Fic: Budweiser and Bluegrass
Budweiser and Bluegrass
"Boyd, I'm glad you're here," Carol says, opening Raylan's door to him with no hint of surprise at seeing him standing there.
"Are you?"
"Yes. This asshole," she said pointing with a thumb back to Raylan, who's lying casually on the bed, fully clothed and drinking a Budweiser, "won't teach me to clog."
Boyd steps into the room and takes off his coat like his first and only intention had been to stay a while. "Raylan can't teach what he don't know, "Boyd answers with a smile. "You want to be taught Ms. Johnson, you ask an expert."
Raylan points his bottle towards Boyd, he may be tipsy or he may just be in a goddamn good mood. "And I suppose that would be you?" He didn't look like he'd gotten his dick sucked lately, but Raylan was excellent at maintaining appearances and Boyd knew from experience that Ms. Carol Johnson was excellent at sucking cock.
Boyd grins. “You know me, Raylan.”
“Sometimes, Boyd, I wonder if I do.”
“Well, you know I was the goddamn best clogger in all Harlan County back in the day, son.” Boyd speaks in a jovial tone, not letting Raylan’s contrary ways get to him.
Raylan just shakes his head like Boyd is a liar, but when Boyd opens his mouth to call him on it, Carol interrupts. “You gonna bicker all night, ladies, or are you going to teach me something?” She asks, tapping her foot.
Raylan continues to drink his beer as Boyd rubs his hands in anticipation. “You got any music?”
“Some bluegrass on my ipod,” she answers, motioning to the little speaker contraption plugged into the wall.
“Who?”
“The Grascals,” she replies, eyebrows raised, waiting for approval.
He smiles, she is a new comer. “They’ll do in a pinch. What I wouldn’t give for some Bill Monroe, or Lucky from Rocky Holler.”
“Both those men died fifteen years ago, Boyd,” Raylan says, sounding bored.
“Yes, Raylan, but one of them was lucky enough to record some hit songs.” Boyd keeps his face straight, and points a finger at Raylan. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to keep your mouth shut, my friend, when the music comes on. I won’t have my cloggin’ lesson ruined by any negative commentary.”
Raylan raises his hands in surrender and Boyd would have taken it more seriously if the half-drunk Bud hadn’t still been in his right hand.
“Okay, come on over here, Ms. Johnson.” He motions to her.
She rolls her eyes at his insistence on using such formal address, still after all this time she’s been staying in Harlan, overseeing Black Pike’s operations, and seeing herself to Raylan’s and Boyd’s beds whenever either of them strikes her fancy.
Boyd draws her into the open space between Raylan’s little table and his bed and he takes both her hands in his. “Well, cloggin, you see, is a free form dance. There’s no specific step you gotta do, no special way you gotta do it. You pick up your feet and put ‘em down in time with the music. Fast music, you clog fast, slow music you clog slow. We can do it holdin’ hands, or I can spin you around like we’re at a dance hall. You just keep your feet movin’ in time.”
When he didn’t say anything more she throws him an incredulous look and says, “That’s your instruction? That’s all you’re gonna tell me?”
He smiles, big and pretty. “That’s all you need to know, my lady. You’ll pick up the rest as we go along.”
Boyd can hear Raylan failing to stifle a laugh behind him. Carol shoots him a look. “You can turn on that music, you lazy bastard. I know you knew it was this goddamn simple. You coulda told me that easy.”
“Ralyan don’t like to dance, not cuz he’s never been taught. He just hates being worse at it than me.” He glances over his shoulder to find Raylan scowling at him, making that face that seems like he’s trying to force his mouth to be as small as possible.
“Oh, shut up, Boyd,” Raylan says testily.
“Turn on the music, Deputy,” Carol orders and Raylan drags himself off the bed, crossing to room to pull another beer from the fridge. As he walks past the ipod, he taps the play button with an ironically winning smile and lays himself back down.
They dance the album through and Raylan watches them, slowly getting drunk of Budweiser and bluegrass.
This entry was originally posted at http://norgbelulah.dreamwidth.org.
