Fic: Take Care of You 3/5 Part 2 | Justified | Boyd/Raylan
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.
Part 1 of Chapter 3 is here.
It took some convincing on Boyd’s part, to both Raylan and the Sheriff, that his accompaniment was a good idea. But Boyd had never been one to back down from an argument he wanted to win.
He won out in the end. Neither of the other parties looked pleased about it, but Boyd could really care less at that point. He knew he could hash things out with Raylan later, when they were on their way to Lexington to get everything sorted in regards to the firing of his sidearm, and he just didn’t give a damn about Mosley.
Though the car ride over would have been more pleasant if he had.
When they reached the bar, Boyd was the first through the door and Johnny, who’d been leaning over the pool table with a pretty young lady, turned and gave him a big smile. It only lasted as long as it took him to spot Mosley shadowing Boyd in the threshold.
The bar wasn’t crowded, it was late on a Monday night, after all. He hadn’t set foot in the place since things between him and Raylan had come out for real. It just hadn’t seemed prudent, though Boyd was fairly sure Johnny wasn’t going to judge him. He’d always been the live and let live sort.
Boyd scanned the room and didn’t see anyone that struck him as unfriendly towards him lately, or who would spread anything around too readily. He didn’t think things would go sideways here, but it was always good to be prepared. Everyone in the place was sort of eyeing him up, but he’d had so much of that recently, he barely noticed.
Johnny had the jukebox loud, blaring some Steve Earle song Boyd couldn’t identify before he put it out of his mind. The place looked much the same as it always had, though he noticed they’d gotten another of their illegal electronic slot machines.
Boyd saw that Johnny was seriously considering going for the obvious jab here, so Boyd spoke before he could, “No, Johnny, sorry to disappoint, but the only lawman I been passing the time with is your old buddy, Raylan Givens.” He made sure he was smirking when he said this, though his insides were still all tied up in knots.
Johnny’s eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t look that way to me. Maybe you got some kind of thing.”
Boyd wished he could laugh. This is what they used to do, all the time, even when Boyd was keeping his secrets close, they used to fuck around like boys do, call each other all sorts of degrading things, make wild, disgusting suppositions. Instead, he felt the smile leave his face and replied, “The only thing I got is a bed full of scattershot and a broken window. Sheriff here, wants to make sure it wasn’t you, broke in and fired at us... or Daddy.”
Johnny straightened up, glaring between them both as the Sheriff drew up alongside Boyd. “Why would I break in, guns blazing on my own cousin?”
“You wouldn’t,” Boyd said immediately. “I’ve just been unable to convince Sheriff Mosley here otherwise, without some kind of proof.”
Johnny laughed. “You... unable to convince someone of anything?”
Now Boyd did smile again as he said, “Seems I am not deemed a trustworthy man in some circles lately.”
“Ain’t no lately about it,” Mosley said gruffly.
“Lately for some,” Boyd corrected, looking at Johnny.
“You ever think it might be your fault people think you ain’t trustworthy no more, Boyd?”
“It wasn’t ever anything I could change, Johnny. Nor that I would want to.” Boyd kept his voice even here and his eyes on his cousin’s.
Johnny nodded and that was that. “All right, Sheriff,” he said the title like it was something he’d scrape off his boot. “How can I convince you the Crowders had no hand in shooting up Raylan Givens’ damn bedroom?” He eyed Boyd for a split second after he asked the question, like he still couldn’t quite believe Raylan’s bedroom was a place Boyd would frequent.
Mosley scowled, obviously unhappy at being so disrespected. “Strip,” he ordered and both Boyd and Johnny stiffened.
“Are you serious?” Johnny cried even as Boyd said, “Sheriff,” in a warning tone.
Mosley rounded on Boyd, his hand hovering over his sidearm. “You said you clipped him in the shoulder. I saw the blood myself. I wanna see if it was his shoulder you got.”
“You want to see him humiliated in his own place of business,” Boyd said in a low, dangerous voice. “It wasn’t him I got. I’d know his scream if I shot my own goddamned cousin, Mosley. I was under the impression we were here to ask him about Daddy. If you ask me, all we’re doing here is wasting time and leaving any other trail of evidence cold.”
“I didn’t fucking ask you, Crowder. Johnny, you gonna show me or not?”
But Johnny’s eyes were on Boyd. “You think Bo had a hand in this?” His tone held disapproval and suspicion. Boyd hated that, and suddenly felt he shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near this discussion.
“I don’t,” Boyd replied with certainty. “Daddy’s gonna deal with me on his own time. He wouldn’t send someone to do it for him. I...” Boyd paused and allowed the bitter, ironic smile he’d been holding in for days spread across his face. “I broke his heart, Johnny.”
Johnny frowned at him. “He tell you that?”
Boyd nodded.
He felt every breath that went through his lungs in the seconds that Johnny gave him a hard stare, still frowning. “Well, then you know it’s bullshit, Boyd. He’s just pissed.” Boyd’s cousin shook his head and went on, “You boys always were too concerned with what that man’s thinking of you. He’s a damn good boss and a pretty good salesman, but he’s a fucking bully. I thought you unwound yourself from his little finger years ago, son.”
Boyd blinked at him, but didn’t get an opportunity to reply, to say that he thought he had, because Mosley was on Johnny again, taking a step forward in a subtly threatening manner and saying, “Not that I don’t love hearing about good ol’ Bo and the new and interesting ways he’s screwing up his children, but I still ain’t seen that shoulder of yours, Johnny. We gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Boyd sneered at the man, having just about enough of this charade. “You’re gonna do it without me, Sheriff. This is bullshit and you know it. I’ll be outside.” He turned to Johnny before he went and thrust out his hand, though they always used to be close enough that an embrace would have been in order. “I’m sorry I brought this into your place, Johnny. It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cousin,” Johnny replied, taking his hand and squeezing hard. He was smiling as well, and Boyd was grateful.
He turned and told Mosley over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “I’ll be by the car.”
It took at least three minutes for Mosley to come through the door after him, dragging Johnny by the collar. The parking lot was empty of people and Johnny’s nose was bloody.
Boyd wasn’t exactly surprised, but he couldn’t keep the look of disgust off his face as he watched the lawman push his cousin around. He knew the worst possible thing he could do would be to intervene. Mosley couldn’t wait to get him in cuffs on some trumped up charge, just like all the Crowders, and the most stepping in here could do would be to give him an excuse.
Johnny tried to scramble away, as he couldn’t exactly retaliate without being arrested, but Mosley got a hand on his shirt sleeve and pulled viciously, tearing it down and ripping it open. There was no bandage, no bloody wound to reveal. Mosley looked him up and down and smirked, like he’d won something, then stalked over to the car.
“Boyd,” Johnny called from the ground and Boyd went, kneeling down beside him. Johnny looked pissed as hell as he clamped a hand down on Boyd’s arm and said quietly, “You know Bo wouldn’t do what was done to you tonight, but I feel like I gotta tell you, cousin, he can’t have done it, either.”
Everything in Boyd went very still as he said, “What do you mean, Johnny?”
“I dunno what this asshole’s been telling you, but Bo doesn’t have that reach no more. You been out of it. You don’t know. All he has is guys inside who whisper to him and a shitload of cash hidden somewhere on his property. He lost the routes out of Harlan for Miami and Frankfort when Mosley took him down. Someone else snatched up that shit, and they’re quiet as hell. Bo can’t have put out a hit, not unless he told someone where that money is. You think he’s gonna tell Bowman about it, or me?” Johnny had spoken fast enough to be out of breath at the end of his speech, and his eyes were earnest, almost pleading.
“No, Johnny, I don’t. But then, the question becomes, why would the good Sheriff lie?”
It was then that Mosley chose to call from the driver’s side door, “Crowder, you hitchin’ a ride or not?”
Johnny looked up at Boyd., the familiar eyes of his family, of Boyd’s brother and father so recently filled with anger and disgust, were now only worried, concerned. “You be careful, cousin. You-” he nearly tripped over the words, but still continued, “You tell Raylan, be careful too.”
“I will,” Boyd said, reeling from such freely offered acceptance, a rare and treasured commodity in his current circumstances, and stepped away, climbing into the car.
Boyd refused to be the first to speak inside Mosley’s vehicle. He was pissed and Mosley knew it.
He remembered back in high school, at Evarts, when team camaraderie would get the better of socio-economic differences and out and out dislike, and the boys on the baseball team would spend the playoff series--the one, and only one, through which they would last--hanging out with each other constantly. That was the only time in which Boyd, on account of Johnny, had ever been prevailed upon to socialize with Hunter Mosley, or even with Raylan for that matter.
It was actually at that time that Boyd had noticed Raylan, really seen him and not immediately dismissed him as a fucking Givens with a superior attitude--not that Boyd’s was any less superior. They’d all gone to a party together, where someone was blasting country rock from a boom box and there was a keg and a bonfire and kids getting stoned.
Mosley hadn’t partaken because he was a damn stick-in-the-mud, and Boyd hadn’t either because he just wasn’t feeling it that night. He didn’t like letting things loose with parties virtually unknown, and sometimes, he just liked to people watch.
Hunter sat near the fire with a scowl on his face, while Boyd walked around with a beer in his hand that he wasn’t drinking. The boys were in high spirits, having just won the first game in a series they would ultimately lose and Boyd watched them laughing together, keeping a steady smile on his face as he listened to their shit-talking and back-slapping.
Raylan, who had earned a reputation for being a secretly terrifying motherfucker when he took out Dickie Bennett’s knee earlier that season, was coerced into shotgunning two beers in a row. He performed admirably, and then someone shoved a jar of ‘shine in his face. It hadn't helped that he’d come out of the game somewhat of a hero, for a last-minute run that pulled them out of a tying score and pushed another boy across home-plate as well.
Boyd watched the proceedings, smiling and responding when Johnny said anything to him, but all the while keeping his eyes on Raylan.
Raylan’s smile was big, real big. It was the kind of smile you showed the world when you didn’t think you could be any happier, when everything that was terrible about your life was no where near you. Boyd had never seen anyone smile like that, not in Harlan at least, and he thought it was something special. He felt privileged to have witnessed it.
He also, as the time passed and Raylan drank even more, felt some kind of obligation to him. Not necessarily to keep that smile where it was, as it was obvious that kind of pure expression was unsustainable, but to make sure that Raylan would live long enough to smile like that again.
Boyd took his chance when Raylan had just finished another beer. That time it was a failed shotgun attempt, at which most of the other boys were too busy laughing to notice Boyd had pulled their entertainment away. Raylan came easily under Boyd’s strong grip on his upper arm, stumbling a little, but catching himself and laughing. He put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder for support and later Boyd would remember it as the first time Raylan Givens touched him.
He dragged Raylan over to a fallen tree trunk, rotting out from the ends, not too far from the rest of the team, and sat him down. Raylan was pliant, his brain miles from where his body was, so he blinked at Boyd and asked, “What’re we doing over here?”
“I wanted to talk to you a minute,” Boyd answered patiently. “We don’t talk much, do we, Givens?”
Raylan furrowed his brows. “No,” he said. And that was the first time Boyd discovered that Raylan was an interestingly reticent drunk, saying nothing unless he was spoken to first, and then often still saying almost nothing at all. Unless, of course, someone or something annoyed him, at which point he could become belligerent as all hell.
Boyd smiled then, so Raylan smiled back and a hint of that blazing grin shone through it. Boyd wanted to see more, so he kept talking.
“You seem to be a favorite these days with them boys.” Boyd nodded over to the rest of the team, who’d gotten some girls from somewhere and were now attempting to have them catch up to their level of inebriation. It didn’t seem like a good idea to Boyd.
“Guess so.” Raylan looked away and shrugged, his whole body moving unsteadily with the motion. Boyd kept his eyes on him, to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over.
