Parker drove past the gas station twice before finally pulling in, and when she does she does carefully, keeping an eye out for any signs of life
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If Parker's watching the floor, she'd see muddy footprints, grit and sand mixed in, crisscrossing the floor. They're fresher than other prints. The shoes are small, with zigzag patterns on the soles.
Bridgette heard someone come in. She grabbed her breakfast (M&Ms and Twizzlers), her shoes (she took them off and washed her feet in the toilet), and ran. She's learned enough to hide and wait to see who it is.
Bridgette she hides behind the counter. The cash register was ripped off - a few bills are still scattered on the ground.
A head of light blonde hair rises from behind the counter. Then a round forehead, thin eyebrows and wide azure blue eyes.
Oh, Parker saw the footprints, sure enough, but she thought they were a little older than they turned out to be. Even as she's eyeing the little girl with a calm, cool, collected appraisal, Parker's making a note to work on that.
"Hey," she says, accent delibrately allowed to thicken over the greeting as she pulls a hand from her pocket and gives the girl a small wave. "Didn't know there was anybody occupying the place."
...fuck, she took their gas. Parker is smart enough not to touch the knife strapped to her side, because that's just asking to have it taken away, but she's much more aware of it now.
Bridgette ducks! Because that will magically make Parker disappear.
There is silence - and Bridgette looks around and is filled with dread. She lost Marie. She must be back in the candy aisle.
Maybe she can keep this person away from Marie. (Like Ariel did for Bridgette.) That'll do, until she reaches a decision about this stranger one way or the other. (No dreams to tell her who's good and who isn't.)
"There is," Bridgette notes from behind the counter, like this was obvious and Parker is a dummy for not getting it.
Parker's no stranger to that tone (this girl can't be much older than Nate, but she won't consider that) and she shifts into a comfortable, wide legged stance as she slips her thumbs through her belt loops.
"Well, I can see that," she says, midly. The girl hasn't called for her folk yet, which is interesting in a whole lot of ways that make Parker want to sit them down and slap them across the face. "You running the place?"
"That's for grownups," Bridgette explains. There's a few footsteps and the girl pokes her head out. Her thin hair is greasy and snarled. She managed to pick most of the leaves and twigs out of it, except for a few that made her eyes water.
In one hand is her breakfast, the other her dirty, mud-caked shoes.
Now, Parker doesn't see anything unusual about a muddy kid, but there are too many little clues adding up here for that to be all that this is. Parker bends a little, fixing Bridgette with a slightly softer, if no less watchful, look.
That's just about as telling as if the girl had burst into tears, if not more.
Parker's thoughts flash to Phoebe in the car, curled up and waiting, and she hunkers on the floor and gives Bridge another of her cool, calm evaluations.
"No, huh?" She says, softly. "You seem pretty set on that."
Bridge, whether she knows it or not, has quite possibly met her match - not in stubborness, though Parker has all of that she needs - but in sheer, relentless patience. Parker's mouth quirks a little, and she shrugs.
"I'm not suuuuure if I am," Bridgette muses, eyeing the outstretched hand. It's the kind of comment that would have Mommy saying 'Bridgette!' if she were here.
Then she comes to a decision, looking at Parker's hand. If Ariel were here, she could read that palm, tell the future like she did was Mama Tricks and Joe and Steve.
"Catch," she says, then chucks the Twizzlers to the left of Parker's hand, to see if she'll catch it.
Her wrist is turning before Parker has time to figure if catching the Twizzlers is the right thing to do in this situation; the months on the road have turned good reflexes into nearly perfect ones, snapping her body into movement without ever really stopping by her head for permission.
Even so, it's an awkward catch, and she nearly lets the package slip through her fingers and hit the floor anyway, saving it only by flicking it up in the air and catching it again, this time securely.
Parker lets a heartbeat or so of time pass in silence, and then shrugs.
"You want these back, or you got anything else you want to throw at me before you're satisfied?" She asks, holding out her other hand expectantly.
"We had a baseball team back home," Parker replies, sticking the Twizzlers into her pockets, "I played outfield. That was a pretty good throw - you a pitcher?"
Bridgette heard someone come in. She grabbed her breakfast (M&Ms and Twizzlers), her shoes (she took them off and washed her feet in the toilet), and ran. She's learned enough to hide and wait to see who it is.
Bridgette she hides behind the counter. The cash register was ripped off - a few bills are still scattered on the ground.
A head of light blonde hair rises from behind the counter. Then a round forehead, thin eyebrows and wide azure blue eyes.
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"Hey," she says, accent delibrately allowed to thicken over the greeting as she pulls a hand from her pocket and gives the girl a small wave. "Didn't know there was anybody occupying the place."
...fuck, she took their gas. Parker is smart enough not to touch the knife strapped to her side, because that's just asking to have it taken away, but she's much more aware of it now.
Reply
There is silence - and Bridgette looks around and is filled with dread. She lost Marie. She must be back in the candy aisle.
Maybe she can keep this person away from Marie. (Like Ariel did for Bridgette.) That'll do, until she reaches a decision about this stranger one way or the other. (No dreams to tell her who's good and who isn't.)
"There is," Bridgette notes from behind the counter, like this was obvious and Parker is a dummy for not getting it.
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"Well, I can see that," she says, midly. The girl hasn't called for her folk yet, which is interesting in a whole lot of ways that make Parker want to sit them down and slap them across the face. "You running the place?"
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In one hand is her breakfast, the other her dirty, mud-caked shoes.
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Now, Parker doesn't see anything unusual about a muddy kid, but there are too many little clues adding up here for that to be all that this is. Parker bends a little, fixing Bridgette with a slightly softer, if no less watchful, look.
"You'd best get me to some then, huh?"
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She scrunches her forehead up thoughtfully. Then says: "No," and crosses her arms over her chest.
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Parker's thoughts flash to Phoebe in the car, curled up and waiting, and she hunkers on the floor and gives Bridge another of her cool, calm evaluations.
"No, huh?" She says, softly. "You seem pretty set on that."
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"How old are you?" This question is of great relevance.
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"Fifteen," she says, "And how 'bout you?"
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"Eight and a half," she says, mustering all the weapons she can.
Her legs, not quite as chubby after months of hard living as they used to be, twitch restlessly.
"My name is Bridgette Dubois." She motions to Parker with a Twizzler to indicate she should give her name.
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"Parker Alice Lachance," she says, lifting one of those easily resting hands and offering it to Bridgette, "I'm real proud to meet you, Bridgette."
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Then she comes to a decision, looking at Parker's hand. If Ariel were here, she could read that palm, tell the future like she did was Mama Tricks and Joe and Steve.
"Catch," she says, then chucks the Twizzlers to the left of Parker's hand, to see if she'll catch it.
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Even so, it's an awkward catch, and she nearly lets the package slip through her fingers and hit the floor anyway, saving it only by flicking it up in the air and catching it again, this time securely.
Parker lets a heartbeat or so of time pass in silence, and then shrugs.
"You want these back, or you got anything else you want to throw at me before you're satisfied?" She asks, holding out her other hand expectantly.
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"That," and this is a tone of wary approval, "was a very good catch."
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