Been a moonshiner for many a year
Fandom: Justified
Title: Been a moonshiner for many a year
Characters: Raylan Givens/Winona Hawkins
Warnings: Spoilers for S2
Author’s notes: Under the cut
Author’s notes: Hello, leigh57! This is for YOU in response to your prompt for Dec 12: Whiskey, cold, aftershave. This is VERY rough and unbetaed, since I’m so fail at time-management. And I’m not even sure if it fits into canon. In fact, I’m pretty sure it breaks canon. sardonicynic, if you read this, you can tell me if this scene I’ve written is at all accurate. I always get hazy on the details surrounding Winona and Gary’s relationship, given that I care about Gary about as much as a dog cares about the cleanliness of a kitchen floor. ANYWAY. Hope you like it, S? I'm headed to my LAST CLASS of the semester, so I'm getting brave and posting even though I can't reread it. The title and cut text are from Redbird's cover of the song Moonshiner.
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He drags a razor down his stubbled cheek, swishing it in the water to rinse off the blade.
His exposed skin chills as he removes the shaving cream, which can only mean the hotel heat's not working again.
Which would be fine, except that Winona’s coming over and he'd wanted things to be nice for her.
He wanted...
Well.
He’s not exactly sure what he wanted.
“Raylan?” he hears as he towels off his face and dabs aftershave on his skin.
“Come on in,” he calls through the multiple doors between them.
“Brought you somethin’,” she yells back after he hears her come inside. He can feel her eyes wandering around the place. He pictures her standing there in that white coat of hers, blond waves falling against the collar.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” He dries his hands, looking around the sink to make sure it’s tidy.
“You’ll have to come out and see for yourself,” she calls. “Visual's better than me telling you about it.”
Raylan’s not so sure, but he walks out of the bathroom just the same and leans against the door-frame.
Winona’s in the process of taking off her coat when he steps out. Then she starts shrugging it back on, crossing her arms around herself.
“Christ, it’s freezin’ in here,” she’s sayin’ as he’s noticing the bottle of Macallan Scotch-Whiskey she’s got in her right hand. He looks up at her, squints a bit.
(There ain’t a single-malt out there he hasn’t liked after tasting. Off her lips, he imagines, it feels even hotter going down.)
She raises the corner of her mouth in that way that’s all-Winona and holds up the bottle. “What do you say we make a toast?”
“We can make a toast all right,” Raylan says, chuckling at her offering as he grins back. “A toast to what?”
He’s reaching into the tiny sink to rinse out a couple of glasses, distracting his hands as she’s opening up the bottle.
She so methodical and quiet about it that the air around him seems heavy. He knows something’s up. Thing is, he’s not quite sure what, or if he has any business asking. He places his hand on her shoulder as she’s pouring their poison, willing her to look over at him without saying a word to that effect.
She hands him his glass and clinks it with hers and when, finally, she looks him in the eye, he repeats the question. “What are we toastin’?" he asks, taking the sip he figures he’s gonna need.
“My divorce papers going through,” she says, quiet, breathing out the words like they’ll contaminate the room.
Raylan nearly chokes on the whiskey, managing to cringe at the insanity of this whole damn thing. “You’re somethin' else, you know that?”
“I know.” Her eyes look shined and glossy and she leans her back against the wall, shutting her eyes for a second. “I feel bad about it, Raylan, but I’m just...relieved, I guess is the word. Not happy. Relieved.”
“D’you drink when our papers went through?” is the only thing he can think of right now.
“Not to celebrate.” She answers without skipping a beat.
He nods.
“I happen to know what will warm you up,” he says.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” She moves closer to him, finding that spot on his neck that she knows distracts him like nothin' else.
“I was thinking what’ll warm you up is what you’re holdin’ in your hand,” Raylan says, shutting his eyes as her tongue finds the lobe of his ear. “But I’m quite partial to your idea."