“Must be on account of that shit with Dickie.”
Raylan scowled. “Wish it wasn’t.”
“Why is that?”
Raylan snorted derisively and brought his hands together like he was aiming to hit something, though he made no real move to do so. “Dickie Bennett’s a moron who thinks he’s a genius. He ain’t never gonna ‘mount to anything but a self-inflated pot-dealer in a town full of shit-kicker crime lords battling themselves bloody and dead over whose pile of shit is the biggest one.” He looked over at Boyd and seemed to realize what he’d just said. “Fuck. Sorry, man.”
Boyd laughed, wondering what exactly that had to do with Raylan being praised for beating the tar out of him, then said truthfully, “That ain’t nothin’, Raylan, but I have to ask--you think you’re gonna be anything better than that?”
“I’m gon’ get out,” he said darkly, his accent melding hard into the alcohol’s slur. He leaned forward like he was bestowing some secret on Boyd. “I don’ care what I do. I won’ be doin’ it here.”
Boyd smiled because Raylan was smiling, soft, like Boyd understood wanting to leave, but that was a lie. He felt like shit and he couldn’t put his finger on why.
Raylan’s smile grew wider and he put his hands on Boyd’s shoulders, letting his eyelids fall half-shut and leaning further in, mostly because he’d lost his balance. “What’re we doin’ over here, Crowder? Let’s go back. I wan’ another beer...” he trailed off and made to stand.
Boyd’s hands on his forearms put a stop to that quickly and Raylan laughed, screwing his eyes shut, like it was his own fault he hadn’t been able to make it up. “Jus’ talk to me for a little while, Raylan,” Boyd said.
“Okay,” he replied easily, looking at Boyd again. “What you wan’ talk about?”
Boyd had no idea, he barely knew this boy.
Well, perhaps that was a lie, too. He knew about him, he knew his daddy was a no good wife-beater and a drunk. He knew his mama had stayed in Noble’s Holler the longest of any living woman in Harlan and still hadn’t left Arlo. He knew Raylan’s uncle, on his mama’s side, had been killed by gun thugs a few years back, one of the last murders of that kind that didn’t make it to the big city papers when the union strikes entered the national media consciousness. He knew the Givens and the Crowders had held onto uneasy partnerships in the past more than they had to grudges. He knew he really wanted to talk to Raylan some more.
Raylan had begun listing a little as all that ran through Boyd’s mind so Boyd put a hand back on his shoulder, setting him upright and saying, real soft, “Raylan.”
He opened his eyes and smiled again. “Boyd,” he said and it was the first time Boyd heard his first name on those lips.
Raylan’s brows furrowed and he looked at Boyd hard for a minute before saying, “Boyd, your hair is real weird-lookin’. Did you know that?”
Boyd touched his hair, which even at that time, stuck out in all directions. He’d never been one to make scheduled trips to the barber, so it was long then, rising several inches into the air. He laughed softly and answered, “Yes, Raylan, I did know that.”
Raylan just nodded. “Good. Okay.”
Boyd wondered at that, but couldn’t say anything else because Hunter Mosley was on his way over, calling Raylan’s name. “You don’t look so good,” he told Raylan when he reached them.
Raylan shook his head, taking his hands off Boyd’s arms. “‘M fine,” he replied.
Mosley looked over at the rest of them, some of which had left with the girls, others were sitting on the ground near the fire, still drinking. It was obvious he didn’t want to stay. “I think I better take you home.”
At that, Raylan stiffened, visibly attempting to make himself appear less drunk and failing spectacularly. “I’m fine,” he enunciated carefully. “I don’ need to leave, Hunter.”
Mosley looked at him, brows arched and a little frown of disbelief on his face.
Boyd chimed in now, noticing how Raylan was clutching hard at the trunk to keep himself from wavering. He really didn’t want to go. “I think it’s okay, Mosley. Let him walk it off or something. He don’t need to leave now. I’ll--”
“I’ll thank you to let me take care of my teammate, Crowder. I really don’t even know what you’re doing here tonight.” Mosley scowled at him then muttered as he reached for Raylan, “Fucking Johnny, Jesus.”
Boyd was frozen for a second by the open hostility of the boy, from whom he’d never heard such a sentiment--though granted, they hardly traveled in the same circles. He was still caught up in the shock when Raylan toppled over as he tried to evade Mosley’s grasp.
“I ain’ goin’,” Raylan mumbled into the grass, twisting around to his hands and knees.
Boyd was up and around the trunk to Raylan before Hunter could make the move himself. He hauled Raylan to his feet, taking most of his weight through the shoulders and hip. Raylan was turned to him and looked right into his eyes, though he didn’t seem to be seeing much. Boyd registered a fear there the boy couldn’t hide, maybe wouldn’t even have been able to if he were dead sober.
“I’m so drunk,” Raylan whispered, perhaps thinking even Boyd couldn’t hear. “He’s gon’ be so pissed.”
Something cold and sharp sunk into Boyd’s gut, clawing a terror there that wasn’t his own. He’d never known this fear, but he could imagine it, the knowledge that there was no safe place.
“He don’t want to go, Mosley,” Boyd said, and as soon as he did Raylan looked at him like he’d just realized it was an actual person on which he was clinging.
“You want to fight about this, Crowder?” Mosley was serious and Boyd stared at him like he was crazy.
“What is your damn problem, son?” he cried, but at the same moment, Raylan stepped forward, letting go of Boyd and saying, “No.”
Raylan looked back at Boyd, that fear still lurking in his eyes, silencing any protests. “You ain’t gonna fight about it. I’ll fucking go.”
He let Mosley put his hand on his shoulder, and lead him away. Boyd didn’t say anything, paralyzed by Raylan’s ridiculous bravery and something else it would take him years to understand.
Boyd sat in Hunter Mosley’s police cruiser nearly twenty years later, scowling, feeling the anger of that night and everything that had just happened boiling up in him. He hadn’t wanted to be the one to speak first, but he couldn’t hold back the question anymore.
“Just what is your problem with my family?” Boyd asked, knowing he sounded something like petulant.
“You mean other than you lot being no account, hillbilly, drug pushers?” Mosley asked.
“You wanna cut it with the name-calling, Sheriff?” he retorted, saying the title in the same way Johnny had.
“That’s it,” Mosley said. “You Crowders, don’t give any respect to nothin’. I am the goddamn Sheriff of this goddamn county and you spit on that every chance you fucking get.”
Boyd stared at him. “This is Harlan County, Mosley. You think you’re in the land of law and order? You gotta earn what respect you’re given.”
“Only by breaking the law and pushing people around, though, right, Crowder? And these ain’t no Prohibition hills no more. There aren’t any more union battles to fight.”
“That’s because we lost them,” Boyd said darkly, looking out over the hills in the moonlight as they wound along the road back to the house, where Raylan was waiting. “Company always wins in the end and so does the fucking law and Uncle Sam. You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you want people to believe you’re one of the good ones, that you ain’t like the rest of your family, just ‘cause you’re shacking up with a damn U.S. Marshal and walking around like no gay man I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not buying your shit, Boyd.” Mosley was breathing hard and something tripped in Boyd’s mind.
The one good one, that’s what people used to say about Henry Crowder, a second cousin, who killed a little girl maybe five years before. He remembered Mosley, who hadn’t made Sheriff yet, was torn to pieces about it. The girl was his niece.
He met Mosley’s eyes and knew the man realized he’d made the connection. They were close to the house now so Boyd decided to say his piece and be done with it. He didn’t think he was going to get another chance to be alone with the Sheriff again.
“Well, you’d be wrong then,” Boyd said in a voice as dangerous as he dared. “I don’t give a good goddamn what people think of me. I ain’t puttin’ on no show for you or anybody else. And the only thing--I want you to pay attention, now--the only thing that is keepin’ me anywhere close to good is Raylan Givens. Do you understand me? If something were to happen to him, Sheriff, I really do not know what I might do.”
The look Mosley turned on him after that could have been anywhere between murderous and terrified, or some kind of amalgamation of the two. Boyd kept his gaze out the window and hoped to God he hadn’t just made things worse.
When they got to the house, Mosley left the vehicle before Boyd did, slamming the door and stalking up the walk to meet Raylan, who was waiting for them on the porch.
Boyd took his time, sliding his hands into his coat pockets and sauntering up to them just as Mosley seemed to have finished.
“So, you’ll both be in Lexington?” the Sheriff said, as if confirming the information rather than asking for it. Boyd didn’t like the idea that he thought he was entitled to know, let alone make sure. But Raylan nodded like it was nothing unusual and Mosley turned blindly, like a million other things were on his mind. He narrowly avoided a shoulder collision with Boyd as they passed each other, prompting Boyd to give him one last glare of pure disgust. Boyd watched Raylan watch him go.
“You sure got him riled up about somethin’,” Raylan said, looking at Boyd carefully.
Boyd kept his expression very still, unable to shake the black mood that had come over him. “He’s a liar, Raylan. We shouldn’t trust him.”
Raylan sighed, like he wasn’t surprised at all and said, “Tell me in the car. Art wants us in the office in the morning. You gotta give a statement. Might as well drive now, catch at least a few hours of sleep at the motel.”
Boyd put his face in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted as well as inordinately angry. “Raylan--” he began, but broke off swiftly, unsure of what he was even protesting.
Raylan was up on him in the next moment, his hands pulling down Boyd’s, interlacing their fingers quickly, and leaning in close. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t even worry about the statement. I made it sound like a big deal because I was pissed. It happens more than you’d think and for stupider reasons than this.”
Boyd shook his head, wanting to back away, feeling crowded in, overwhelmed. “That’s not it, Raylan. I ain’t...” he paused searching for the right way to convey what was going on with him. “I’m not in control at this moment. I may have just irreparably damaged relations with the Sheriff. There are things that I would do, terrible extremes to which I would go, in which I want very badly to indulge, but I know you wouldn’t want that and I--”
He stopped talking because Raylan pushed himself those last inches forward, thrusting their lips together, pulling him closer than before. His mouth was warm and good, his tongue working fast, insistent, against Boyd’s, and he tasted like bourbon.
When Raylan pulled away, he said in a low voice and a tone that was careful, yet hard, “You think I don’t know how it feels to want those things, just ‘cause of what I do. But you know, Boyd, I’m just a kid from the holler, too. I feel that pull, the same as you. There isn’t anything I’d like to see more than you kicking the ever-loving shit out of the asshole who came into this house tonight. There isn’t anything I’d like to do more than join in. But there are always things we want and things we can’t have and tonight, those are one in the same.”
Boyd looked at him accusingly. “That supposed to make me feel better, Raylan?”
Raylan shrugged, a carelessly indifferent motion. “Only insofar as it gets you to stop assuming my thoughts ain’t as dark as yours when provoked. It was the kiss, was supposed to make you feel better.”
Boyd finally cracked a smile at that, then licked his lips and tasted that bourbon again. “You had a drink,” he said, making it clear he wanted one too.
“I was wound up and waiting for you,” Raylan replied defensively. “I got Jack at the motel, okay?”
Boyd spent the car ride telling Raylan what Mosley had done at Johnny’s bar and what Johnny had told Boyd before he left.
“You think he’s chasing the wrong leads on purpose?” Raylan finally asked.
Boyd shrugged. “Can’t say one way or the other, for sure. He could just be an idiot with a grudge.”
“That’s what I was sort of hopin’,” Raylan replied with the smile he used when he was pretending not to be worried. Boyd ignored it, not wanting to start a fight, and they didn’t say much for the rest of the drive.
Raylan’s motel room could only be described as back-country spartan. There was wood-panelling along every wall and surface in the entire place, like a hunting lodge, but without the trophies. There was a bed and a chair and a table, a fairly clean bathroom towards the back, and something like a kitchenette with a counter, microwave and sink.
