Fic: Take Care of You 3/5 Part 1 | Justified | Boyd/Raylan

[norgbelulah]

Justified. Boyd/Raylan.

AU. Sequel to Set Fire to this House and Tear Down These Walls.

~17,000 words. Explicit. Chapter 3/5. Chapter One is here.

Short disclaimer: All characters and scenarios belong to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost and NOT ME.

Summary: Raylan and Boyd kept a secret for five years. Even in Harlan, secrets want to be told, and neither Boyd nor Raylan have any idea of the repercussions their private life will wreak on themselves and their home. Bullets will fly, families will be torn apart, and Raylan and Boyd will remember that it's much easier to come into Harlan than it is to get out alive.

In chapter three, prison visits, car bombs, and sawed-off shotguns. Basically, Boyd and Raylan have a shitty weekend. Boyd especially.

Thanks to betas rillalicious, engage_protocol and thornfield_girl, without which this chapter and all of the others would not nearly have been so awesome.


Take Care of You

Brace This Door, Lest It Be Broken Down

This was not the first time Boyd had visited his daddy in prison.

As he walked the long hallway, hands held firmly in the pockets of his wool coat, buttoned tight, though not against the cold, he remembered when Bo was in minimum security on a charge of assault and battery. He and Bowman had been teenagers.

It had been a different prison, but to Boyd they all looked the same, dingy white walls and metal bars, the doors that close behind you with a clang and a buzz before the next can be opened, the heavy kind that will snap off your fingers instead of just breaking them if they were to get caught.

Bowman had been young, twelve or thirteen, and his eyes were wide and scared as they’d walked through to the little booth where they waited for Daddy. It was the last time Boyd remembered holding his brother’s hand for any length of time, for any amount of comfort.

Bo had seen through the glass at their fingers clinging together as they sat beside each other on one chair and faced him. He told them harshly not to be such fucking pussies. It was Bowman that let go.

Boyd kept his hands in his pockets and told himself not to wish Raylan was there. Raylan knew all about prisons. He spent half his day coming in and out of them sometimes, or so he complained. Boyd had left him outside, waiting by the car in the wind and the chilly September air.

The guard he walked behind was a young kid, with a baby face to go along with his blond hair and blue eyes. The ring on his finger said he had a wife, and Boyd hoped he didn’t bring any of the shit he saw in this place back home to his woman and whatever beautiful children they might have together.

As a kid, hanging around his daddy’s place of business, he’d seen too many prison guards fall into the kind of work Bo Crowder often needed from men with that skill set. They almost never lasted. The most expendable of all outlaws were those who once worked within the law. Bo always said you could never trust them not to snitch.

“End of the row,” Baby-face told Boyd flatly as they came into the visitor’s room.

He walked down by himself, taking in the nauseatingly green walls and the cold steel surface of the bench and table where he sat down. There was a handprint on the glass in front of him, pressed there by a large palm, as though the man had been reaching out to someone who would not reciprocate. Boyd felt sick.

He had less than half a minute to collect himself before he heard the sound of the door on the opposite side opening up for Bo.

Boyd’s daddy wore the orange jumpsuit every other inmate was required to wear and his hair was longer than Boyd knew he liked to keep it. He had his business face on and Boyd put steel into his own eyes, realizing there wasn’t going to be a smiling reunion before they got down to why Bo had called him there.

He held himself straight-backed in that cold chair and waited until Bo picked up the phone before he reached for his.

Bo didn’t speak right away, so Boyd greeted him, “Hello, Daddy.”

“Son,” he said and looked to be considering Boyd before he asked a simple, crushing question. “Why is it that you feel you have to break your father’s heart?”

Boyd felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. With years away from the big man, with miles between them here at the prison, and even before when they just stopped running in the same circles, he’d forgotten this is how Bo was.

Every play Bowman had ever made in high school, every scheme Boyd successfully pulled off, was seen as a gift from them to him, while every failure was a personal affront. Bo Crowder met disappointment with the assumption that the emotional fallout was was meant just to hurt him and only him.

Of course Bo would see this as something Boyd had done to him, and not for himself, or even for Raylan.

Boyd swallowed from a dry throat, fighting back the first, instinctive impulse to apologize, to say he’d never do it again, and replied, “Whatever I have done, Daddy, you must believe me when I say my intent was not to hurt anyone. You especially.”

Bo laughed. It was hard and harsh, but Boyd stopped himself from wincing. “Whatever you’ve done. Whatever you’ve done?” He leaned forward and pressed his knuckles to the glass. Boyd didn’t move. “Boyd. Tell me you haven’t done the things your brother, the things half my goddamn county, have been saying you’ve done and we’ll stop this talk right now. I am ready for you to tell me it’s all lies. Go on.”

“I can’t, Daddy. Unless what you want is more lies.”

Bo’s eyes were terrifying for just a moment, a flash of pure anger and disgust. Then he shook his head. “Tell me then, that you’ve got a plan for the good Marshal. That you’re playing a long game and he’ll get a bullet the day you leave that house.”

