"Hm?" The bundled cocoon shape next to him turned carefully so not to disturb the elaborate arrangement of blankets they'd wrapped around themselves -- the air in the abandoned warehouse they'd claimed for the night was cold enough to freeze their breath into crystals and it wouldn't do to invite it inside their little shared pocket of warmth too carelessly.
"Where we headed?" Dave shifted to bring up the Greyhound map and schedule they'd gleaned from the last depot, both folded and refolded so much the words were barely legible. He clicked on their only flashlight, flicking the dim light over the maps with a quickness borne of conservation, then flicked it off just as quickly. Safety first. Squatting wasn't exactly illegal but cops were too much of a hassle when all you wanted was just a few precious hours of sleep before the next long trek down cracked highways in a dirty bus.
"I don't care," his companion, his girl -- oh she'd laugh herself sick if she knew he called her that in his head -- yawned and buried herself further under mismatched blankets and stolen towels. "One place's as good as another." She paused. "City though, obviously -- too hard to hitchhike in country towns nowadays. Nobody trusts anybody anymore."
"Like that's ever been a thing that stopped happening," Dave muttered to himself -- loud enough for her to hear of course. She rolled her eyes like he knew she would and he grinned.
Thumbing your way across America, the hippie dream; what a load of shit. That kind of magic was for the movies. Reality was sleeping in alleyways with one eye open for drunks ready to roll you for a couple bucks, figuring out how to work the bus system so you could ride transfers through a dozen towns before anyone was the wiser, and avoiding the police, with their juvenile detention centers and their foster homes. Their misguided sense of justice, Terezi called it.
What was just in tearing him away from his brother, throwing her in home after home, leaving broken kids with grown-ups who'd just break them further? They didn't need all of that. Three years til they'd be allowed to do what they wanted, go where they want -- like three years matters so much to make a difference.
Three years is too long for anybody. So they ran.
"Road trip" he called it, with that half grin and she smiled back right along with him -- he never understood how she knew, but Terezi was magical. She ran the best grift, knew how to play up her act for the marks, could pick a wallet from the most concealed pocket with ease, could charm a twenty from anybody's wallet with a pout and a good teary stare from those sightless brown eyes. His only problem was not laughing when she did.
He curled up closer to her, could have buried himself against her, let himself be wrapped up in her if she'd let him; she never knew how much she was his rock, his steady place. Someday he's get up the courage to tell her.
"We wanna save that fifty we got from Mr. Briefcase this morning," said, all business, even as she yawned again with a small smile and curled up closer to him. "Best to run off a transfer down South. Memphis again?"
"Ugh," she breathed against his shoulder. "I hate Memphis."
"Only place we got, 'less you wanna try thumbin it with a trucker 'cross Kansas again."
Her nose wrinkled and she sighed, sliding her hand up the back of his shirt to rest it on his back. Comfort, and support, and oh how he wished he could say words heavy enough, strong enough to match. But the night was short, and sleep was needed. He curled up closer and she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. "Memphis it is."
"Hey," he murmured, nosing in her hair, pressing his cheek against the top of her dark curls. "It's an adventure, right?"
She chuckled at that. "Sure is, Mr. Strider," she murmured. "Sure is."
FILL: TEAM DIRK<3EQUIUS
"So, where to 'Rezi?"
"Hm?" The bundled cocoon shape next to him turned carefully so not to disturb the elaborate arrangement of blankets they'd wrapped around themselves -- the air in the abandoned warehouse they'd claimed for the night was cold enough to freeze their breath into crystals and it wouldn't do to invite it inside their little shared pocket of warmth too carelessly.
"Where we headed?" Dave shifted to bring up the Greyhound map and schedule they'd gleaned from the last depot, both folded and refolded so much the words were barely legible. He clicked on their only flashlight, flicking the dim light over the maps with a quickness borne of conservation, then flicked it off just as quickly. Safety first. Squatting wasn't exactly illegal but cops were too much of a hassle when all you wanted was just a few precious hours of sleep before the next long trek down cracked highways in a dirty bus.
"I don't care," his companion, his girl -- oh she'd laugh herself sick if she knew he called her that in his head -- yawned and buried herself further under mismatched blankets and stolen towels. "One place's as good as another." She paused. "City though, obviously -- too hard to hitchhike in country towns nowadays. Nobody trusts anybody anymore."
"Like that's ever been a thing that stopped happening," Dave muttered to himself -- loud enough for her to hear of course. She rolled her eyes like he knew she would and he grinned.
Thumbing your way across America, the hippie dream; what a load of shit. That kind of magic was for the movies. Reality was sleeping in alleyways with one eye open for drunks ready to roll you for a couple bucks, figuring out how to work the bus system so you could ride transfers through a dozen towns before anyone was the wiser, and avoiding the police, with their juvenile detention centers and their foster homes. Their misguided sense of justice, Terezi called it.
What was just in tearing him away from his brother, throwing her in home after home, leaving broken kids with grown-ups who'd just break them further? They didn't need all of that. Three years til they'd be allowed to do what they wanted, go where they want -- like three years matters so much to make a difference.
Three years is too long for anybody. So they ran.
"Road trip" he called it, with that half grin and she smiled back right along with him -- he never understood how she knew, but Terezi was magical. She ran the best grift, knew how to play up her act for the marks, could pick a wallet from the most concealed pocket with ease, could charm a twenty from anybody's wallet with a pout and a good teary stare from those sightless brown eyes. His only problem was not laughing when she did.
He curled up closer to her, could have buried himself against her, let himself be wrapped up in her if she'd let him; she never knew how much she was his rock, his steady place. Someday he's get up the courage to tell her.
"We wanna save that fifty we got from Mr. Briefcase this morning," said, all business, even as she yawned again with a small smile and curled up closer to him. "Best to run off a transfer down South. Memphis again?"
"Ugh," she breathed against his shoulder. "I hate Memphis."
"Only place we got, 'less you wanna try thumbin it with a trucker 'cross Kansas again."
Her nose wrinkled and she sighed, sliding her hand up the back of his shirt to rest it on his back. Comfort, and support, and oh how he wished he could say words heavy enough, strong enough to match. But the night was short, and sleep was needed. He curled up closer and she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. "Memphis it is."
"Hey," he murmured, nosing in her hair, pressing his cheek against the top of her dark curls. "It's an adventure, right?"
She chuckled at that. "Sure is, Mr. Strider," she murmured. "Sure is."