It looked as though anyone who had stayed there was just passing through. Boyd was somehow uplifted by that thought, that Raylan hadn’t bothered to make this place seem anything like home, because he had one elsewhere.
Raylan went straight to the sideboard after dropping his keys and hat unceremoniously on the table just inside the door. He poured two glasses from a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and handed one to Boyd, who hadn’t even had a chance to take off his coat. He couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful.
“It’s about four,” Raylan said, glancing at the time on his phone. “If we go to sleep now, we can get about four hours in before Art wants us in his office.”
Boyd took a long pull from his glass, wincing as the alcohol burned hot on the way down. He shook his head at Raylan, who was looking at him with that same concerned expression he’d been laying on him since Little Sandy. “I can’t sleep, Raylan. I really don’t think I can.”
Raylan frowned at him. “You’re not even trying yet.”
Boyd just looked right back at him. He knew he didn’t need to say how tightly he was wound at that moment, he knew Raylan could tell.
Raylan gave him a wan smile and offered, beginning to remove his shirt, “Let’s just lay down, okay? See what happens.”
Boyd acquiesced with a sigh and, looking at the sparsity of the room and deciding there really wasn’t anything else to do. He finished his drink and removed his coat, followed by the rest of his clothes except his underwear.
Raylan, having done the same, climbed onto the bed alongside Boyd and they settled down together under the covers. Boyd only hesitated for a moment before he slid further down the mattress and made a pillow of Raylan’s shoulder.
They didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Boyd was still wide awake, wondering if Raylan was as far from sleep as he was, when Raylan shifted, in not quite a start, as if he’d just remembered something.
“What did you say to Mosley that you thought might fuck us over?” He asked quietly.
Boyd smiled, knowing he didn’t say it in quite those words, then sighed, really not wanting to talk about it. Instead, he thought of the night of which he was reminded in the police car, and sat up meeting Raylan’s curious eyes.
“Do you remember going to a party,” Boyd began asking, “springtime, senior year, right when playoffs began?”
“Sure,” Raylan said, then gave him a hesitant smile. “I mean, I don’t remember much of it. You were there though. And Mosley. He drove me home that night.” Raylan wasn’t looking at him anymore, his eyes growing distant. He absently rubbed at his jaw and Boyd’s teeth ground together, remembering the bruises he’d seen days later on Raylan’s skin.
“Do you remember why you left?” Boyd asked in something akin to a whisper, hushed and close.
Raylan shrugged. “I remember Mosley tellin’ me in the truck I was too drunk to stay, nothing much before that. I called him a dick but I don’t know why. I think I apologized later for that. But it’s not like it matters, Boyd, that was years ago. Why you askin’?”
“You were fine,” Boyd said defensively. “You were with me.”
“With you?” Raylan asked.
Boyd smiled. “Yeah. Those boys were practically pouring it down your throat. I got a little concerned you might not make it through the night, so I pulled you out of there, sat you down for a minute. You don’t remember that at all?”
Raylan shook his head, frowning.
Boyd shrugged, figuring if he had, they probably would have talked about it at some time or another. He continued, “We got ourselves on a first name basis and then you insulted my hair.”
Raylan looked at him like he was crazy, pulling away and staring at him earnestly. “What? Boyd, that makes no sense. I would never have said anything bad about your hair.”
“Raylan,” Boyd said, trying to suppress a laugh, seeing as the boy was taking things so seriously. “That’s hardly the issue. You just called it weird, that’s all. It is weird. You didn’t hurt my feelings.”
At that, Raylan relaxed, falling into a fit of laughter and curling himself back up into Boyd’s arms.
Boyd’s brows furrowed and he shook his head as Raylan kept laughing. “Jesus, what?”
Raylan’s smile was glorious, unfettered, as if nothing that had happened that day had touched him. He ran his hands through Boyd’s hair, which was admittedly getting quite long again. “It is weird, darlin’. That’s what I love about it. Always have.”
“Well, thank you, Raylan, for clearing that up for me,” Boyd said through a grin, lifting his hand to cover Raylan’s fingers. “Would have been nice, if you’d said so when you weren’t so drunk you could barely communicate your thoughts, let alone your feelings on the matter.”
“Woulda been nice, if you told me we’d spoken for any length of time prior to that first day in the mine, Boyd,” Raylan returned only a little stiffly.
“Guess we’re even then,” Boyd said and kissed him.
Raylan’s hand drew down from his hair to smooth across his cheek as Boyd’s tongue entered his open mouth. They kissed slow and deep, leisurely in a way in which they rarely indulged. When Boyd became too insistent, Raylan would ease up, pull back, until Boyd slowed again. He huffed hot breath through his nose as he pushed back at Raylan, who nipped at his lip and pulled away, smiling. Boyd finally felt himself unwind just a little.
“Why didn’t you?” Raylan asked softly to Boyd’s lips. “Tell me, I mean. It’s been so long since then, Boyd. You really felt like you needed to keep that a secret?”
Boyd knew Raylan wasn’t mad about it, he’d be more tense, his words shorter and more brutal, if he were. He was just curious. So, Boyd shrugged and answered, “Right after, it was over and done so fast, I felt like it wasn’t worth it. You didn’t remember and I mostly wanted to forget.” Raylan looked at him funny at that, but let him continue uninterrupted. “And later, after all that time, it felt like something that was only mine, something you’d barely even been a part of, but a thing that all hinged on you regardless.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I fell for you that night, Raylan.”
Raylan’s voice was very soft. “You barely knew me.”
Boyd smiled and tilted his head. “You think that made a difference? It was easy to fall in love with you, baby. The difficult thing was figuring out that’s what I’d done.”
Raylan considered him for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning, then he sat back and seemed to come to some kind of decision.
He moved, not suddenly, but with a purpose Boyd wasn’t expecting, to straddle him at the waist and slide down the length of his body. He smiled at him, full of something muted but beautiful. He took out Boyd’s cock, smoothing loose, warm fingers from the base to the head, sending shivers up Boyd’s entire body, and bending gracefully to swallow him down.
Raylan sucked once, gently, then pulled off, drawing his tongue, wet and warm, up his length, once, twice and swallowed him again. Boyd groaned and looked down to meet Raylan’s eyes, dark and stuck fast to him, full of desire, acceptance, and the depth of their past together.
Raylan Givens never gave the same blow job twice, and this one was unlike any other Boyd had ever received. It was slow at first, his mouth working like he was speaking unfamiliar words, trying it out on his tongue, his lips. Raylan’s fingers were around the base of Boyd’s cock, the other cradling his hip, bracing himself poised at the perfect angle. His eyes never left Boyd’s and Boyd found he couldn’t look away.
He felt himself sucked in by Raylan’s gaze, fallen far into their depths, where the only thing he could feel was Raylan’s lovely mouth and the only thing he could think of was his twenty-year-old smile. Everything else spiralled away as his pleasure mounted. His hands came up into Raylan’s hair and Raylan moaned to Boyd’s cock.
Boyd closed his eyes, unbidden, his mind flashing a fleeting glimpse of the boy he’d known, who was so eager to leave him behind. As Raylan’s mouth kept on him, working faster, more urgently, he found it strange to reconcile that boy with the man who’d come back for him, who’d somehow realized he loved Boyd enough to walk into this den of snakes.
“Mm gonna,” he muttered, almost beyond speech with the power of it and Raylan’s hands tightened on him, drawing his eyes back. He stared, awestruck, watching Raylan swallow his come as it passed through him, leaving him shaken, drained, and spent.
Boyd smiled, feeling giddy as Raylan pulled off and climbed up the bed, still astride him. He kissed him then, soft and open, like before, because he knew how much Boyd loved tasting himself on his lips.
“You didn’t spit any out,” he murmured when they parted, suddenly fascinated by the contours of Raylan’s face, his neck, the curve of his ears.
“Didn’t need to,” Raylan said, and Boyd didn’t have the energy to deconstruct that statement.
“You’re so beautiful,” he replied instead and Raylan laughed at him.
“You’re exhausted, darlin’. Go to sleep.”
“You didn’t get any though,” Boyd said, his eyes feeling heavy.
“That wasn’t the point this time,” he heard Raylan answer, though his eyes had fallen shut. Boyd barely felt him settle next to him, and pull the sheets up and around them both before he drifted off.
Boyd woke before Raylan, starting awake from a dream he couldn’t remember.
Raylan’s hair was brushing up against Boyd’s shoulder, a ridiculous mess left over from their activities so early that morning, though no other part of them was touching. Boyd was glad, as it seemed he could exit the bed without waking Raylan. By his calculation, they had maybe another half hour before they’d have to get up and out the door to the Marshal’s office.
Like prisons, Boyd’s only association with the offices of law enforcement--prior to his relations with Raylan--were on account of his daddy.
Giving statements of any kind put him in mind of the days when the State Police or the Sheriff would haul him and Bowman in, for some juvenile bullshit, then interrogate them on the whereabouts or current activities of Bo. He’d always hated cops, hated their paper-thin offices and their Imma-help-you-boy smiles.
That was, until he heard Raylan had became one. Then, he’d had to rethink the notion. He’d had a head full of conflicting thoughts on the matter the day he walked into the Given’s home after Arlo had passed. He left with certainty of a kind, though nothing like what he felt now.
As Boyd eased himself off the mattress, pulling a pair of jeans from the bag Raylan had hastily packed for them, he told himself to keep that certainty in mind when they went in today, to hold himself in check. He didn’t like where his head was at these days, he wasn’t used to riding the edge so hard anymore.
Raylan stirred after his weight was displaced, looking up blearily at Boyd. “W’time is it?” he mumbled.
“Got a half hour yet, baby,” Boyd said with a soft smile. He put a hand to Raylan’s hair, running his fingers through it until his head fell back to the pillow. “I can’t sleep no more. Gonna go get some coffee, okay?”
“Donuts,” Raylan said to the mattress and Boyd laughed on his way out the door.
Not twenty seconds later, just as Boyd reached Raylan’s car, the door of the van parked next to them slid aside and he was presented with the barrel of Sheriff Hunter Mosely’s gun. Behind his back he heard the cocking of a sawed-off shotgun.
“Well, this is and is not quite a surprise, Sheriff,” Boyd said as he raised his hands in the air. His heart was pounding, but he didn’t feel threatened as of yet. “You gonna shoot me right here?”
Mosley looked like shit, as if he’d spent all night inside an unmarked van, making sure Raylan and Boyd hadn’t left their room without him. He also looked like he was losing it a little, his eyes were wide and glassy, his skin pale. He was a man at the end of his rope, a dangerous thing indeed.
“Naw,” a boy’s voice said behind him. “We’re gonna shoot you over your boyfriend’s dead body.”
Boyd ground his teeth. “Just remember what I said, Mosley. You’d be smarter to kill me right here, because if I escape your clutches and Raylan does not, you won’t live out the goddamn day.”
“Big words when we’re the ones got two guns on you, asshole,” the boy said.
“Turn around,” Mosley ordered, a put upon sigh in his voice.
Boyd spun slowly on his heel, hands still raised, to face the boy, who had a blood-soaked tear on the shoulder of his jacket and a white bandage peaking through his clothes. “Who is this charming young person?” Boyd asked softly, though inside he felt the sharp sear of impotent rage.
Not only did Boyd realize now that this was the little shit who’d broken in, who’d shot at them, but he also understood Mosely had known the whole time, had been behind it from the very beginning. Every move they’d made since calling the goddamn police wasn’t just a waste of time, it was all a part some kind of sadistic charade, meant to toy with them before the slaughter that was intended would finally arrive.