“Daddy, no,” Boyd said then took a breath, afraid to betray how tight this was winding him up. “There is no long game. I live with Raylan because I want to. I moved into that house because he asked. If he gets a bullet when I’m on my way out, it’ll be because I caught one, too.”

Bo slammed his knuckles on the glass, like he was trying to shatter it and Boyd fought not to jump back. He may have flinched and he saw that victory in his father’s eyes. He glanced down at the guard at the end of the room, knowing that this kind of behavior was not encouraged.

It was Baby-face, standing at dispassionate attention in an otherwise empty room. Boyd hadn’t wondered before why no one else was there visiting, but he quickly realized the guard he’d been giving his good wishes to was already on Bo’s payroll.

“Son,” Bo said quietly, as if he’d not just been moved to such forceful anger, “this... this I cannot abide. In any other instance, I would appreciate your honesty, but today I wish you had lied to me. You will fix this and you will do so before I am released from this sentence. There is no way under God that I can allow you to besmirch my name and the proud legacy of this family with your fucking faggotry. Do you understand me?”

Boyd knew he could not reason with him, but he felt compelled to speak. “Daddy, this is not and never has been about you or the family--”

Bo pounded on the glass again and roared at him, “It is, you little shit. Everything you do comes down on this family, everything you build supports it. Did you learn nothing from what I’ve done for us?”

Boyd did not break his gaze from Bo’s, heated and fearless. He replied steadily, “All that I learned is how to make a fortune off the backs of dead men and where it gets you in the end, Daddy. That’s not the kind of life that I want anymore. I’ve kept my code and your secrets as well as my own. I believe at this point, with your disgust for the choices I’ve made, that is all you can rightfully ask of me. Come find me, when you leave here, as you please. We’ll be ready.”

Boyd hung up the phone, now warm from his hand and his breath, and stood slowly, walking back down that row of tables and benches and big black telephones to the echoing rhythm of his father’s hand against that dirty glass.

He stuck his hands back in his pockets and spoke softly as the guard opened the door in front of him. “You should transfer, son. Get out of state before he’s released. You’ll get buried under all the lies before he finally puts you in the ground.”

Boyd was glad he couldn’t see the look on his face when he came out of that prison. By the expression on Raylan’s it was not pretty.

He felt drained, wrung out, and wildly frayed at the nerves. But at the bottom of all that thin, airless, emptiness there was a white hot little ember of anger, stoked by outrage and helplessness, breathed to life by the nearing presence of Raylan as Boyd approached him from the empty yard.

Raylan had come up to the chain link fence, was leaning hard against it, casting his eyes back at Boyd as each subsequent gate opened for him. He watched Boyd approach with his fingers caught up in the chain, straining like he wanted to tear it down to get at him faster.

When the last gate did open, Raylan stepped forward, but not so far that he was in Boyd’s space. Something in his eyes must have held Raylan back, but Boyd wished it wasn’t there and took the last step himself.

He pressed up close to Raylan, drawing in a deep breath and his hands up to either side of his face, brushing their foreheads and noses together, just lightly. Raylan let him make all the moves, standing very still, as if he were about to spook, and touching him softly only on his shoulder, his waist. And that was fine, for now.

“Okay, Boyd?” he asked quietly. Boyd’s eyes were closed, so he couldn’t see his face.

“I want you,” he replied slowly, “to take me home and put your hands all over me. Make me yours tonight, Raylan, because the Lord knows I ain’t no one else’s now.”

“Jesus, Boyd,” Raylan breathed, but he didn’t say anything else after that because Boyd was kissing him.

Moments later, they were interrupted by the rhythmic buzz of Raylan’s phone in his pocket. Boyd put a smile on his lips. “Why, Raylan,” he began, but Raylan pulled away, fishing the phone out and opening it with a glare that said, don’t you dare finish that sentence.

“Art,” he said, keeping one hand on Boyd’s waist, twirling two fingers through one of the loops at Boyd’s belt. “Now’s not really a good time.”

Boyd watched as Raylan’s boss spoke to him over the line, and he saw Raylan’s frown grow to a frustrated scowl. “Yeah, I remember you said I’d be on call but--”

“Well, no, I’m not in Harlan. I’m at Little Sandy--personal business.” Boyd was sure Art just loved that response. “Why can’t--” he paused, listening through a lengthy explanation, then sighing heavily. “Fine, I’m on my way. But I want an extra day this weekend. And Art, Boyd’s coming too.”

Boyd tilted his head at Raylan and asked quietly, “Where are we going?”

Raylan must have seen yet another thing he didn’t like in Boyd’s expression because he looked guiltily at him and said all in a rush, “Art’s out of town and Rachel’s mother’s in the hospital for some kind of outpatient thing. I’m real sorry about this, but I gotta go make sure the new kid’s okay.”

“The new kid?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. If we don’t get a move on, we won’t get there ‘til after he’s fucked it up.”

