could tell that he was from somewhere deeper south than here when he had spoken.

"Need some company?" He asked almost slyly, tilting his head to the side so that I could only see one of his strange colored eyes. "I'm heading that way too," he continued to explain even as I ripped my receipt out of the machine. I stared at it dully, not truly comprehending the $55.00 total blaring up at me as I considered his words.

No, I didn't need company. No, I didn't want company. The last thing I wanted was some strange man chattering on about his life story going up the road. I was about to decline politely when, in a rather startling manner, I suddenly found myself accosted with a slender fingered hand thrust towards my chest in an open manner. When I looked back at his face he was giving me a sort of knowing smirk, one that I would be wary of if it were to pop up in the middle of a business transaction, but his introduction threw me a bit off guard.

"Ichigo. Ichigo Kurosaki," he said, waiting for me to take his hand. And that's when I noticed that his eyes were a bit too slanted to be American, and his tan was more olive than brown, despite his hair and eye color. A Japanese man raised in the States.

Who was I to deny someone so close in blood a ride to where he needs to go?

So I took his hand in my own stronger, larger one and shook it politely and crisply while intoning, simply, "Aizen Sousuke."

My single hand was encased in two as he shook mine enthusiastically, that carefree smile returning as he seemed to practically light up. We waited like that for a second, hand in hand, until I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out only when I felt myself stable again.

"I have no problem with you riding with me to Pennsylvania," I said, my words feeling a bit heavy on my tongue as I pulled my hand away from his own, eyes narrowing as he chuckled lightly in a seemingly pleased manner. Before I could think of it more he had tossed his bag through the open window of the passenger side into the back seat and opened the door with a wink and a humorous "Thank you," that I barely heard.

To my surprise we rode in silence for quite a while. He seemed content to tap his foot against the floor board and his fingers against his knee in tune with the songs I chose from the radio, never once offering up more information on himself or requesting that I paly something different.

I was pretty enthusiastic that he wouldn't ask for anything at all.

Then, a few miles outside of what I knew to be the Virginia boarder, he finally spoke up.

"Hey, Sousuke," he started, using my first name as if he was entitled to it as those sly eyes slid in my direction, "Mind if we stop at the next gas station? I think I have to take a leak."

What a vulgar thing to say, but who was I to judge? It had been a little while and he had been pretty amicable so far, so why should I not? I nodded and as soon as the next and last Virginia exit came upon us with the sign for a gas station I veered off of the interstate and made our stop with an understanding gesture towards the station which he returned with a charming white smile that, for some reason, stole my breath away.

I ignored it and turned up my radio as he slid out of the car and walked leisurely into the store.

He wasn't all that bad, I remembered thinking to myself. A half Japanese man that seemed to understand the value of silence and did not need to engage in meaningless conversation; I remembered thinking that he was polite; that maybe my earlier uneasiness was due to my inability to trust others easily.

And then….

Then I looked up and out of the passenger's side window that was stilled rolled down as I heard a loud slam, and out ran the strawberry blonde haired half Japanese man named Kurosaki, a slightly wide and unsteady smile stretched over his lips as he ran towards the car with a sack in his hands….

And a gun flailing in his left hand, tucking it into his waistband even as he flung the passenger side door open and tossed himself in, wild molasses eyes meeting my own as his breathless voice seared out across my skin.

"What are you waiting for!" I remember him saying to me as he slammed the door shut behind him, "Get going!" And, despite the fact that I had always been an honest man, despite the fact that I had always believed in justice, and despite the fact that I could have just left him there and been on my merry way without getting into any kind of trouble…

I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal as I shifted in to drive, and the tires on my expensive care kicked up rocks and dust as we jetted out of the parking lot, back onto the road and back onto the interstate.