“Name’s Red,” the boy began, triumphant smirk plastered on his dirty face.
“Shut up, Red,” Mosley yelled, like he’d been doing too much of that lately.
“Hello, Red,” Boyd said, smiling slowly, and beginning to walk as Mosely pressed the barrel into his back. “If you don’t die today, I’m going to beat you bloody.”
Red’s face went slack for a moment, fighting terror that it was right for him to feel, and Mosely pressed the barrel harder. “He’s just a stupid kid,” the Sheriff said, though there was no tone of defense to his words.
“That could be true, Mosley,” Boyd returned. “What’s your excuse?”
When they reached the door, Boyd looked over his shoulder at Mosley, who nodded, a justifiably wary expression on his face. Boyd unlocked the door and opened it slowly, he felt the barrel jab him in the back and he walked forward, hands not quite natural it his sides, eyes looking everywhere for Raylan. Mosley wasn’t over the threshold yet.
“That was fast,” Raylan said, coming from the bathroom with only his jeans on. Boyd’s eyes flicked to the gun on the dresser and Raylan’s eyes narrowed as he reached for it. His hand closed around the grip and he drew the damn thing, but he couldn’t raise it before Mosley had charged forward, grabbing fast at Boyd’s hair and pressing his gun to Boyd’s neck.
Raylan kept his hand at his side, eyes wild. Boyd saw him register Red’s presence at Mosley’s side, his chest was heaving, all his muscles tense.
“Drop your weapon, Marshal,” Mosley said.
Raylan shook his head. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that.” Then he frowned and added in an outraged tone, “Also, what the hell, Mosley? You asshole.”
“I told you he was a liar, Raylan.” Mosley’s hand tightened in his hair, the gun sinking further into his jugular. Boyd didn’t know why he said that. It seemed like a terrible idea as soon as the words left his mouth.
Raylan was unfazed. “Yeah, I heard you, Boyd, but I didn’t think he was gonna come at us with guns blazing.” Raylan looked back at Mosley, eyes sharp, brows knit down hard as he asked, “Just what in the wide world of sports did you get yourself into, son?”
Mosley stared at him dumbfounded. “Are you seriously asking me that, Raylan?”
If Raylan hadn’t been so concerned someone was going to get shot in that moment, Boyd was certain he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking serious, what--just what, Mosley? Christ.”
“Didn’t Elliott fucking spill it to you?” Mosley was yelling for real now, like they should have already known. “I’m workin’ for Miami. I took over Bo’s routes in exchange for Henry Crowder’s fuckin’ head!”
Raylan just blinked at him. “Shit.”
Mosley went very still and Boyd could hear Red shifting around, like he was looking for something destructive to do. “We didn’t hear that, did we, Raylan?” Boyd finally said after no one spoke for a moment. “We can forget we ever heard it. Can’t we, Raylan?”
Raylan met Boyd’s eyes and Boyd swallowed from a dry throat. Of course not. Mosley started to laugh.
“You went after me, because you heard Elliott said something to me. And you didn’t know what it was,” Raylan said, as if everyone hadn’t realized just a moment before. “Hunter, you’re gonna cry. All that idiot told me was not to tell Arnett he’d got out. I didn’t know who fuckin’ sprung him. I didn’t really care.”
“Raylan, baby, I feel like the direction this conversation has taken, isn’t really gonna help us in the long run,” Boyd said, sensing a growing tension in the Sheriff behind him, in the grip he had on his hair, the way the gun was turned to his skin.
“It’s really not,” Mosley said through hysterical laughter, high and wheezing. That kid was still moving around. “Red, you hold that weapon steady on the Marshal,” the Sheriff reminded him.
Raylan’s eyes flashed and his grip on his weapon grew tighter. His mouth was turned down in the tiniest of frowns and Boyd understood he’d just gone from put out and angry to seriously pissed.
“What are you doin’, bringing Boyd into it?” Raylan demanded, eyes blazing. “He doesn’t know anything about this.” Which was a lie, since Raylan had told him specifically the only piece of information he’d known about the matter. But Raylan didn’t bat an eyelash and kept on, saying, “You could have let him go on for that coffee, come in here and shot me in bed. Not much except a rusty lock and spit stopping that door from being broken down.”
Boyd closed his eyes, his stomach turning over as Mosley replied, “Well, I would have, Raylan. I try not to be cruel, in addition to a mafia flunkie and a goddamn murderer, but your boyfriend here told me, in no uncertain terms, if you died he’d go on a fucking rampage with me at the top of his hit list. Said you were the only thing keeping him on the right side of the law.”
When he opened them, he met Raylan’s eyes and couldn’t decipher what kind of truth his boy saw in them. He would have told Raylan last night when he asked, and he would have lied then, to himself as well, and said he’d only meant to scare the Sheriff. But they’d gotten distracted and Boyd had missed his chance. The truth, at gunpoint and at the end of everything, was that Boyd had no notion of what he would do and it put more fear in him than God or the Devil ever had.
“All right, then. What do you think shooting us is gonna get you, Hunter?” Raylan asked, looking back to Boyd’s captor, in a low, almost reasonable voice. “You shoot a Marshal, and his... significant other... in their motel room? Even if they don’t get prints off where your... friend here has touched the doorknob, how long ‘fore they connect you to our investigation? Even if you didn’t file no paperwork, I told my boss we were workin’ with you. Johnny Crowder knows you and Boyd went to his bar. You were the last person we’d seen. How you think that’s gonna look?”
Mosley laughed. “I’ll be gone by then.”
“Oh, a life on the run, that should be just peachy, right?”
“Raylan,” Boyd said in warning, but Raylan’s eyes were on the boy.
“I don’t think we need to talk about this no more,” Red said and Boyd just knew he was aiming that shotgun high at Raylan’s head. He was inexperienced enough to think he’d have to actually aim with a scatter shot barrel like that.
Boyd saw Raylan adjust his stance, the boy saw it too and, as Mosley shouted at him to wait, Red fired but Raylan was already halfway to the ground and the shot was too high and a little wide.
Boyd threw his hands up, in the same moment, scrabbling hard at Mosley’s grip, pushing and craning his neck away. The barrel was at his ear, pointing to the ceiling, when Mosley’s finger squeezed the trigger and everything after that was drowned in a high, hollow, ringing, that made Boyd wonder if it was death coming at him slow. It was crushingly, maddeningly loud.
Something stretched to breaking within Boyd as he watched Raylan’s controlled fall spin out wildly, and he dropped to the floor hard, blood spraying across the carpet and the wall behind him. It seemed that something could not be mended, even as he saw Raylan twist himself around, despite all that blood, moving easily and raising his gun swiftly from the floor.
He had taken out Red by the time Boyd could stumble out of the way, feeling worryingly disoriented and praying to the Almighty that Raylan hadn’t just died in front of him and he’d lost his mind trying to process it. Raylan aimed again then, surreally fast, as Boyd watched feeling hot and horrifically eager for another death, but Mosley dropped the gun and sank to his knees.
Unable to let it stop, Boyd snatched the weapon up, thinking only of murder and missed opportunity, that Raylan’s blood was spread across the room, and strode over to the Sheriff.
He cocked the weapon again and thrust the barrel into the man’s temple, leaning in close and saying, “How do you like it, asshole?” in what could have been a whisper or a shout. Everything was muted, but deafening, the world was tinged in red. Every part of Boyd but his right hand was shaking with the vibration of that ringing in his head, with that loss so narrowly avoided. “You think surrender will bring you mercy?”
He couldn’t hear Raylan shouting his name, but he knew he would be, he felt it somehow, and looked up to see a contingent of U.S. Marshals poised at the door of the room, weapons in hand, staring at him, pointing at him. Art Mullen was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it, nor did he care to. He wondered, fleetingly, how they’d even known to come, but the thought didn’t stick with him long. He knew his chance had just passed, even if he was uncertain that he’d truly desired to take it.
Boyd put the gun down slowly and backed away. He didn’t stop walking back until he hit the wall next to the bed. It should have been hard and solid, but it was vibrating too. He looked at Raylan, who was standing now, staring back at him, wide-eyed, shaken. He was talking to Art, saying words that Boyd couldn’t hear at all, glancing every so often at Mosley. The scatter shot had got Raylan at the shoulder, just over to the edge of his collarbone.
It was a bloody mess. Boyd couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The wound was dripping, slowly, down Raylan’s bare arm in long, thick tendrils, like monstrous fingers reaching to pull him away. Boyd didn’t understand why no one was taking care of it. Raylan was just standing there, talking at them, shirtless and butchered. They were acting like that was normal, like it wasn’t anything at all.
He must have said something, his lips felt like they’d just formed words, but he was sure he hadn’t put them there. Everything was still ringing, high and keening intensely, and he could barely hear himself think. They were staring at him again and he knew that was wrong, because Raylan’s arm was still dripping. The blood was down at his fingers now, about to pile more stains on the goddamn carpet. They should have been helping him.
Art said something to Rachel, who smiled weakly at Boyd and started to move towards him. Raylan shook his head immediately, saying something with real concern in his eyes and putting a hand on Rachel’s arm--the hand that wasn’t stained red.
Art called over a man in a dark windbreaker. They gave Raylan a towel and he mopped up his own blood, while the man prepared a large bandage, then laid it over Raylan’s shoulder and wrapped it slowly in gauze and tape. Raylan had his eyes on Boyd the entire time.
After they’d finished, when Raylan approached, he did it slow, and Boyd’s brows furrowed, still looking at the bandage. It wasn’t really stopping the blood. Boyd could see it start to seep through already. It was dark and insidious behind that bone white bandage, almost grotesque.
“That’s not enough,” he thought he said. The ringing hadn’t really lessened.
He didn’t reach for Raylan when his boy walked up close to him. For some reason, his arms couldn’t raise themselves up. Raylan tilted his head, looking into Boyd’s eyes and frowning at what he seemed to see there. He raised his hand up to Boyd’s ear, touching him lightly.
Raylan’s fingers came away bloody and Boyd stared at that until Raylan’s other hand cupped his chin, drawing his eyes away. He leaned in to his other ear and said, though his voice sounded soft and real far away, “I know, Boyd. We’re gonna take a ride to the hospital. They gotta pick the buckshot out of me.”
At mention of the hospital, Boyd felt himself stiffen, terrified. He tried to whisper, “You’re not dead, are you?” because he still wasn’t sure it all wasn’t a terrible lie, wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost his damn mind along with Raylan on the blood-stained floor. How had Raylan raised that gun so fast? How had the Marshals even known to come?
Raylan’s hand came around the back of his head and Boyd wanted to push him away, certain of absolutely nothing, until he said, still low, but somehow audible, “No, darlin’. I’m right here. It’s all right, Boyd. I think you’re in shock.”
Boyd might have laughed at that, but it got lost in the din. His lips formed words, accompanied by a bitter smile, “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, boy?”
Raylan took a step back, smiling ruefully and keeping his hand on Boyd’s neck, clearly ready to get out of the room. Boyd saw they were pulling Mosley to his feet. His hands were behind his back and Boyd thought what a change that must be, what a hell prison would be for the man.
The realization hit him so hard then, a split second later, that his vision flashed white and his heart leaped up into his throat so fast he could gag on it. He slipped through Raylan’s grip, sinking fast to the floor.
“Boyd,” Raylan cried, distress coming clear through all that ringing. Boyd could barely hold up his head anymore and Raylan’s hands were on either side of his face.
“They’re gonna let Daddy out now, Raylan,” he said, not sure at what volume. He felt numb and cold and he thought he could hear the pounding of his daddy’s fist on that glass through the tumult in his head.
The Marshals, who’d come forward at Raylan’s tone, stopped short and stared at him. He thought perhaps Art swore.
“They’re gonna let him out.”