There had apparently been a breakout at Eastern Kentucky Correctional, just in the next county over, which was where they drove first. But en route to the place, Raylan got a call from the kid himself, saying there was a situation that probably involved the fugitive in a little town called Campton just about twenty more minutes down the road.

When they pulled up to the ring of police cars just around a large intersection in the middle of a series of strip malls, Raylan parked quickly and turned to him. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you to just stay in the car?”

In response to that, Boyd opened the passenger side door and stepped out, hearing Raylan heave a sigh to his back. As soon as he got out of the vehicle, a uniformed officer came running up to him, breathlessly shouting, “You can’t be here. Go back behind the barricade--”

But Raylan was out of the car too, flashing his star and saying, “It’s okay, he’s with me. Where’s the other Marshal?”

They were directed down, closer to the bright green sports car around which all the police vehicles were situated. Raylan walked in front of him and waved over to an young man, blond and skinny, wearing plain black and khaki, and having the look of the army written all over him. His stare said sniper, it was long and hard in a way that Boyd had seen a few times in Kuwait.

It sort of kept everything at a distance, that stare did. Paired with the traces of a dry smile as well a particular grace of movement, it made the young Marshal seem quite a force to be reckoned with. Boyd already liked him.

When they reached each other, Raylan said quickly, “Deputy Tim Gutterson, this is Boyd Crowder,” as if Boyd belonged there. “Boyd, this is Tim.” They sort of nodded to each other, though Tim had a little bit of a questioning look on his face, and Raylan asked, “What’s the story?”

The kid, Tim, grimaced and answered. “In the muscle car, we have a Mr. RJ Mahoney, who says he’s got a bomb strapped under him that will blow if he moves or if anyone tries to approach. We pulled a rap sheet a half mile long on Mahoney, mostly connected to a petty crime and oxy pushing contingency of the so-called Dixie Mafia. The same branch that was once headed by Willard Elliott, our fugitive, before he was put away last year. Now, I’m thinking Elliott has some sort of score to settle, one the higher ups didn’t necessarily know when they sprung him. And he’s chosen this unusually theatrical way of getting his revenge.”

“That’s quite a hunch,” Raylan replied, not exactly critically.

“Yeah, well, Mahoney keeps screaming ‘I’m sorry, Willard’ into his cell phone along with all the pleas for mercy. Also, see that building over there,” Tim pointed off to the diagonal right of where they were standing, to a two story shop on top of which stood a man.

Raylan nodded. “Certainly fits Elliott’s description. And he’d need a vantage point if he’s going to see the fireworks.”

“Exactly. And a short enough range to trip the detonator.”

Boyd peered up at the man, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, he found the remote in the fugitive’s hand. “He’s got it on a reverse trip. His thumb’s already pressed down, if he lets go, that’s when it will blow. Safer that way if there’s a chance someone will take it from you.”

Raylan looked over at him like he sort of wanted Boyd to shut up and Tim had a real big frown on his face. He was about to speak, but Boyd moved forward, pushing past them both and ignoring Raylan’s call of, “Boyd,” in a tone that could only be described as a warning.

Boyd didn’t go far, he just stooped low to the ground, searching underneath the bright green, heavily detailed monstrosity, and found what he was looking for. When he stood up again, he scanned the area one more time and said to Raylan, “You pull these cars back another ten feet and the blast won't touch them or even the buildings along this street. You’re a sharpshooter, right?” Boyd asked Tim. “If you let him take that asshole out, you won’t leave much more than a pothole in the blacktop. Get out your rifle, wing Elliott, and he’ll drop the detonator. You can just climb up there and get him.”

Tim stared at him for a minute, glanced again between him and Raylan and asked, “And who the hell are you, again?”

Boyd found himself grinning as he began to answer, “Well, Deputy Gutterson--”

But Raylan cut him off swiftly, “Boyd, I thought I told you to quit it with that Harlan County, smiling hillbilly bullshit, back when you first met Art.” Boyd smirked like that may have been the case as Raylan turned to Tim. “Tim, Boyd is... my partner.”

“Your...” Tim, dragged out the word into a question, seeing as there would be about three or four different ways to define that particular term. Boyd rolled his eyes.

“My boyfriend,” Raylan finally got out, glaring at Boyd like he knew what he was thinking.

Tim looked between the two of them one more time, licked his lips, and said, “Harlan, huh? That’s gotta be weird.”

“Son, you have no idea,” Boyd answered, watching Raylan look around again.

“What about the bomb squad?” Raylan asked.

“On their way. But they’re coming in from Lexington and this place is far enough off the map, who knows when they’ll get here.” Tim replied.

“Okay,” Raylan finally said, turning to Tim, “I think we should get these guys to move the cars back. If there’s one thing I trust Boyd on, it’s goddamn explosives, even from this distance. But I’m gonna go ahead and forget that other shit you said,” he told Boyd directly, pointing his finger at him, which meant he was real serious. “What else?” he asked Tim and Boyd was glad he pulled himself back from stealing the whole show from the kid. Just because he was new didn’t mean he couldn’t actually handle the situation.