He takes another sip before she takes it from his hand, places their glasses on the nightstand, and starts at the buttons of his shirt.
“Winona,” he says, but she’s focused and fast, not gonna stop what she’s doing ‘less he physically stands in the way of her and the objective here, which...ain't about to happen.
He wants her and he knows that much. She knows that much, too. Not something he bothers trying to hide, because she’ll find …
Her hand reaches below his belt, moving across the denim.
She'll... she's findin' out right now.
He shuts his eyes for a second.
When he opens them, he moves to hike up her skirt, peeling down these silky purple things she’s got on underneath.
“You wear underwear like these all the time now?” he asks her. She trembles when his breath hits her ear.
“There was a sale at…” He moves his mouth across her chest, then lower. “Oh god.”
“Tell me how.” He blows the words across her stomach, watching the goosebumps rise.
“You know how, Raylan, just…” She arches her hips into him.
When he’s inside of her he thinks about her lips on his and the way that she fits and doors flying wide open, wide as her eyes as her breath hitches and she contracts around him.
Then, when it’s over and she’s lying right on top of him, takes everything in him not to whisper the things that he wants. Instead, he runs his hand up her spine, listens to her breaths as they settle, and says, “Can’t keep doin’ this to me if sometime or another you ain’t gonna stay.”
She stills. He can feel her holding her breath.
He waits it out.
“How about I stay then?” she whispers, so soft he tells himself it’s his imagination.
He moves back to look at her as she tilts her head towards him.
“Tonight?” he asks, clutching her waist like it’s the physical embodiment of his hope.
“Yeah.” She shrugs a bit, like it’s less of a big deal than he’s making it out to be, but he knows she doesn’t buy her own pitch. “And after that,” she adds, biting her lip.
“Well,” he says, reaching to the nightstand for their glasses. “I’d like that very much.”
“Okay,” she says, rolling off of him.
“Yeah?” He hands over her glass.
“Alright,” she whispers, holding onto the last syllable like his hand in her hair, twirling around the light weight of it before letting it fall.
Title: Been a moonshiner for many a year
Characters: Raylan Givens/Winona Hawkins
Warnings: Spoilers for S2
Author’s notes: Under the cut
Author’s notes: Hello, leigh57! This is for YOU in response to your prompt for Dec 12: Whiskey, cold, aftershave. This is VERY rough and unbetaed, since I’m so fail at time-management. And I’m not even sure if it fits into canon. In fact, I’m pretty sure it breaks canon. sardonicynic, if you read this, you can tell me if this scene I’ve written is at all accurate. I always get hazy on the details surrounding Winona and Gary’s relationship, given that I care about Gary about as much as a dog cares about the cleanliness of a kitchen floor. ANYWAY. Hope you like it, S? I'm headed to my LAST CLASS of the semester, so I'm getting brave and posting even though I can't reread it. The title and cut text are from Redbird's cover of the song Moonshiner.
++++++++++++++++++++
He drags a razor down his stubbled cheek, swishing it in the water to rinse off the blade.
His exposed skin chills as he removes the shaving cream, which can only mean the hotel heat's not working again.
Which would be fine, except that Winona’s coming over and he'd wanted things to be nice for her.
He wanted...
Well.
He’s not exactly sure what he wanted.
“Raylan?” he hears as he towels off his face and dabs aftershave on his skin.
“Come on in,” he calls through the multiple doors between them.
“Brought you somethin’,” she yells back after he hears her come inside. He can feel her eyes wandering around the place. He pictures her standing there in that white coat of hers, blond waves falling against the collar.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” He dries his hands, looking around the sink to make sure it’s tidy.
“You’ll have to come out and see for yourself,” she calls. “Visual's better than me telling you about it.”
Raylan’s not so sure, but he walks out of the bathroom just the same and leans against the door-frame.
Winona’s in the process of taking off her coat when he steps out. Then she starts shrugging it back on, crossing her arms around herself.