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.
Part 1 of Chapter 3 is here.
It took some convincing on Boyd’s part, to both Raylan and the Sheriff, that his accompaniment was a good idea. But Boyd had never been one to back down from an argument he wanted to win.
He won out in the end. Neither of the other parties looked pleased about it, but Boyd could really care less at that point. He knew he could hash things out with Raylan later, when they were on their way to Lexington to get everything sorted in regards to the firing of his sidearm, and he just didn’t give a damn about Mosley.
Though the car ride over would have been more pleasant if he had.
When they reached the bar, Boyd was the first through the door and Johnny, who’d been leaning over the pool table with a pretty young lady, turned and gave him a big smile. It only lasted as long as it took him to spot Mosley shadowing Boyd in the threshold.
The bar wasn’t crowded, it was late on a Monday night, after all. He hadn’t set foot in the place since things between him and Raylan had come out for real. It just hadn’t seemed prudent, though Boyd was fairly sure Johnny wasn’t going to judge him. He’d always been the live and let live sort.
Boyd scanned the room and didn’t see anyone that struck him as unfriendly towards him lately, or who would spread anything around too readily. He didn’t think things would go sideways here, but it was always good to be prepared. Everyone in the place was sort of eyeing him up, but he’d had so much of that recently, he barely noticed.
Johnny had the jukebox loud, blaring some Steve Earle song Boyd couldn’t identify before he put it out of his mind. The place looked much the same as it always had, though he noticed they’d gotten another of their illegal electronic slot machines.
Boyd saw that Johnny was seriously considering going for the obvious jab here, so Boyd spoke before he could, “No, Johnny, sorry to disappoint, but the only lawman I been passing the time with is your old buddy, Raylan Givens.” He made sure he was smirking when he said this, though his insides were still all tied up in knots.
Johnny’s eyebrows rose. “Doesn’t look that way to me. Maybe you got some kind of thing.”
Boyd wished he could laugh. This is what they used to do, all the time, even when Boyd was keeping his secrets close, they used to fuck around like boys do, call each other all sorts of degrading things, make wild, disgusting suppositions. Instead, he felt the smile leave his face and replied, “The only thing I got is a bed full of scattershot and a broken window. Sheriff here, wants to make sure it wasn’t you, broke in and fired at us... or Daddy.”
Johnny straightened up, glaring between them both as the Sheriff drew up alongside Boyd. “Why would I break in, guns blazing on my own cousin?”
“You wouldn’t,” Boyd said immediately. “I’ve just been unable to convince Sheriff Mosley here otherwise, without some kind of proof.”
Johnny laughed. “You... unable to convince someone of anything?”
Now Boyd did smile again as he said, “Seems I am not deemed a trustworthy man in some circles lately.”
“Ain’t no lately about it,” Mosley said gruffly.
“Lately for some,” Boyd corrected, looking at Johnny.
“You ever think it might be your fault people think you ain’t trustworthy no more, Boyd?”
“It wasn’t ever anything I could change, Johnny. Nor that I would want to.” Boyd kept his voice even here and his eyes on his cousin’s.
Johnny nodded and that was that. “All right, Sheriff,” he said the title like it was something he’d scrape off his boot. “How can I convince you the Crowders had no hand in shooting up Raylan Givens’ damn bedroom?” He eyed Boyd for a split second after he asked the question, like he still couldn’t quite believe Raylan’s bedroom was a place Boyd would frequent.
Mosley scowled, obviously unhappy at being so disrespected. “Strip,” he ordered and both Boyd and Johnny stiffened.
“Are you serious?” Johnny cried even as Boyd said, “Sheriff,” in a warning tone.
Mosley rounded on Boyd, his hand hovering over his sidearm. “You said you clipped him in the shoulder. I saw the blood myself. I wanna see if it was his shoulder you got.”
“You want to see him humiliated in his own place of business,” Boyd said in a low, dangerous voice. “It wasn’t him I got. I’d know his scream if I shot my own goddamned cousin, Mosley. I was under the impression we were here to ask him about Daddy. If you ask me, all we’re doing here is wasting time and leaving any other trail of evidence cold.”
“I didn’t fucking ask you, Crowder. Johnny, you gonna show me or not?”
But Johnny’s eyes were on Boyd. “You think Bo had a hand in this?” His tone held disapproval and suspicion. Boyd hated that, and suddenly felt he shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near this discussion.
“I don’t,” Boyd replied with certainty. “Daddy’s gonna deal with me on his own time. He wouldn’t send someone to do it for him. I...” Boyd paused and allowed the bitter, ironic smile he’d been holding in for days spread across his face. “I broke his heart, Johnny.”
Johnny frowned at him. “He tell you that?”
Boyd nodded.
He felt every breath that went through his lungs in the seconds that Johnny gave him a hard stare, still frowning. “Well, then you know it’s bullshit, Boyd. He’s just pissed.” Boyd’s cousin shook his head and went on, “You boys always were too concerned with what that man’s thinking of you. He’s a damn good boss and a pretty good salesman, but he’s a fucking bully. I thought you unwound yourself from his little finger years ago, son.”
Boyd blinked at him, but didn’t get an opportunity to reply, to say that he thought he had, because Mosley was on Johnny again, taking a step forward in a subtly threatening manner and saying, “Not that I don’t love hearing about good ol’ Bo and the new and interesting ways he’s screwing up his children, but I still ain’t seen that shoulder of yours, Johnny. We gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Boyd sneered at the man, having just about enough of this charade. “You’re gonna do it without me, Sheriff. This is bullshit and you know it. I’ll be outside.” He turned to Johnny before he went and thrust out his hand, though they always used to be close enough that an embrace would have been in order. “I’m sorry I brought this into your place, Johnny. It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cousin,” Johnny replied, taking his hand and squeezing hard. He was smiling as well, and Boyd was grateful.
He turned and told Mosley over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “I’ll be by the car.”
It took at least three minutes for Mosley to come through the door after him, dragging Johnny by the collar. The parking lot was empty of people and Johnny’s nose was bloody.
Boyd wasn’t exactly surprised, but he couldn’t keep the look of disgust off his face as he watched the lawman push his cousin around. He knew the worst possible thing he could do would be to intervene. Mosley couldn’t wait to get him in cuffs on some trumped up charge, just like all the Crowders, and the most stepping in here could do would be to give him an excuse.
Johnny tried to scramble away, as he couldn’t exactly retaliate without being arrested, but Mosley got a hand on his shirt sleeve and pulled viciously, tearing it down and ripping it open. There was no bandage, no bloody wound to reveal. Mosley looked him up and down and smirked, like he’d won something, then stalked over to the car.
“Boyd,” Johnny called from the ground and Boyd went, kneeling down beside him. Johnny looked pissed as hell as he clamped a hand down on Boyd’s arm and said quietly, “You know Bo wouldn’t do what was done to you tonight, but I feel like I gotta tell you, cousin, he can’t have done it, either.”
Everything in Boyd went very still as he said, “What do you mean, Johnny?”
“I dunno what this asshole’s been telling you, but Bo doesn’t have that reach no more. You been out of it. You don’t know. All he has is guys inside who whisper to him and a shitload of cash hidden somewhere on his property. He lost the routes out of Harlan for Miami and Frankfort when Mosley took him down. Someone else snatched up that shit, and they’re quiet as hell. Bo can’t have put out a hit, not unless he told someone where that money is. You think he’s gonna tell Bowman about it, or me?” Johnny had spoken fast enough to be out of breath at the end of his speech, and his eyes were earnest, almost pleading.
“No, Johnny, I don’t. But then, the question becomes, why would the good Sheriff lie?”
It was then that Mosley chose to call from the driver’s side door, “Crowder, you hitchin’ a ride or not?”
Johnny looked up at Boyd., the familiar eyes of his family, of Boyd’s brother and father so recently filled with anger and disgust, were now only worried, concerned. “You be careful, cousin. You-” he nearly tripped over the words, but still continued, “You tell Raylan, be careful too.”
“I will,” Boyd said, reeling from such freely offered acceptance, a rare and treasured commodity in his current circumstances, and stepped away, climbing into the car.
Boyd refused to be the first to speak inside Mosley’s vehicle. He was pissed and Mosley knew it.
He remembered back in high school, at Evarts, when team camaraderie would get the better of socio-economic differences and out and out dislike, and the boys on the baseball team would spend the playoff series--the one, and only one, through which they would last--hanging out with each other constantly. That was the only time in which Boyd, on account of Johnny, had ever been prevailed upon to socialize with Hunter Mosley, or even with Raylan for that matter.
It was actually at that time that Boyd had noticed Raylan, really seen him and not immediately dismissed him as a fucking Givens with a superior attitude--not that Boyd’s was any less superior. They’d all gone to a party together, where someone was blasting country rock from a boom box and there was a keg and a bonfire and kids getting stoned.
Mosley hadn’t partaken because he was a damn stick-in-the-mud, and Boyd hadn’t either because he just wasn’t feeling it that night. He didn’t like letting things loose with parties virtually unknown, and sometimes, he just liked to people watch.
Hunter sat near the fire with a scowl on his face, while Boyd walked around with a beer in his hand that he wasn’t drinking. The boys were in high spirits, having just won the first game in a series they would ultimately lose and Boyd watched them laughing together, keeping a steady smile on his face as he listened to their shit-talking and back-slapping.
Raylan, who had earned a reputation for being a secretly terrifying motherfucker when he took out Dickie Bennett’s knee earlier that season, was coerced into shotgunning two beers in a row. He performed admirably, and then someone shoved a jar of ‘shine in his face. It hadn't helped that he’d come out of the game somewhat of a hero, for a last-minute run that pulled them out of a tying score and pushed another boy across home-plate as well.
Boyd watched the proceedings, smiling and responding when Johnny said anything to him, but all the while keeping his eyes on Raylan.
Raylan’s smile was big, real big. It was the kind of smile you showed the world when you didn’t think you could be any happier, when everything that was terrible about your life was no where near you. Boyd had never seen anyone smile like that, not in Harlan at least, and he thought it was something special. He felt privileged to have witnessed it.
He also, as the time passed and Raylan drank even more, felt some kind of obligation to him. Not necessarily to keep that smile where it was, as it was obvious that kind of pure expression was unsustainable, but to make sure that Raylan would live long enough to smile like that again.
Boyd took his chance when Raylan had just finished another beer. That time it was a failed shotgun attempt, at which most of the other boys were too busy laughing to notice Boyd had pulled their entertainment away. Raylan came easily under Boyd’s strong grip on his upper arm, stumbling a little, but catching himself and laughing. He put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder for support and later Boyd would remember it as the first time Raylan Givens touched him.
He dragged Raylan over to a fallen tree trunk, rotting out from the ends, not too far from the rest of the team, and sat him down. Raylan was pliant, his brain miles from where his body was, so he blinked at Boyd and asked, “What’re we doing over here?”
“I wanted to talk to you a minute,” Boyd answered patiently. “We don’t talk much, do we, Givens?”
Raylan furrowed his brows. “No,” he said. And that was the first time Boyd discovered that Raylan was an interestingly reticent drunk, saying nothing unless he was spoken to first, and then often still saying almost nothing at all. Unless, of course, someone or something annoyed him, at which point he could become belligerent as all hell.
Boyd smiled then, so Raylan smiled back and a hint of that blazing grin shone through it. Boyd wanted to see more, so he kept talking.
“You seem to be a favorite these days with them boys.” Boyd nodded over to the rest of the team, who’d gotten some girls from somewhere and were now attempting to have them catch up to their level of inebriation. It didn’t seem like a good idea to Boyd.
“Guess so.” Raylan looked away and shrugged, his whole body moving unsteadily with the motion. Boyd kept his eyes on him, to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over.