Tim straightened a little and replied, “Well, since the negotiator’s with the bomb squad, but we’re probably running out of time on this one, I’m thinking one of us should probably go talk to Elliott.”

Raylan raised his brows, sliding a hand onto his hip.

“You,” Tim said quickly. “You should go. I’d be shit at it.”

Raylan smiled and the decision was made. The two Marshals went off in opposite directions, Raylan to his car for a flak vest, and Tim to tell the senior local officer to get the police cars moved back. Boyd leaned against the black SUV he assumed Tim had arrived in and watched the proceedings with a critical eye.

When Tim returned, Raylan told him, “Despite the fact that we are ignoring that other shit that Boyd said, pull out the rifle anyway. Only wing him if something bad happens.”

Boyd noted the tiny quirk of Tim’s lips, quickly stilled, as Raylan spoke. “Famous last words,” Boyd called from where he was still leaning.

“Don’t pretend you ain’t worried,” Raylan said and grinned at him.

“Oh, Raylan, how could I worry? My heart’s all aflutter,” he said with a hand to his chest. Then added, “You know me,” because Raylan would know what that meant.

“Jesus, you are dating,” Tim said and turned to pull a large duffel from the back of the SUV. “You wanna kiss him goodbye?”

After that, Raylan just walked away, probably stifling a laugh. Boyd watched Tim pull out and assemble his weapon as the police cars all pulled into reverse, stretching the barrier about ten feet wider.

Tim set the rifle up along one of the cement barriers to their left, aiming it in the direction of the man on the roof, who somehow hadn’t yet realized he’d been spotted.

“Can you talk, or do you have to get in some kind of zone?” Boyd asked him.

Tim smirked. “Do this in the desert long enough, you start talking to yourself anyway.” Boyd liked the dryness of his tone. He liked how cool this kid was.

“All right, then,” Boyd said. “He surprised you with me, didn’t he?”

Tim spared him a glance and answered, “Had he told me outright, just in the office for whatever reason and without you on hand, I would have thought he was jerking me around. He’s not exactly... nevermind. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.”

Tim loaded the rifle, finally put together, and settled himself in. Boyd lifted his eyes to the roof. It was obvious now the unlucky Mr. Elliott was speaking to someone, his back turned away from the street. “You on the other hand,” Tim continued, “think you’re real smart. I pegged you just as fast for a Gulf War vet, demolitions probably, or a grunt. You seem like the kind, likes to blow shit up.”

Boyd smiled. “Do I seem like the other kind as well?”

Tim made a noise like he really didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but still replied, “Maybe. But it’s probably just because I never met you without knowing. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Never had a chance to ask anyone about it, I suppose,” Boyd shrugged. “People at home, don’t really care to. Or were so surprised when it came out, there was no sense in askin’.”

“When did it come out?” Boyd couldn’t see Tim’s expression, as his face was up against the sight on his rifle, though his voice held nothing but curiosity.

“Few months ago. But me an’ Raylan, we go back years and years. Been together, mostly, about five now.”

“Shit. That’s a long time to keep a secret.”

Boyd watched Elliott raise his hands in the air and saw Raylan come further out on the roof, approaching the man slowly. “In Harlan, Deputy, that ain’t nothin’ at all,” Boyd told him.

He picked up his phone when it rang, vibrating in the pocket of his jeans. “Well, hello, Raylan,” he answered with a smile as Tim asked, “What’s he calling you for? He’s got a radio.”

“Boyd, this idiot doesn’t know how to disarm the damn thing,” Raylan growled over the line.

Boyd rolled his eyes again and told him.

It took another hour to get the bomb disarmed, everything resolved properly, and then reported to the right people. Tim took the fugitive off in his SUV, handcuffed and sufficiently subdued by his failure.

Raylan explained as they were pushing him inside the vehicle, that Mahoney had told Elliott when he was on his way inside that Elliott’s share of their last take would go straight to his family. But his wife reported to him weeks later that she hadn’t seen any of it. He found out through other sources that Mahoney had spent all the money on himself, specifically on that hideous car.

Boyd found he couldn’t really fault Elliott for his actions, or at least the emotion behind them, if not the brains, though obviously the law and Raylan Givens could.

When they were finally on the road back to Harlan, both he and Raylan were quiet. The silence was tense, and Boyd knew it was only a matter of time before Raylan broke it, he was staring at the road so hard.

“What is it?” Boyd asked, taking some small pleasure from beating him to the punch.

Raylan frowned and waiting a minute before he answered. “Elliott said something funny to me, when I mentioned his buddies breaking him out.”

“Oh?”

“He begged me not to tell Arnett he’d got out.” After taking a glance at Boyd’s blank look, he continued, explaining, “Arnett’s the highest contact I know of within that organization. There’s people above him, but they’re silent partners. He’s been the face over there, far as we can tell, for about two, three years. If Frankfort had sprung Elliott, they would know he was out.”