“Christ, it’s freezin’ in here,” she’s sayin’ as he’s noticing the bottle of Macallan Scotch-Whiskey she’s got in her right hand. He looks up at her, squints a bit.
(There ain’t a single-malt out there he hasn’t liked after tasting. Off her lips, he imagines, it feels even hotter going down.)
She raises the corner of her mouth in that way that’s all-Winona and holds up the bottle. “What do you say we make a toast?”
“We can make a toast all right,” Raylan says, chuckling at her offering as he grins back. “A toast to what?”
He’s reaching into the tiny sink to rinse out a couple of glasses, distracting his hands as she’s opening up the bottle.
She so methodical and quiet about it that the air around him seems heavy. He knows something’s up. Thing is, he’s not quite sure what, or if he has any business asking. He places his hand on her shoulder as she’s pouring their poison, willing her to look over at him without saying a word to that effect.
She hands him his glass and clinks it with hers and when, finally, she looks him in the eye, he repeats the question. “What are we toastin’?" he asks, taking the sip he figures he’s gonna need.
“My divorce papers going through,” she says, quiet, breathing out the words like they’ll contaminate the room.
Raylan nearly chokes on the whiskey, managing to cringe at the insanity of this whole damn thing. “You’re somethin' else, you know that?”
“I know.” Her eyes look shined and glossy and she leans her back against the wall, shutting her eyes for a second. “I feel bad about it, Raylan, but I’m just...relieved, I guess is the word. Not happy. Relieved.”
“D’you drink when our papers went through?” is the only thing he can think of right now.
“Not to celebrate.” She answers without skipping a beat.
He nods.
“I happen to know what will warm you up,” he says.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” She moves closer to him, finding that spot on his neck that she knows distracts him like nothin' else.
“I was thinking what’ll warm you up is what you’re holdin’ in your hand,” Raylan says, shutting his eyes as her tongue finds the lobe of his ear. “But I’m quite partial to your idea."
He takes another sip before she takes it from his hand, places their glasses on the nightstand, and starts at the buttons of his shirt.
“Winona,” he says, but she’s focused and fast, not gonna stop what she’s doing ‘less he physically stands in the way of her and the objective here, which...ain't about to happen.
He wants her and he knows that much. She knows that much, too. Not something he bothers trying to hide, because she’ll find …
Her hand reaches below his belt, moving across the denim.
She'll... she's findin' out right now.
He shuts his eyes for a second.
When he opens them, he moves to hike up her skirt, peeling down these silky purple things she’s got on underneath.
“You wear underwear like these all the time now?” he asks her. She trembles when his breath hits her ear.
“There was a sale at…” He moves his mouth across her chest, then lower. “Oh god.”
“Tell me how.” He blows the words across her stomach, watching the goosebumps rise.
“You know how, Raylan, just…” She arches her hips into him.
When he’s inside of her he thinks about her lips on his and the way that she fits and doors flying wide open, wide as her eyes as her breath hitches and she contracts around him.
Then, when it’s over and she’s lying right on top of him, takes everything in him not to whisper the things that he wants. Instead, he runs his hand up her spine, listens to her breaths as they settle, and says, “Can’t keep doin’ this to me if sometime or another you ain’t gonna stay.”
She stills. He can feel her holding her breath.
He waits it out.
“How about I stay then?” she whispers, so soft he tells himself it’s his imagination.
He moves back to look at her as she tilts her head towards him.
“Tonight?” he asks, clutching her waist like it’s the physical embodiment of his hope.
“Yeah.” She shrugs a bit, like it’s less of a big deal than he’s making it out to be, but he knows she doesn’t buy her own pitch. “And after that,” she adds, biting her lip.
“Well,” he says, reaching to the nightstand for their glasses. “I’d like that very much.”
“Okay,” she says, rolling off of him.
“Yeah?” He hands over her glass.
“Alright,” she whispers, holding onto the last syllable like his hand in her hair, twirling around the light weight of it before letting it fall.