“Must be on account of that shit with Dickie.”
Raylan scowled. “Wish it wasn’t.”
“Why is that?”
Raylan snorted derisively and brought his hands together like he was aiming to hit something, though he made no real move to do so. “Dickie Bennett’s a moron who thinks he’s a genius. He ain’t never gonna ‘mount to anything but a self-inflated pot-dealer in a town full of shit-kicker crime lords battling themselves bloody and dead over whose pile of shit is the biggest one.” He looked over at Boyd and seemed to realize what he’d just said. “Fuck. Sorry, man.”
Boyd laughed, wondering what exactly that had to do with Raylan being praised for beating the tar out of him, then said truthfully, “That ain’t nothin’, Raylan, but I have to ask--you think you’re gonna be anything better than that?”
“I’m gon’ get out,” he said darkly, his accent melding hard into the alcohol’s slur. He leaned forward like he was bestowing some secret on Boyd. “I don’ care what I do. I won’ be doin’ it here.”
Boyd smiled because Raylan was smiling, soft, like Boyd understood wanting to leave, but that was a lie. He felt like shit and he couldn’t put his finger on why.
Raylan’s smile grew wider and he put his hands on Boyd’s shoulders, letting his eyelids fall half-shut and leaning further in, mostly because he’d lost his balance. “What’re we doin’ over here, Crowder? Let’s go back. I wan’ another beer...” he trailed off and made to stand.
Boyd’s hands on his forearms put a stop to that quickly and Raylan laughed, screwing his eyes shut, like it was his own fault he hadn’t been able to make it up. “Jus’ talk to me for a little while, Raylan,” Boyd said.
“Okay,” he replied easily, looking at Boyd again. “What you wan’ talk about?”
Boyd had no idea, he barely knew this boy.
Well, perhaps that was a lie, too. He knew about him, he knew his daddy was a no good wife-beater and a drunk. He knew his mama had stayed in Noble’s Holler the longest of any living woman in Harlan and still hadn’t left Arlo. He knew Raylan’s uncle, on his mama’s side, had been killed by gun thugs a few years back, one of the last murders of that kind that didn’t make it to the big city papers when the union strikes entered the national media consciousness. He knew the Givens and the Crowders had held onto uneasy partnerships in the past more than they had to grudges. He knew he really wanted to talk to Raylan some more.
Raylan had begun listing a little as all that ran through Boyd’s mind so Boyd put a hand back on his shoulder, setting him upright and saying, real soft, “Raylan.”
He opened his eyes and smiled again. “Boyd,” he said and it was the first time Boyd heard his first name on those lips.
Raylan’s brows furrowed and he looked at Boyd hard for a minute before saying, “Boyd, your hair is real weird-lookin’. Did you know that?”
Boyd touched his hair, which even at that time, stuck out in all directions. He’d never been one to make scheduled trips to the barber, so it was long then, rising several inches into the air. He laughed softly and answered, “Yes, Raylan, I did know that.”
Raylan just nodded. “Good. Okay.”
Boyd wondered at that, but couldn’t say anything else because Hunter Mosley was on his way over, calling Raylan’s name. “You don’t look so good,” he told Raylan when he reached them.
Raylan shook his head, taking his hands off Boyd’s arms. “‘M fine,” he replied.
Mosley looked over at the rest of them, some of which had left with the girls, others were sitting on the ground near the fire, still drinking. It was obvious he didn’t want to stay. “I think I better take you home.”
At that, Raylan stiffened, visibly attempting to make himself appear less drunk and failing spectacularly. “I’m fine,” he enunciated carefully. “I don’ need to leave, Hunter.”
Mosley looked at him, brows arched and a little frown of disbelief on his face.
Boyd chimed in now, noticing how Raylan was clutching hard at the trunk to keep himself from wavering. He really didn’t want to go. “I think it’s okay, Mosley. Let him walk it off or something. He don’t need to leave now. I’ll--”
“I’ll thank you to let me take care of my teammate, Crowder. I really don’t even know what you’re doing here tonight.” Mosley scowled at him then muttered as he reached for Raylan, “Fucking Johnny, Jesus.”
Boyd was frozen for a second by the open hostility of the boy, from whom he’d never heard such a sentiment--though granted, they hardly traveled in the same circles. He was still caught up in the shock when Raylan toppled over as he tried to evade Mosley’s grasp.
“I ain’ goin’,” Raylan mumbled into the grass, twisting around to his hands and knees.
Boyd was up and around the trunk to Raylan before Hunter could make the move himself. He hauled Raylan to his feet, taking most of his weight through the shoulders and hip. Raylan was turned to him and looked right into his eyes, though he didn’t seem to be seeing much. Boyd registered a fear there the boy couldn’t hide, maybe wouldn’t even have been able to if he were dead sober.
“I’m so drunk,” Raylan whispered, perhaps thinking even Boyd couldn’t hear. “He’s gon’ be so pissed.”
Something cold and sharp sunk into Boyd’s gut, clawing a terror there that wasn’t his own. He’d never known this fear, but he could imagine it, the knowledge that there was no safe place.
“He don’t want to go, Mosley,” Boyd said, and as soon as he did Raylan looked at him like he’d just realized it was an actual person on which he was clinging.
“You want to fight about this, Crowder?” Mosley was serious and Boyd stared at him like he was crazy.
“What is your damn problem, son?” he cried, but at the same moment, Raylan stepped forward, letting go of Boyd and saying, “No.”
Raylan looked back at Boyd, that fear still lurking in his eyes, silencing any protests. “You ain’t gonna fight about it. I’ll fucking go.”
He let Mosley put his hand on his shoulder, and lead him away. Boyd didn’t say anything, paralyzed by Raylan’s ridiculous bravery and something else it would take him years to understand.
Boyd sat in Hunter Mosley’s police cruiser nearly twenty years later, scowling, feeling the anger of that night and everything that had just happened boiling up in him. He hadn’t wanted to be the one to speak first, but he couldn’t hold back the question anymore.
“Just what is your problem with my family?” Boyd asked, knowing he sounded something like petulant.
“You mean other than you lot being no account, hillbilly, drug pushers?” Mosley asked.
“You wanna cut it with the name-calling, Sheriff?” he retorted, saying the title in the same way Johnny had.
“That’s it,” Mosley said. “You Crowders, don’t give any respect to nothin’. I am the goddamn Sheriff of this goddamn county and you spit on that every chance you fucking get.”
Boyd stared at him. “This is Harlan County, Mosley. You think you’re in the land of law and order? You gotta earn what respect you’re given.”
“Only by breaking the law and pushing people around, though, right, Crowder? And these ain’t no Prohibition hills no more. There aren’t any more union battles to fight.”
“That’s because we lost them,” Boyd said darkly, looking out over the hills in the moonlight as they wound along the road back to the house, where Raylan was waiting. “Company always wins in the end and so does the fucking law and Uncle Sam. You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you want people to believe you’re one of the good ones, that you ain’t like the rest of your family, just ‘cause you’re shacking up with a damn U.S. Marshal and walking around like no gay man I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not buying your shit, Boyd.” Mosley was breathing hard and something tripped in Boyd’s mind.
The one good one, that’s what people used to say about Henry Crowder, a second cousin, who killed a little girl maybe five years before. He remembered Mosley, who hadn’t made Sheriff yet, was torn to pieces about it. The girl was his niece.
He met Mosley’s eyes and knew the man realized he’d made the connection. They were close to the house now so Boyd decided to say his piece and be done with it. He didn’t think he was going to get another chance to be alone with the Sheriff again.
“Well, you’d be wrong then,” Boyd said in a voice as dangerous as he dared. “I don’t give a good goddamn what people think of me. I ain’t puttin’ on no show for you or anybody else. And the only thing--I want you to pay attention, now--the only thing that is keepin’ me anywhere close to good is Raylan Givens. Do you understand me? If something were to happen to him, Sheriff, I really do not know what I might do.”
The look Mosley turned on him after that could have been anywhere between murderous and terrified, or some kind of amalgamation of the two. Boyd kept his gaze out the window and hoped to God he hadn’t just made things worse.
When they got to the house, Mosley left the vehicle before Boyd did, slamming the door and stalking up the walk to meet Raylan, who was waiting for them on the porch.
Boyd took his time, sliding his hands into his coat pockets and sauntering up to them just as Mosley seemed to have finished.
“So, you’ll both be in Lexington?” the Sheriff said, as if confirming the information rather than asking for it. Boyd didn’t like the idea that he thought he was entitled to know, let alone make sure. But Raylan nodded like it was nothing unusual and Mosley turned blindly, like a million other things were on his mind. He narrowly avoided a shoulder collision with Boyd as they passed each other, prompting Boyd to give him one last glare of pure disgust. Boyd watched Raylan watch him go.
“You sure got him riled up about somethin’,” Raylan said, looking at Boyd carefully.
Boyd kept his expression very still, unable to shake the black mood that had come over him. “He’s a liar, Raylan. We shouldn’t trust him.”
Raylan sighed, like he wasn’t surprised at all and said, “Tell me in the car. Art wants us in the office in the morning. You gotta give a statement. Might as well drive now, catch at least a few hours of sleep at the motel.”
Boyd put his face in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted as well as inordinately angry. “Raylan--” he began, but broke off swiftly, unsure of what he was even protesting.
Raylan was up on him in the next moment, his hands pulling down Boyd’s, interlacing their fingers quickly, and leaning in close. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t even worry about the statement. I made it sound like a big deal because I was pissed. It happens more than you’d think and for stupider reasons than this.”
Boyd shook his head, wanting to back away, feeling crowded in, overwhelmed. “That’s not it, Raylan. I ain’t...” he paused searching for the right way to convey what was going on with him. “I’m not in control at this moment. I may have just irreparably damaged relations with the Sheriff. There are things that I would do, terrible extremes to which I would go, in which I want very badly to indulge, but I know you wouldn’t want that and I--”
He stopped talking because Raylan pushed himself those last inches forward, thrusting their lips together, pulling him closer than before. His mouth was warm and good, his tongue working fast, insistent, against Boyd’s, and he tasted like bourbon.
When Raylan pulled away, he said in a low voice and a tone that was careful, yet hard, “You think I don’t know how it feels to want those things, just ‘cause of what I do. But you know, Boyd, I’m just a kid from the holler, too. I feel that pull, the same as you. There isn’t anything I’d like to see more than you kicking the ever-loving shit out of the asshole who came into this house tonight. There isn’t anything I’d like to do more than join in. But there are always things we want and things we can’t have and tonight, those are one in the same.”
Boyd looked at him accusingly. “That supposed to make me feel better, Raylan?”
Raylan shrugged, a carelessly indifferent motion. “Only insofar as it gets you to stop assuming my thoughts ain’t as dark as yours when provoked. It was the kiss, was supposed to make you feel better.”
Boyd finally cracked a smile at that, then licked his lips and tasted that bourbon again. “You had a drink,” he said, making it clear he wanted one too.
“I was wound up and waiting for you,” Raylan replied defensively. “I got Jack at the motel, okay?”
Boyd spent the car ride telling Raylan what Mosley had done at Johnny’s bar and what Johnny had told Boyd before he left.
“You think he’s chasing the wrong leads on purpose?” Raylan finally asked.
Boyd shrugged. “Can’t say one way or the other, for sure. He could just be an idiot with a grudge.”
“That’s what I was sort of hopin’,” Raylan replied with the smile he used when he was pretending not to be worried. Boyd ignored it, not wanting to start a fight, and they didn’t say much for the rest of the drive.
Raylan’s motel room could only be described as back-country spartan. There was wood-panelling along every wall and surface in the entire place, like a hunting lodge, but without the trophies. There was a bed and a chair and a table, a fairly clean bathroom towards the back, and something like a kitchenette with a counter, microwave and sink.