“So you’re thinking it was someone else?”

Raylan grimaced. “Must be. But, Boyd, another player in this area? That’s not gonna be good for anybody.”

Boyd didn’t answer, because there was no sense in agreeing with the obvious. He raised his hand to his brow, drawing his fingers across his eyes in an attempt to get at the tension there.

“Boyd,” Raylan said, like he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Raylan, I’d really rather not, if you don’t mind,” Boyd replied, knowing just what else was bothering him. “All I want is for you to keep driving right on until we get home, so you can do that thing we talked about before, okay?”

Raylan’s frown only grew deeper in answer and they didn’t speak again until they reached the house.

The place was just as quiet as they were when they returned. But it was a comfortable quiet, a good one, and Boyd felt just a little bit of that tension lift off him as they walked into the kitchen together.

Raylan poured them each two fingers of Jack almost immediately. Boyd drank his fast and, after watching him do it, so did Raylan.

Boyd set down his glass and the clink of it hitting the tile on the counter was the only sound in the room. Raylan stepped forward, setting down his own empty glass, as Boyd reached for him. Their lips met swiftly and it felt so much better than anything else that had happened to him that day.

“That’s right,” Boyd murmured between kisses. “Put your hands all over me, baby.”

Raylan pulled back at Boyd’s words, casting a lingering and rough eye over him. Boyd met his gaze steadily, unflinching, before Raylan pulled him upstairs.

They fucked that night in virtual silence.

And it wasn’t soundless in the way they’d done it before, making it a command to be strictly followed.

Boyd said nothing because he didn’t want to speak and Raylan said nothing because he knew when to follow someone’s lead, even if he rarely indulged in the habit. His hands spoke to Boyd as loud as a shout and they said everything he needed to hear. His lips moved across Boyd’s own, traveled along the curves of his muscles and limbs, softer than a whisper, but with a meaning that couldn’t be ignored.

Raylan’s eyes communicated a sincere knowledge and a silent worry as Boyd still did not speak. He let only his breath pass through his lips, heavy, but not despairing, as Raylan touched him, worked him open so he was ready. He looked at his boy, face dark with unvoiced concern, and smiled, pulling him closer.

When Boyd settled down on Raylan’s cock he could hear the ragged edges of a sob behind his moan. He ignored it, opening his eyes and staring down Raylan, finding just the right amount of leverage so that he would be the one setting the pace, riding his lover to orgasm because he fucking wanted to.

Raylan’s breath hitched in response. His hands hadn’t yet ceased their movement, but his nails dug in, leaving shallow scratches across Boyd’s back, making him hiss and move to catch Raylan’s lips between his teeth.

“Fuck, Boyd,” Raylan said, tearing his mouth away, then bending down to drag his lips down Boyd’s neck and back up to the sweet spot behind his ear. He breathed softly there, his hand wrapping steadily around Boyd’s cock, and whispered, “Everyone knows you’re mine, now.”

It wasn’t long before Boyd came, gasping and hoarse, pressing his forehead up against Raylan’s chest. Raylan came soon after, with a suppressed groan. Boyd’s lips slipped over to the crook of his neck. He kissed the muscles there smooth as the tension of orgasm abated and Raylan relaxed inside him.

Soothing hands found their way into Boyd’s hair, combing through and twisting softly as Boyd’s breathing slowed. They stayed like that for what felt like a long time.

Art delivered on Raylan’s demands in exchange for the time they took that Saturday, so he was still in town on Monday night. Boyd wasn’t expecting a call in to the mine for another few days, as he’d been cut down from three shifts a week to two, or sometimes just one, since the incident with the emulex and the cave in.

They had Helen over to eat. It was late in the year for a cookout, but they put on their coats and did it anyway. Raylan didn’t like the smell of smoke in the house, and Helen wasn’t going to let that stop her from smoking, so that was the compromise.

Boyd knew he had been subdued since returning from Little Sandy and the thing in Campton. He noticed Raylan watching him with a more discerning eye, a glint of worry not quite hidden. He tried to smile when he caught Raylan’s eye and he wondered if it looked as forced as it felt.

When Raylan went back inside the house to get the bread and cheese for the burgers, Helen came over to Boyd as he flipped over the patties. She watched him work for a minute and when the was done he turned to her and gave her another weak smile.

“You gotta stop makin’ that face, honey,” she said, blowing the smoke from her lungs. “It’s sad as hell.”

Boyd frowned at her, turning from the heat of the grill and rubbed at his eyes. He wanted one of her cigarettes, but the knowledge that Raylan would hate that even more than his fake smile held him back.

“You got him all riled up about this,” she continued, taking a drag. “Raylan practically begged me to come over here and talk to you.”

Boyd looked at her, still frowning, because that didn’t sound like Raylan at all. “What did he say?”

Helen smirked and replied, “When he called to tell me you boys were cookin’, he said, ‘Helen, I think you should come over and talk to Boyd for a minute tonight when I ain’t around’. When I asked why, he gave me this big sigh, said, ‘no reason,’ and hung up.”

