This bit of a thing-- hardly a story at all, really-- is set fourth season, after "Till Death Do Us Part." It's rated PG-13 for language and some adult imagery. This story really came from hearing a song by Gillian Welch; some of the song lyrics are at the end of the story.

I didn't create and don't own these characters or the premise of the show; if I did, I probably wouldn't have to
shovel my own snow, and new Jarod/Parker siblings wouldn't keep popping up like rabbits. This story is for entertainment purposes only, no infringement is intended, and absolutely no money is being made from this. Please do not reproduce in print without my permission. Please do not archive.

I'd much rather have feedback than a drink; please send it to kirbyfest@yahoo.com.

***

It was late, and the smoke from Parker's fifth cigarette swirled around her head, making the dark room even tougher to see. That was fine. There wasn't much to see in this bar, anyway, and she wasn't here for the view.

Every now and then, she needed to get out of the house. Scotch tasted like scotch no matter where she was, but sometimes she just got tired of sitting alone in her living room while she drank. Words from those annoying Ann Landers columns would flicker through her head-- "Do you often drink alone?" Yes, bitch, I do. Deal with it.

So here she was, tucked into a corner booth. The noise from the other customers (regulars, probably) surrounded her, oddly comforting. Except for the waitress, they left her alone, more involved in their own lives than in wondering about the woman in the corner booth who was working her way through a pack of cigarettes like it was
some kind of sacred mission she had to complete.

They weren't even her brand. That didn't seem to matter much.

Whenever the smoke cleared, Parker was aware that there was a man on the other side of the bar who had been watching her for some time. She was accustomed to being watched, with lazy wanting eyes by men, with icy eyes by other women. It was the way things worked for her. There had been times in her life when she had thrived on it, when she would evaluate the watcher and, sometimes, meet his eyes. There had been times in her life when she would let them buy her a drink, or three, and let their heat warm her for just an hour or two in a dusty motel room that smelled of a dozen other couples who barely knew each other.

Those days were over. She had been much younger. She had been far, far less weary. Tonight, she let the smoke cloud around her head again without acknowledging his gaze.

This wasn't the bar she'd haunted after Thomas had died-- she'd gone to Nick's, down the street. She'd spent a lot of time at Nick's last year, while she still thought she could find out who killed Tommy. She should have known better, of course. She always should have known better.She couldn't go to Nick's any more; it reminded her too much of that time, where all the loss and all the loneliness had been visible, like a sheen on her skin. She'd stopped going to the bar after one night when the bartender not only remembered her drink, but had somehow found out her name. That was breaking the rules. No one was supposed to know you that well in this town; if they
did, they were either out to hurt you, or they would be hurt. That was how things were in Blue Cove.

So this year, when once again she'd been thrown back into the nightmare of Tommy's death, she switched bars. She figured she deserved a bar. She'd found out who pulled the trigger, but hadn't gotten any closer to who had made the decision. She'd brought her baby brother into the world; held him red and slippery and screaming his heart out, then watched his mother die. Watched the house explode. Gotten her father back.

Yes, she deserved a bar. A little alcohol, a little cigarette smoke, some noise-- she deserved that. She deserved all of it.

"Hello."

The voice startled Parker out of her reverie. Shit. It was the man who'd been staring at her, now standing on the far side of her table with his beer in his hand. Hadn't he realized she was ignoring him? Hell, she had been so deep in her own thoughts it should have put up an automatic neon "Do not fucking disturb me" sign. Apparently not.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She looked up at him, smoke from the cigarette in her hand dancing lazily between them. His smile was only just starting to falter at her silence. It was a nice smile, Parker realized. He was tall and while he wasn't gorgeous, he wasn't bad with that glossy black hair and light eyes that were starting to look a little concerned.

Smiling-- only a perfunctory smile, only the bare minimum of what was required when rejecting a stranger-- she finally replied. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure?" He leaned one hip against the booth, as if he were settling in. "It's more fun than drinking alone."

Persistent bastard. She could hurt him, use words to rebuff him that would strip him raw. She'd done it before, she could do it again. But that took an energy, a desire that she just couldn't manage to find.

His hand around the beer bottle was big, she thought absently, solid and weathered. She'd known enough hands to guess that the skin would catch on the silk of her camisole as it was pulled it over her head, but that they would be gentle and tender and the calluses wouldn't matter for long. Just like Thomas.

Her stomach lurched, and she stood up abruptly. Pulling her wallet from her purse, she threw some bills on the table. "Listen. Another drink sounds great, but I'm not good company tonight. I'd really just like to be left alone."

His blue-green eyes evaluated her for a long moment, then he shrugged. "Your choice." He turned around and went back to the shiny ledge of the bar, where one of the waitresses was waiting for him with a far more welcoming smile than Parker had managed to dredge up.

Her choice.

She put her coat on slowly, tying the belt snugly around her waist, slinging her purse over her shoulder; automatic actions to protect her from the cold that waited outside. Her throat was already starting to regret all the smoking she'd done tonight; she'd stink of smoke when she got home, and taste the cigarettes all day tomorrow like a bad dream she couldn't shake.

Her choice, Parker thought, shouldering open the door. It was her choice not to share a drink with a man who was probably pleasant and at least moderately entertaining. Her choice to go home alone, to a bed with sheets that never seemed to get warm.

Taking a deep breath as the cold met her, she blinked back tears as she crossed the parking lot to her car. Her eyes were tearing up because of the winter chill, she reassured herself, aware that the reassurance sounded hollow even inside her own head.

She hadn't had much to drink, but she drove slowly anyway. Parker wasn't in much of a hurry to get home, and the man's words kept ringing in her head.

She'd get home, and would have forgotten to leave on a light; as she came in there would be shadows around the door that, for a moment, would bring back old childhood superstitions. The house would have a chill about it that turning up the heat wouldn't dissipate. She'd crawl into bed, leaving her smoke-saturated clothes in a pile on the
floor, and would have the same restless, dream-riddled sleep she always had, full of creeping images that woke her, gasping for breath. The dreams would fade by the time she got out of the shower the next morning, but the unease would remain.

This was her life. These were her choices.

By the time she got home, the tears tracking down her face no longer had anything to do with the winter cold.

***

The night came undone like a party dress
And fell at her feet in a beautiful mess
The smoke and the whisky went home in her curls
And crept through the dreams of the barroom girls.
-- Gillian Welch, "Barroom Girls

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