It looked as though anyone who had stayed there was just passing through. Boyd was somehow uplifted by that thought, that Raylan hadn’t bothered to make this place seem anything like home, because he had one elsewhere.
Raylan went straight to the sideboard after dropping his keys and hat unceremoniously on the table just inside the door. He poured two glasses from a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and handed one to Boyd, who hadn’t even had a chance to take off his coat. He couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful.
“It’s about four,” Raylan said, glancing at the time on his phone. “If we go to sleep now, we can get about four hours in before Art wants us in his office.”
Boyd took a long pull from his glass, wincing as the alcohol burned hot on the way down. He shook his head at Raylan, who was looking at him with that same concerned expression he’d been laying on him since Little Sandy. “I can’t sleep, Raylan. I really don’t think I can.”
Raylan frowned at him. “You’re not even trying yet.”
Boyd just looked right back at him. He knew he didn’t need to say how tightly he was wound at that moment, he knew Raylan could tell.
Raylan gave him a wan smile and offered, beginning to remove his shirt, “Let’s just lay down, okay? See what happens.”
Boyd acquiesced with a sigh and, looking at the sparsity of the room and deciding there really wasn’t anything else to do. He finished his drink and removed his coat, followed by the rest of his clothes except his underwear.
Raylan, having done the same, climbed onto the bed alongside Boyd and they settled down together under the covers. Boyd only hesitated for a moment before he slid further down the mattress and made a pillow of Raylan’s shoulder.
They didn’t say anything for a few minutes and Boyd was still wide awake, wondering if Raylan was as far from sleep as he was, when Raylan shifted, in not quite a start, as if he’d just remembered something.
“What did you say to Mosley that you thought might fuck us over?” He asked quietly.
Boyd smiled, knowing he didn’t say it in quite those words, then sighed, really not wanting to talk about it. Instead, he thought of the night of which he was reminded in the police car, and sat up meeting Raylan’s curious eyes.
“Do you remember going to a party,” Boyd began asking, “springtime, senior year, right when playoffs began?”
“Sure,” Raylan said, then gave him a hesitant smile. “I mean, I don’t remember much of it. You were there though. And Mosley. He drove me home that night.” Raylan wasn’t looking at him anymore, his eyes growing distant. He absently rubbed at his jaw and Boyd’s teeth ground together, remembering the bruises he’d seen days later on Raylan’s skin.
“Do you remember why you left?” Boyd asked in something akin to a whisper, hushed and close.
Raylan shrugged. “I remember Mosley tellin’ me in the truck I was too drunk to stay, nothing much before that. I called him a dick but I don’t know why. I think I apologized later for that. But it’s not like it matters, Boyd, that was years ago. Why you askin’?”
“You were fine,” Boyd said defensively. “You were with me.”
“With you?” Raylan asked.
Boyd smiled. “Yeah. Those boys were practically pouring it down your throat. I got a little concerned you might not make it through the night, so I pulled you out of there, sat you down for a minute. You don’t remember that at all?”
Raylan shook his head, frowning.
Boyd shrugged, figuring if he had, they probably would have talked about it at some time or another. He continued, “We got ourselves on a first name basis and then you insulted my hair.”
Raylan looked at him like he was crazy, pulling away and staring at him earnestly. “What? Boyd, that makes no sense. I would never have said anything bad about your hair.”
“Raylan,” Boyd said, trying to suppress a laugh, seeing as the boy was taking things so seriously. “That’s hardly the issue. You just called it weird, that’s all. It is weird. You didn’t hurt my feelings.”
At that, Raylan relaxed, falling into a fit of laughter and curling himself back up into Boyd’s arms.
Boyd’s brows furrowed and he shook his head as Raylan kept laughing. “Jesus, what?”
Raylan’s smile was glorious, unfettered, as if nothing that had happened that day had touched him. He ran his hands through Boyd’s hair, which was admittedly getting quite long again. “It is weird, darlin’. That’s what I love about it. Always have.”
“Well, thank you, Raylan, for clearing that up for me,” Boyd said through a grin, lifting his hand to cover Raylan’s fingers. “Would have been nice, if you’d said so when you weren’t so drunk you could barely communicate your thoughts, let alone your feelings on the matter.”
“Woulda been nice, if you told me we’d spoken for any length of time prior to that first day in the mine, Boyd,” Raylan returned only a little stiffly.
“Guess we’re even then,” Boyd said and kissed him.
Raylan’s hand drew down from his hair to smooth across his cheek as Boyd’s tongue entered his open mouth. They kissed slow and deep, leisurely in a way in which they rarely indulged. When Boyd became too insistent, Raylan would ease up, pull back, until Boyd slowed again. He huffed hot breath through his nose as he pushed back at Raylan, who nipped at his lip and pulled away, smiling. Boyd finally felt himself unwind just a little.
“Why didn’t you?” Raylan asked softly to Boyd’s lips. “Tell me, I mean. It’s been so long since then, Boyd. You really felt like you needed to keep that a secret?”
Boyd knew Raylan wasn’t mad about it, he’d be more tense, his words shorter and more brutal, if he were. He was just curious. So, Boyd shrugged and answered, “Right after, it was over and done so fast, I felt like it wasn’t worth it. You didn’t remember and I mostly wanted to forget.” Raylan looked at him funny at that, but let him continue uninterrupted. “And later, after all that time, it felt like something that was only mine, something you’d barely even been a part of, but a thing that all hinged on you regardless.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I fell for you that night, Raylan.”
Raylan’s voice was very soft. “You barely knew me.”
Boyd smiled and tilted his head. “You think that made a difference? It was easy to fall in love with you, baby. The difficult thing was figuring out that’s what I’d done.”
Raylan considered him for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning, then he sat back and seemed to come to some kind of decision.
He moved, not suddenly, but with a purpose Boyd wasn’t expecting, to straddle him at the waist and slide down the length of his body. He smiled at him, full of something muted but beautiful. He took out Boyd’s cock, smoothing loose, warm fingers from the base to the head, sending shivers up Boyd’s entire body, and bending gracefully to swallow him down.
Raylan sucked once, gently, then pulled off, drawing his tongue, wet and warm, up his length, once, twice and swallowed him again. Boyd groaned and looked down to meet Raylan’s eyes, dark and stuck fast to him, full of desire, acceptance, and the depth of their past together.
Raylan Givens never gave the same blow job twice, and this one was unlike any other Boyd had ever received. It was slow at first, his mouth working like he was speaking unfamiliar words, trying it out on his tongue, his lips. Raylan’s fingers were around the base of Boyd’s cock, the other cradling his hip, bracing himself poised at the perfect angle. His eyes never left Boyd’s and Boyd found he couldn’t look away.
He felt himself sucked in by Raylan’s gaze, fallen far into their depths, where the only thing he could feel was Raylan’s lovely mouth and the only thing he could think of was his twenty-year-old smile. Everything else spiralled away as his pleasure mounted. His hands came up into Raylan’s hair and Raylan moaned to Boyd’s cock.
Boyd closed his eyes, unbidden, his mind flashing a fleeting glimpse of the boy he’d known, who was so eager to leave him behind. As Raylan’s mouth kept on him, working faster, more urgently, he found it strange to reconcile that boy with the man who’d come back for him, who’d somehow realized he loved Boyd enough to walk into this den of snakes.
“Mm gonna,” he muttered, almost beyond speech with the power of it and Raylan’s hands tightened on him, drawing his eyes back. He stared, awestruck, watching Raylan swallow his come as it passed through him, leaving him shaken, drained, and spent.
Boyd smiled, feeling giddy as Raylan pulled off and climbed up the bed, still astride him. He kissed him then, soft and open, like before, because he knew how much Boyd loved tasting himself on his lips.
“You didn’t spit any out,” he murmured when they parted, suddenly fascinated by the contours of Raylan’s face, his neck, the curve of his ears.
“Didn’t need to,” Raylan said, and Boyd didn’t have the energy to deconstruct that statement.
“You’re so beautiful,” he replied instead and Raylan laughed at him.
“You’re exhausted, darlin’. Go to sleep.”
“You didn’t get any though,” Boyd said, his eyes feeling heavy.
“That wasn’t the point this time,” he heard Raylan answer, though his eyes had fallen shut. Boyd barely felt him settle next to him, and pull the sheets up and around them both before he drifted off.
Boyd woke before Raylan, starting awake from a dream he couldn’t remember.
Raylan’s hair was brushing up against Boyd’s shoulder, a ridiculous mess left over from their activities so early that morning, though no other part of them was touching. Boyd was glad, as it seemed he could exit the bed without waking Raylan. By his calculation, they had maybe another half hour before they’d have to get up and out the door to the Marshal’s office.
Like prisons, Boyd’s only association with the offices of law enforcement--prior to his relations with Raylan--were on account of his daddy.
Giving statements of any kind put him in mind of the days when the State Police or the Sheriff would haul him and Bowman in, for some juvenile bullshit, then interrogate them on the whereabouts or current activities of Bo. He’d always hated cops, hated their paper-thin offices and their Imma-help-you-boy smiles.
That was, until he heard Raylan had became one. Then, he’d had to rethink the notion. He’d had a head full of conflicting thoughts on the matter the day he walked into the Given’s home after Arlo had passed. He left with certainty of a kind, though nothing like what he felt now.
As Boyd eased himself off the mattress, pulling a pair of jeans from the bag Raylan had hastily packed for them, he told himself to keep that certainty in mind when they went in today, to hold himself in check. He didn’t like where his head was at these days, he wasn’t used to riding the edge so hard anymore.
Raylan stirred after his weight was displaced, looking up blearily at Boyd. “W’time is it?” he mumbled.
“Got a half hour yet, baby,” Boyd said with a soft smile. He put a hand to Raylan’s hair, running his fingers through it until his head fell back to the pillow. “I can’t sleep no more. Gonna go get some coffee, okay?”
“Donuts,” Raylan said to the mattress and Boyd laughed on his way out the door.
Not twenty seconds later, just as Boyd reached Raylan’s car, the door of the van parked next to them slid aside and he was presented with the barrel of Sheriff Hunter Mosely’s gun. Behind his back he heard the cocking of a sawed-off shotgun.
“Well, this is and is not quite a surprise, Sheriff,” Boyd said as he raised his hands in the air. His heart was pounding, but he didn’t feel threatened as of yet. “You gonna shoot me right here?”
Mosley looked like shit, as if he’d spent all night inside an unmarked van, making sure Raylan and Boyd hadn’t left their room without him. He also looked like he was losing it a little, his eyes were wide and glassy, his skin pale. He was a man at the end of his rope, a dangerous thing indeed.
“Naw,” a boy’s voice said behind him. “We’re gonna shoot you over your boyfriend’s dead body.”
Boyd ground his teeth. “Just remember what I said, Mosley. You’d be smarter to kill me right here, because if I escape your clutches and Raylan does not, you won’t live out the goddamn day.”
“Big words when we’re the ones got two guns on you, asshole,” the boy said.
“Turn around,” Mosley ordered, a put upon sigh in his voice.
Boyd spun slowly on his heel, hands still raised, to face the boy, who had a blood-soaked tear on the shoulder of his jacket and a white bandage peaking through his clothes. “Who is this charming young person?” Boyd asked softly, though inside he felt the sharp sear of impotent rage.
Not only did Boyd realize now that this was the little shit who’d broken in, who’d shot at them, but he also understood Mosely had known the whole time, had been behind it from the very beginning. Every move they’d made since calling the goddamn police wasn’t just a waste of time, it was all a part some kind of sadistic charade, meant to toy with them before the slaughter that was intended would finally arrive.
“Name’s Red,” the boy began, triumphant smirk plastered on his dirty face.