Boyd smiled, in spite of himself. Raylan really was worried. “I told him I was fine.”

“Guess he didn’t believe you.” Helen’s gaze was watchful, thoughtful in a way that Boyd somehow found comforting.

Boyd turned back to the burgers, flipping them one last time for good measure. “Do you?”

Helen smiled softly at him and patted his shoulder. “You will be. Of that, I have no doubt.”

Raylan came back out a moment later and Helen took her seat up on the porch. Raylan carried over the buns and the fixings on a big plate, looking Boyd over with the same watchful eye as his aunt.

“You know, Raylan, if it wasn’t so cute, it would be annoying,” Boyd said, taking some cheese and laying it over the still cooking burgers.

Raylan just smiled like he didn’t know what Boyd was talking about and bumped their hips together, sliding his long fingers around Boyd’s arm, right above the elbow and squeezing gently. Boyd’s eyes widened and then darted over to Helen who was carefully not watching them. His brows furrowed at the unusually public display.

“I don’t care what it is, Boyd,” Raylan said quietly, eyes serious. “You know me.”

Boyd couldn’t answer because Helen called from the porch, “Get those burgers off the grill, boys, and let’s eat inside. Temperature took a turn down and I don’t care to freeze my ass off just for a smoke.”

“All right, Helen,” Raylan said, taking the spatula from Boyd and doing just that.

When they came in the house, Helen already had the ‘shine out and was sitting at the kitchen table like she’d never moved out. Raylan laughed, “That shit’s your answer for everything.”

Boyd smirked and sat down opposite her. “You have to admit, Raylan, it’s a good answer,” he said, taking a glass.

Coming in from the cold had warmed Boyd’s skin up, but the ‘shine burned on the way down, heating his core. Raylan brushed against his shoulders and back as he moved around the kitchen, letting a hand fall or slide across him lingeringly. The looks he shot Boyd made him feel just as warm as the booze had and he noticed Helen watching them with a strangely soft smile.

Boyd looked away and quirked his lips at Raylan, who was now sitting to his right, and wondered just what had happened to bring about this change in him.

“You didn’t tell him how he was all up on you when those boys slipped him that mickie, did you?” Helen asked Raylan with amusement.

Instead of answering, Raylan just bit into his burger innocently and Boyd shot glares at both of them then decided to pour himself another drink.

They lingered over the shine and some pie from the market that Helen had brought with her for a couple hours, talking about old times, though carefully treading around the bad. Somehow, it was Boyd and Raylan who were the worse for wear, though he was sure he’d seen Helen drink just as much as they had.

She took her leave of them with their elbows propped on the table, leaning against each other, and their legs tangled together underneath. She ruffled Boyd’s hair for some reason, and he was too slow to pull away, then kissed Raylan on the cheek, calling, “Be good, boys,” as she left. It was surprisingly hard for Boyd to resist the urge to assure her he would.

They ascended the stairs slowly. Boyd’s muscles felt slow as molasses and his feet were heavy on the steps. He sort of pulled Raylan up as Raylan pushed him from behind, and they undressed each other down to their underwear in a similar fashion.

“I’m too drunk for fucking, Boyd,” Raylan murmured pressing his forehead to Boyd’s shoulder.

Boyd wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite get there, settled for a genuine smile and thought that was a step in the right direction at least. “Okay, baby.”

“You want some head?” he asked as Boyd walked him backwards to the bed. “I owe you one back for that time you don’t remember.”

Boyd kissed the side of Raylan’s mouth while he was still talking and considered it. “Don’t think I’m up for it either. But I’ll keep in mind what you said about owing me back.”

Raylan laughed and pulled Boyd up on top of him on the bed. They laid together, pressing close, and just breathing until Raylan spoke, “You don’t need to be this way, darlin’. Not for him.”

Boyd raised himself up, half straddling Raylan as he looked down at him quizzically. “You’ve never called me that before, Raylan,” he said slowly, almost like he didn’t quite believe himself.

Raylan grinned and ran his hands up and down Boyd’s arms. “I did that one time you don’t remember.”

“Of course you did,” Boyd huffed in response and laid himself back down on top of his boy. After a while he said, “I ain’t tryin’ to be no way, Raylan. He’s my daddy. It’s... hard.”

“I know,” Raylan answered, pressing a kiss to Boyd’s cheek. His lips formed a smile against Boyd’s skin and he murmured, “Who do you think’s gonna fuck us over worse? My daddy or yours?”

“What’s your daddy doin’ from the grave that I don’t know about, Raylan?”

Raylan just looked at him and Boyd knew. His smile turned sad, because they both knew, what Arlo did, it was always there, and maybe what Bo did, too. But Boyd was going to keep his wounds open, raw and painful, instead of deep, aching scars, until the big man got out and made his move and they would do what they had to.

Boyd heaved a sigh. There was no sense dwelling on it now. He settled down next to Raylan and made himself stop thinking.

