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You want to come home with me? Parker had asked: You might get shot.

For Thom, there is now only ever one answer to any question that ends in his leaving the bar; Parker hadn't needed to add, At least then you wouldn't be fucking waiting.

He would have gone.

~

Like last time, they wind up somewhere beat-up and dirty with mirrors that haven't been washed and the smell of poverty warm in the air. The sun rises early and drags past the horizon only reluctantly, late in the evening, pulling streamers of hot air and clouds in its wake. Parker steals a car that didn't belong to its driver -- it was on loan, or something -- and they drift meaninglessly down the lone highway, towards money.

Thom puts his feet up on the dashboard, pushes his arm against the window (cracked) and, head cradled tenderly in the pale crook of his elbow, sometimes sleeps; sometimes watches the sand blow away.

"Why so angry?" he asks Parker once. Looking to start a fight.

But Parker just turns up the radio.

~

There's an ambush where the car stops. Thom waits by the sidelines, slender arms crossed in a sendup of patience, as Parker and the fence talk shop -- politely at first, then with bullets. Parker shoves him back against the car when the fence's gun goes; the metal door burns through the thin silk of his shirt, and he sinks to his knees, surprised, testing the rising heat. Parker doesn't talk when he fights; doesn't taunt, doesn't tease. When they leave there's heavy lead in the fence's shoulder and knee but he's breathing, which is more than Thom would have allowed, had he been betrayed. Maybe. He's never killed anyone.

But he thinks big.

Thom waits in the dust as Parker exchanges goods -- whatever they are -- for currency. Waits until Parker stops in front of him, eyes cold, and touches his face with a bloody hand; leaves wet red lines on Thom's unbroken cheekbone.

He crawls to his feet and gets back in the car. The engine gives a shuddering, violent cough; moves them along. They roll into an empty parking lot, chip bags flat and light and dry under the tires.

~

"Good thinking," Thom says, "back there," voice heavy with sarcasm. He watches Parker trying to bandage his own arm; doesn't look away.

Parker says, dismissive, "Shut up, Thom."

"No," says Thom, widening his eyes and not letting up, "I was really impressed. Do all your jobs go that smoothly?"

He presses on until Parker snaps, still favoring his injured arm, and says something that has Thom across the gearshift in a second, angry, playing for keeps; he hisses, "Stupid," as hard as he can, and when he kisses Parker he bites Parker's lip, hard, until Parker shoves him into the backseat. Follows after.

When it's over he ties the bandage -- weathered cloth -- himself, but they're both already marked with blood, and Thom shrugs his way into the motel with a scowl on his lips and bruises that darken his throat. He flinches from Parker the moment Parker ventures a glance at him.

Tired, he throws himself into a chair; covers his face with his hands. Parker's footsteps move steadily, quietly around the small room. Then grow fainter. And Thom looks up and through the open door --

(seeing Milliways hasn't felt like this since the first time)

-- relief.

Thom's door isn't locked tonight. He isn't doing anything suspicious: just sleeping fitfully, as if he had a fever.

*The door isn't locked.

Thom must be bored.*

HOKAY, THIS IS NOT IMPOSSIBLE!

It's not long afterwards.

Thom's long since struggled out of what's left of his black shirt, however; sits against the foot of his bed, twisting the cloth in his hands.

Thom's sitting in the middle of his floor, looking at stuff that he got for his birthday. Some of it more than the rest. He's drunk. And disoriented. And still wearing purple swim trunks. And kind of wet.

Weird night.

The weather's getting better, you know? Thom sits by the shore of the lake, barefoot, looking thoughtful. No telling how long he's been out here.

He dreams of her, sometimes. Often.

Tonight he dreams of watching her in the fire, as he used to do. The flames are warm and respond softly to his guiding fingers; the words are smooth and familiar on his lips. He kneels by the hearth and stirs the fire.

In the desert she seems harder than he remembers. Not desperate, not cruel, not unhappy.

Just --

Hard.

Tonight he dreams of being unable to find her, of knowing where she is, why she is there, but not how she is. He assumes that she is all right because to him she is constant, indestructible, stronger than anything but the gods. Perhaps stronger; the gods have never been tested, have they? The gods are no one's tool.

The fire darkens. He doesn't know if she is beyond his range -- he can hardly fathom this, although he knows that she is very far away -- or if the problem lies with him, with the foul dried-blood rust of his magic.

She will be unhappy, he knows; she hates the cold.

They hate the cold.

A hand on his shoulder lures him gently to his feet; Thom turns, and forgets.

*Thom is in.

He almost always is.*