“Shut up, Red,” Mosley yelled, like he’d been doing too much of that lately.
“Hello, Red,” Boyd said, smiling slowly, and beginning to walk as Mosely pressed the barrel into his back. “If you don’t die today, I’m going to beat you bloody.”
Red’s face went slack for a moment, fighting terror that it was right for him to feel, and Mosely pressed the barrel harder. “He’s just a stupid kid,” the Sheriff said, though there was no tone of defense to his words.
“That could be true, Mosley,” Boyd returned. “What’s your excuse?”
When they reached the door, Boyd looked over his shoulder at Mosley, who nodded, a justifiably wary expression on his face. Boyd unlocked the door and opened it slowly, he felt the barrel jab him in the back and he walked forward, hands not quite natural it his sides, eyes looking everywhere for Raylan. Mosley wasn’t over the threshold yet.
“That was fast,” Raylan said, coming from the bathroom with only his jeans on. Boyd’s eyes flicked to the gun on the dresser and Raylan’s eyes narrowed as he reached for it. His hand closed around the grip and he drew the damn thing, but he couldn’t raise it before Mosley had charged forward, grabbing fast at Boyd’s hair and pressing his gun to Boyd’s neck.
Raylan kept his hand at his side, eyes wild. Boyd saw him register Red’s presence at Mosley’s side, his chest was heaving, all his muscles tense.
“Drop your weapon, Marshal,” Mosley said.
Raylan shook his head. “I don’t think I’m gonna do that.” Then he frowned and added in an outraged tone, “Also, what the hell, Mosley? You asshole.”
“I told you he was a liar, Raylan.” Mosley’s hand tightened in his hair, the gun sinking further into his jugular. Boyd didn’t know why he said that. It seemed like a terrible idea as soon as the words left his mouth.
Raylan was unfazed. “Yeah, I heard you, Boyd, but I didn’t think he was gonna come at us with guns blazing.” Raylan looked back at Mosley, eyes sharp, brows knit down hard as he asked, “Just what in the wide world of sports did you get yourself into, son?”
Mosley stared at him dumbfounded. “Are you seriously asking me that, Raylan?”
If Raylan hadn’t been so concerned someone was going to get shot in that moment, Boyd was certain he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m fucking serious, what--just what, Mosley? Christ.”
“Didn’t Elliott fucking spill it to you?” Mosley was yelling for real now, like they should have already known. “I’m workin’ for Miami. I took over Bo’s routes in exchange for Henry Crowder’s fuckin’ head!”
Raylan just blinked at him. “Shit.”
Mosley went very still and Boyd could hear Red shifting around, like he was looking for something destructive to do. “We didn’t hear that, did we, Raylan?” Boyd finally said after no one spoke for a moment. “We can forget we ever heard it. Can’t we, Raylan?”
Raylan met Boyd’s eyes and Boyd swallowed from a dry throat. Of course not. Mosley started to laugh.
“You went after me, because you heard Elliott said something to me. And you didn’t know what it was,” Raylan said, as if everyone hadn’t realized just a moment before. “Hunter, you’re gonna cry. All that idiot told me was not to tell Arnett he’d got out. I didn’t know who fuckin’ sprung him. I didn’t really care.”
“Raylan, baby, I feel like the direction this conversation has taken, isn’t really gonna help us in the long run,” Boyd said, sensing a growing tension in the Sheriff behind him, in the grip he had on his hair, the way the gun was turned to his skin.
“It’s really not,” Mosley said through hysterical laughter, high and wheezing. That kid was still moving around. “Red, you hold that weapon steady on the Marshal,” the Sheriff reminded him.
Raylan’s eyes flashed and his grip on his weapon grew tighter. His mouth was turned down in the tiniest of frowns and Boyd understood he’d just gone from put out and angry to seriously pissed.
“What are you doin’, bringing Boyd into it?” Raylan demanded, eyes blazing. “He doesn’t know anything about this.” Which was a lie, since Raylan had told him specifically the only piece of information he’d known about the matter. But Raylan didn’t bat an eyelash and kept on, saying, “You could have let him go on for that coffee, come in here and shot me in bed. Not much except a rusty lock and spit stopping that door from being broken down.”
Boyd closed his eyes, his stomach turning over as Mosley replied, “Well, I would have, Raylan. I try not to be cruel, in addition to a mafia flunkie and a goddamn murderer, but your boyfriend here told me, in no uncertain terms, if you died he’d go on a fucking rampage with me at the top of his hit list. Said you were the only thing keeping him on the right side of the law.”
When he opened them, he met Raylan’s eyes and couldn’t decipher what kind of truth his boy saw in them. He would have told Raylan last night when he asked, and he would have lied then, to himself as well, and said he’d only meant to scare the Sheriff. But they’d gotten distracted and Boyd had missed his chance. The truth, at gunpoint and at the end of everything, was that Boyd had no notion of what he would do and it put more fear in him than God or the Devil ever had.
“All right, then. What do you think shooting us is gonna get you, Hunter?” Raylan asked, looking back to Boyd’s captor, in a low, almost reasonable voice. “You shoot a Marshal, and his... significant other... in their motel room? Even if they don’t get prints off where your... friend here has touched the doorknob, how long ‘fore they connect you to our investigation? Even if you didn’t file no paperwork, I told my boss we were workin’ with you. Johnny Crowder knows you and Boyd went to his bar. You were the last person we’d seen. How you think that’s gonna look?”
Mosley laughed. “I’ll be gone by then.”
“Oh, a life on the run, that should be just peachy, right?”
“Raylan,” Boyd said in warning, but Raylan’s eyes were on the boy.
“I don’t think we need to talk about this no more,” Red said and Boyd just knew he was aiming that shotgun high at Raylan’s head. He was inexperienced enough to think he’d have to actually aim with a scatter shot barrel like that.
Boyd saw Raylan adjust his stance, the boy saw it too and, as Mosley shouted at him to wait, Red fired but Raylan was already halfway to the ground and the shot was too high and a little wide.
Boyd threw his hands up, in the same moment, scrabbling hard at Mosley’s grip, pushing and craning his neck away. The barrel was at his ear, pointing to the ceiling, when Mosley’s finger squeezed the trigger and everything after that was drowned in a high, hollow, ringing, that made Boyd wonder if it was death coming at him slow. It was crushingly, maddeningly loud.
Something stretched to breaking within Boyd as he watched Raylan’s controlled fall spin out wildly, and he dropped to the floor hard, blood spraying across the carpet and the wall behind him. It seemed that something could not be mended, even as he saw Raylan twist himself around, despite all that blood, moving easily and raising his gun swiftly from the floor.
He had taken out Red by the time Boyd could stumble out of the way, feeling worryingly disoriented and praying to the Almighty that Raylan hadn’t just died in front of him and he’d lost his mind trying to process it. Raylan aimed again then, surreally fast, as Boyd watched feeling hot and horrifically eager for another death, but Mosley dropped the gun and sank to his knees.
Unable to let it stop, Boyd snatched the weapon up, thinking only of murder and missed opportunity, that Raylan’s blood was spread across the room, and strode over to the Sheriff.
He cocked the weapon again and thrust the barrel into the man’s temple, leaning in close and saying, “How do you like it, asshole?” in what could have been a whisper or a shout. Everything was muted, but deafening, the world was tinged in red. Every part of Boyd but his right hand was shaking with the vibration of that ringing in his head, with that loss so narrowly avoided. “You think surrender will bring you mercy?”
He couldn’t hear Raylan shouting his name, but he knew he would be, he felt it somehow, and looked up to see a contingent of U.S. Marshals poised at the door of the room, weapons in hand, staring at him, pointing at him. Art Mullen was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it, nor did he care to. He wondered, fleetingly, how they’d even known to come, but the thought didn’t stick with him long. He knew his chance had just passed, even if he was uncertain that he’d truly desired to take it.
Boyd put the gun down slowly and backed away. He didn’t stop walking back until he hit the wall next to the bed. It should have been hard and solid, but it was vibrating too. He looked at Raylan, who was standing now, staring back at him, wide-eyed, shaken. He was talking to Art, saying words that Boyd couldn’t hear at all, glancing every so often at Mosley. The scatter shot had got Raylan at the shoulder, just over to the edge of his collarbone.
It was a bloody mess. Boyd couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The wound was dripping, slowly, down Raylan’s bare arm in long, thick tendrils, like monstrous fingers reaching to pull him away. Boyd didn’t understand why no one was taking care of it. Raylan was just standing there, talking at them, shirtless and butchered. They were acting like that was normal, like it wasn’t anything at all.
He must have said something, his lips felt like they’d just formed words, but he was sure he hadn’t put them there. Everything was still ringing, high and keening intensely, and he could barely hear himself think. They were staring at him again and he knew that was wrong, because Raylan’s arm was still dripping. The blood was down at his fingers now, about to pile more stains on the goddamn carpet. They should have been helping him.
Art said something to Rachel, who smiled weakly at Boyd and started to move towards him. Raylan shook his head immediately, saying something with real concern in his eyes and putting a hand on Rachel’s arm--the hand that wasn’t stained red.
Art called over a man in a dark windbreaker. They gave Raylan a towel and he mopped up his own blood, while the man prepared a large bandage, then laid it over Raylan’s shoulder and wrapped it slowly in gauze and tape. Raylan had his eyes on Boyd the entire time.
After they’d finished, when Raylan approached, he did it slow, and Boyd’s brows furrowed, still looking at the bandage. It wasn’t really stopping the blood. Boyd could see it start to seep through already. It was dark and insidious behind that bone white bandage, almost grotesque.
“That’s not enough,” he thought he said. The ringing hadn’t really lessened.
He didn’t reach for Raylan when his boy walked up close to him. For some reason, his arms couldn’t raise themselves up. Raylan tilted his head, looking into Boyd’s eyes and frowning at what he seemed to see there. He raised his hand up to Boyd’s ear, touching him lightly.
Raylan’s fingers came away bloody and Boyd stared at that until Raylan’s other hand cupped his chin, drawing his eyes away. He leaned in to his other ear and said, though his voice sounded soft and real far away, “I know, Boyd. We’re gonna take a ride to the hospital. They gotta pick the buckshot out of me.”
At mention of the hospital, Boyd felt himself stiffen, terrified. He tried to whisper, “You’re not dead, are you?” because he still wasn’t sure it all wasn’t a terrible lie, wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost his damn mind along with Raylan on the blood-stained floor. How had Raylan raised that gun so fast? How had the Marshals even known to come?
Raylan’s hand came around the back of his head and Boyd wanted to push him away, certain of absolutely nothing, until he said, still low, but somehow audible, “No, darlin’. I’m right here. It’s all right, Boyd. I think you’re in shock.”
Boyd might have laughed at that, but it got lost in the din. His lips formed words, accompanied by a bitter smile, “Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, boy?”
Raylan took a step back, smiling ruefully and keeping his hand on Boyd’s neck, clearly ready to get out of the room. Boyd saw they were pulling Mosley to his feet. His hands were behind his back and Boyd thought what a change that must be, what a hell prison would be for the man.
The realization hit him so hard then, a split second later, that his vision flashed white and his heart leaped up into his throat so fast he could gag on it. He slipped through Raylan’s grip, sinking fast to the floor.
“Boyd,” Raylan cried, distress coming clear through all that ringing. Boyd could barely hold up his head anymore and Raylan’s hands were on either side of his face.
“They’re gonna let Daddy out now, Raylan,” he said, not sure at what volume. He felt numb and cold and he thought he could hear the pounding of his daddy’s fist on that glass through the tumult in his head.
The Marshals, who’d come forward at Raylan’s tone, stopped short and stared at him. He thought perhaps Art swore.
“They’re gonna let him out.”