They didn’t always sleep close together. Raylan was a restless sleeper on occasion, especially when work was on his mind. He’d hog the covers if Boyd would let him and he often woke with a start that would rouse them both.

As they spent more time together in the house, sleeping and awake, Boyd had gotten used to it. He didn’t wake up nearly as much as he had previously, when he’d tried to be so in tune with what Raylan was thinking and doing on his rare visits.

Sometimes they would sleep sprawled across each other, others they would be on complete opposite sides of the mattress. Tonight, Raylan had kept Boyd close, arms and legs tangled up, for fairly obvious reasons, and later they would both be glad of it.

Boyd had to blame the alcohol on the fact that neither of them heard the break in, not a shattering of glass, nor footfalls on the stairs or the hall. It was only the creak of the doorframe, making a noise like the floor was going to fall through every time anyone put their foot across the threshold, that sent Raylan’s eyes flying open and tensed his muscles enough to wake Boyd. Boyd couldn’t see anything in the dark, but he felt the hyper-aware tension in Raylan only a split second before he heard the cocking of a loaded sawed-off.

He pulled again and Raylan pushed and they rolled each other off the bed as the shots rang out, spraying scatter shot at the precise spot they had just been. Boyd hadn’t been caught by it, and he looked up desperately into Raylan’s eyes, letting them tell him he hadn't been either. Raylan put a hand on Boyd’s chest, which was aching straight through from where his back had hit the floor. He felt everything become still, even as the asshole was unloading the rest of his round at them and they should have been scrambling to the corners or under the bed or anywhere else he couldn’t get at them.

Raylan took his hands off Boyd and turned, with something cold and terrifying in his eyes, padding softly through the dark around the foot of the bed. When he reached their attacker he sent him straight down to the floor with a vicious right hook followed swiftly by a flying elbow. Boyd hadn’t moved from the floor and he saw two of the man’s teeth roll themselves underneath the bed. The shotgun skittered across the hardwood as well and Boyd snatched it up in his hands, checking fast to see that the asshole had just loaded in a round.

Raylan and the attacker, dressed all in black with a now bloody ski mask, were too tangled up in their bare-knuckle boxing match for Boyd to get a shot in on the man without hitting his own as well. So he scrambled back and around, hoping to catch a wider angle, scooping up Raylan’s sidearm off the dresser in the process.

When Raylan pushed the masked man up against the window, it shattered and Raylan, barefoot, backed up to avoid the glass, though he was still in range of the sawed-off. Boyd took the opportunity. Settling the shotgun in the crook of his elbow, he took Raylan’s glock in both hands and shot, clipping the bastard in the arm as he tumbled out the window.

“Shit,” Raylan said and spun, wild-eyed and glaring. Boyd spared him nothing but a glance, turning himself and speeding out of the room. Raylan was in hot pursuit, an echo of thudding footsteps down the stairs, calling after him, “Boyd, that’s a Government-issued weapon. No one is supposed to shoot it but me.”

They were out of the house in a flash. Boyd spotted a dark shape stumbling, but not slowly, from the trees on the side of the house toward the wooded hill coming up out of the holler. “You think you can hit him at this range, in this light, better than I can?” They both knew Raylan was faster, but their aim was about on par with each other, especially at a moving target.

“No,” Raylan growled. Boyd took the shot and missed.

While Raylan called it in, Boyd looked at the glass on the floor of the bedroom, itching to go get the dust pan, but knowing he couldn’t because it was a damn crime scene. He put on some clothes instead, a pair of old jeans and one of Raylan’s white beaters, despite the cold air of the evening.

Raylan came in, probably with the same idea, and stopped in the doorway, taking a long look at him and at the dark ink exposed on his right shoulder.

“What?” Boyd said, a challenge in his voice.

“Sheriff’s on his way over,” he replied and moved towards the dresser. Boyd stepped out of his way and sat heavily on the bed.

“Mosley?” Boyd asked, even though he knew. “Raylan, that man has had it out for my family--”

Raylan silenced him with a look. His expression was angry, just barely reigned in, but Boyd knew it wasn’t for him. His words were clipped and toneless. “I know he was the one, put your daddy away, Boyd. That doesn’t mean he’s got some kind of vendetta. You think he ain’t gonna do his job, just ‘cause it’s you living in my house and not any other kid from the county?”

Boyd glared. “Depends on which kid, I expect.”

Raylan rolled his eyes as he pulled a shirt, long-sleeved and white, over his head. He was standing stiffly, still filled with tension, as he spoke. “Personally, I’d rather not have local P.D. on this, but it happened here and there’s no way to avoid it.” He slung his side arm on over his jeans, though he knew ballistics from some department or other was going to get it eventually.

Raylan paced as they waited out the police and Boyd sat and watched him. They didn’t talk about what they were going to say, or who either of them suspected was behind the evening’s events.