Comment at Dreamwidth.
"Boyd, I'm glad you're here," Carol says, opening Raylan's door to him with no hint of surprise at seeing him standing there.
"Are you?"
"Yes. This asshole," she said pointing with a thumb back to Raylan, who's lying casually on the bed, fully clothed and drinking a Budweiser, "won't teach me to clog."
Boyd steps into the room and takes off his coat like his first and only intention had been to stay a while. "Raylan can't teach what he don't know, "Boyd answers with a smile. "You want to be taught Ms. Johnson, you ask an expert."
Raylan points his bottle towards Boyd, he may be tipsy or he may just be in a goddamn good mood. "And I suppose that would be you?" He didn't look like he'd gotten his dick sucked lately, but Raylan was excellent at maintaining appearances and Boyd knew from experience that Ms. Carol Johnson was excellent at sucking cock.
Boyd grins. “You know me, Raylan.”
“Sometimes, Boyd, I wonder if I do.”
“Well, you know I was the goddamn best clogger in all Harlan County back in the day, son.” Boyd speaks in a jovial tone, not letting Raylan’s contrary ways get to him.
Raylan just shakes his head like Boyd is a liar, but when Boyd opens his mouth to call him on it, Carol interrupts. “You gonna bicker all night, ladies, or are you going to teach me something?” She asks, tapping her foot.
Raylan continues to drink his beer as Boyd rubs his hands in anticipation. “You got any music?”
“Some bluegrass on my ipod,” she answers, motioning to the little speaker contraption plugged into the wall.
“Who?”
“The Grascals,” she replies, eyebrows raised, waiting for approval.
He smiles, she is a new comer. “They’ll do in a pinch. What I wouldn’t give for some Bill Monroe, or Lucky from Rocky Holler.”
“Both those men died fifteen years ago, Boyd,” Raylan says, sounding bored.
“Yes, Raylan, but one of them was lucky enough to record some hit songs.” Boyd keeps his face straight, and points a finger at Raylan. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to keep your mouth shut, my friend, when the music comes on. I won’t have my cloggin’ lesson ruined by any negative commentary.”
Raylan raises his hands in surrender and Boyd would have taken it more seriously if the half-drunk Bud hadn’t still been in his right hand.
“Okay, come on over here, Ms. Johnson.” He motions to her.
She rolls her eyes at his insistence on using such formal address, still after all this time she’s been staying in Harlan, overseeing Black Pike’s operations, and seeing herself to Raylan’s and Boyd’s beds whenever either of them strikes her fancy.
Boyd draws her into the open space between Raylan’s little table and his bed and he takes both her hands in his. “Well, cloggin, you see, is a free form dance. There’s no specific step you gotta do, no special way you gotta do it. You pick up your feet and put ‘em down in time with the music. Fast music, you clog fast, slow music you clog slow. We can do it holdin’ hands, or I can spin you around like we’re at a dance hall. You just keep your feet movin’ in time.”
When he didn’t say anything more she throws him an incredulous look and says, “That’s your instruction? That’s all you’re gonna tell me?”
He smiles, big and pretty. “That’s all you need to know, my lady. You’ll pick up the rest as we go along.”
Boyd can hear Raylan failing to stifle a laugh behind him. Carol shoots him a look. “You can turn on that music, you lazy bastard. I know you knew it was this goddamn simple. You coulda told me that easy.”
“Ralyan don’t like to dance, not cuz he’s never been taught. He just hates being worse at it than me.” He glances over his shoulder to find Raylan scowling at him, making that face that seems like he’s trying to force his mouth to be as small as possible.
“Oh, shut up, Boyd,” Raylan says testily.
“Turn on the music, Deputy,” Carol orders and Raylan drags himself off the bed, crossing to room to pull another beer from the fridge. As he walks past the ipod, he taps the play button with an ironically winning smile and lays himself back down.
They dance the album through and Raylan watches them, slowly getting drunk of Budweiser and bluegrass.
This entry was originally posted at http://norgbelulah.dreamwidth.org.
Comment at Dreamwidth.