When he came in, Harlan County Sheriff Hunter Mosley looked just as uncomfortable as the contractor Boyd had finally called to come in and look at those rafters. He scanned his eyes around the house, the first floor as well, like he was looking for signs of homosexuality in their furniture or in the paint on the walls.

He shook that attitude off fast when he caught both Raylan and Boyd eyeing him over it, then smiled and put on his lawman show, ushering in a host of officers and crime scene techs and talking them through what had happened.

Raylan answered most of the questions, just because he knew how best to do so, though Boyd did chime in when Mosley asked Raylan to clarify what they were doing in the bed.

“Sleeping,” he snarled, shaking off Raylan’s hand as he tried to clamp it down on his arm. “What do you do at midnight on a Monday with your wife, Hunter?”

Mosley stiffened, but Raylan got his hand on Boyd’s wrist and squeezed hard, casting a pleading look his way. “Anything else?” he asked the Sheriff in a clipped tone that brooked no more bullshit.

Boyd reminded himself he couldn’t be like this, because he knew Raylan was just as near the breaking point, just as beaten down and riled up by what had happened. This was his house as well, theirs.

After that Boyd put himself in the corner and Raylan started shaking his leg around like he was aiming for it to fall off at the hip. When Mosley went downstairs, Raylan started started to pace again.

“You should watch out for glass,” Boyd told him, thinking of Raylan’s still bare feet and the damage they hadn’t been able to do anything about yet. The mattress and headboard were in shambles. Pieces of wood and bits of feather were strewn about the room, blowing around in the breeze coming in from the shattered window.

Raylan glared at him and kept on moving. “You should keep your mouth shut if all you’re gonna do is make him mad. I know he’s a dick, but Jesus, Boyd. We actually do need his help.”

Boyd looked away.

“You were right,” Mosley said grudgingly a moment later as he came back in from the yard. “You got him somewhere. There’s a trail of blood, more’n what you’d get from a broken window, goin’ up into your woods back there.”

Boyd’s eyes were on Raylan, who was looking a bit like a caged panther. “Told you, it was the shoulder,” he said in a low voice, and drew a line across his own, right through the big black swastika. He smiled when the Sheriff’s brows rose up to his hairline.

Raylan threw Boyd a look that said, “You about done?” And turned to Mosley, who finally asked the question they’d all been waiting for, “You got any idea who was behind this? Which one of you they might’ve been after?”

They shared a glance at the question. Boyd’s instinct was not to say anything, but he knew Raylan’s would be the exact opposite.

Mosley beat them to the punch. “Heard Bo had some visitors up at Little Sandy this past week.”

Raylan’s eyes flashed and Boyd ground out, “It wasn’t him.”

“What makes you so sure? He can’t be happy about... all this. He’s got the reach, you know he has.” Boyd wanted to wipe that smug look off the man’s face, but he pressed himself hard up against the wall, digging his fingers into his own flesh at the elbows.

Raylan worked his jaw. “Sure he does, Hunter, but you might wanna trust Boyd on this one. Seeing as it’s his daddy we’re talking about.”

“All the more reason he’d want to protect him. When you get into this family stuff, Raylan--”

Boyd was across the room in two steps, but Raylan caught him by the arm before he reached Mosley, who backed up fast. He hissed, “You know I was up there, you probably know what he told me, asshole. I got time to ‘fix’ this shit before he comes after me and I know he won’t let a two-bit hitman be the one who takes care of it when I don’t. I’ve been tangling with that man longer than you’ve been wiping your own ass, Mosley. Just ‘cause you caught him, don’t mean you know a damn thing about him.”

Raylan hauled Boyd back behind him, turning his back to Mosley, who’d wisely said nothing in reply. Raylan put one hand on Boyd’s shoulder and the other one at the back of his neck, forcing their eyes to meet. “You really wanna play it this way?” he asked softly.

Boyd shook his head, trying to calm his breath. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t think he could touch Raylan like Raylan was touching him, not right now, not with Mosley in the room.

“He doesn’t get it,” Raylan went on, still soft, and real steady. “But it doesn’t matter. We’ll answer his damn questions, and he’ll be gone soon enough. Right?”

Boyd nodded, casting his eyes down, then back up and over Raylan’s shoulder, catching the Sheriff staring right at them. Boyd felt his anger simmer, threaten to rise up again, but he tamped it down, because Raylan--who was usually so terrible at keeping his lid on-- was showing him up in that regard.

He stepped carefully out of Raylan’s arms and stared Mosley down. “You’ll have to excuse me, Sheriff,” he said, straining for an apologetic smile. “It’s been a difficult few days for us.”

Mosley looked at him hard for a long moment, and Boyd wondered if the gears were turning in there, if he was thinking about all that his ear inside Little Sandy had told him about that meeting with his Daddy, about how it would feel if someone came into his home and emptied a round into his bed while he was sleeping in it.

“Fine, Crowder,” he finally said. “But I’m still gonna go over to the county line, have a chat with your cousin Johnny.”

“I’ll go with you,” Boyd replied.

On to Part 2.