FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:10:22 UTC
His first moon, his daddy grabs him hard by the scruff of his neck, huge teeth gripping him like a fist in his hair. He whines, goes limp like a pup, rolls over when he releases him. It never stops galling him, that first submission. The grey wolf that is Bo snarls out his dominance, breath hot in his face.
The pack licks him all over, rub their noses with his, mark him as their own. His momma watches closely, but doesn’t join in. She’s a pale, tiny thing, eyes over-large in the darkness.
Bo turns towards the moon and lets out a low howl, and oh the heat of challenge seeps away as he throws his head back and joins in, throat open wide.
They run. They hunt. Boyd Crowder comes to in the morning soaked in gore, raw meat between his teeth, blood on his tongue. Bo is standing at his feet, reaches out a hand to pull him up. He’s clean, smells nothing like the forest or the deer they’ve killed. Boyd lets himself be hauled up, carried, dumped in the bath like a child, lets the trembling take over as he sinks beneath the water.
“You did good,” says Bo, scrubbing his fingernails. “Too bad you’re a late bloomer, boy.”
Boyd’s holding in the bile by force of will so he just nods, no room for anger around the shock. Bo’s still talking but Boyd tunes him out, enjoys the rare feeling of gentle hands.
-
Bowman never turns. The pack’s been waiting for him ever since he turned thirteen, but his eighteenth birthday passes, and the next moon he’s still human. Boyd turned at fifteen, much too late by Bo’s reckoning. Bowman should have been his successor, huge man that he’s growing into a promise of a massive wolf form. But Bowman’s still just a man.
Boyd would hold it close, this one unasked-for advantage over his better sibling, but Bo’s never been clement to those he thinks have let him down. The next moon, his mother’s dead, and there’s competition to be his next mate.
Boyd quietly shuts it down, quietly buries her, quietly marks her grave.
“Tragic, your momma runnin’ off like that,” he hears, on the lips of even those who know the truth. He’s nowhere near big enough to challenge for alpha, so he says nothing, and waits.
-
“Where you goin’?” Bowman slurs, blocking the door.
“School,” he replies shortly. Bowman’s all but given up on it, the promise of a football career not enough to erase the failure of his blood to listen to the moon.
“You ain’t ever gonna have to bother with schoolin’ Boyd,” he says, leaning in close. “You’re gonna work for daddy.”
“No I ain’t,” he says, and shoves him hard. Bowman lets out a quick huff of pain and stumbles out of his way. Boyd stares, amazed. It’s the first time he can remember that his strength has been enough to move his brother. Bowman growls and tackles him down, still the bigger body. Boyd digs his nails in and bites him, feels the hot rush of blood beneath the skin. Bowman shrieks and tries to bat him away, but Boyd pins his arms, growling. He knows there’s blood seeping into his school clothes, smeared over his face. He just grins at his brother beneath him, lets the manic glee rise in his chest. “I ain’t plannin’ on working for anyone but myself,” he says. Bowman just nods, speechless.
It may come back to haunt him later, that pronouncement, but for now, he’s late for school.
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:11:33 UTC
“You got blood on ya,” says the Givens boy, not looking particularly concerned.
“It ain’t mine,” he tells him, and Raylan just shrugs, flipping to the next page in his book. The teacher’s not in yet, but he can feel blood flaking off his neck, itchy.
“Need a change of shirt?” he asks, and Boyd blinks at him, nonplussed. Raylan reaches into his bag and pulls out an extra button down, handing it over like he’s already forgotten about it.
Boyd changes in the locker room, wipes himself down with the paper towels by the sink. He looks himself in the eye, and tries to ignore the hint of yellow creeping into his irises.
“Thank you,” he says to Raylan, sitting back down just as the teacher starts the roll call, glaring at him for his late entry.
“Don’t mention it, “ he says, and so Boyd doesn’t.
-
Bo grabs him by the throat as soon as he comes home, huge hand hot on his skin.
“Don’t nobody enforce discipline in this pack but me he says as he presses him into the wall, and Boyd shows him his teeth. Bo laughs, an ugly, booming sound. Bowman’s nowhere to be seen, but Boyd knows he’s behind this.
“Bowman ain’t pack,” he forces out before Bo’s hand tightens further.
“Watch your tongue, boy,” he says, and this close to the moon, Bo’s already beginning to smell of wolf, a dark, canine tang. There’s not enough air in his lungs. He shoves against his father but Bo doesn’t budge, planted like a tree in the hallway. If Bo’s trying to choke him out he’ll have to try harder, but Boyd still can’t dislodge him.
“You’re going to fall in line, son, for your own good.” Bo releases him, and he drops to his knees, gasping. There’s no immediate retribution, but he knows it’s coming.
-
Three days later, he wakes up in a pool of what smells like his own blood, body screaming. Or, well, maybe that’s just him. The pain is incomprehensible, and he thinks that maybe he’s not even fully human again yet, the noises escaping his throat too wild and high.
He’s missing fingernails, thinks he may have loosened some teeth. The world is dark and close, and he breathes painfully, talking himself down, taking inventory of his flesh.
A square of light opens above him, blinding, and a rough hand reaches into the cellar and hauls him into the daylight. He’s too weak to do anything but curl into a ball, guarding his lacerated belly.
“That’s what happens when you spend a moon alone, runt,” he hears Bo say. “It ain’t pretty.”
Boyd trembles like he hasn’t done since his first cycle, but there are no gentle hands this time.
-
Raylan whistles long and slow at him when he eases himself into a chair on Monday morning. He’s no stranger to bruises; Boyd’s seen them marching up and down Raylan’s arms, ringing his eyes sometimes. This is different. There’s nothing pitying about his look. Raylan’s sideways glance is cutting, and Boyd has the sudden feeling that he can see right through his clothes.
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, hiding his hands.
“He coulda given you the wolfsbane,” says Raylan, accusatory. Boyd’s head snaps around, paining his neck, just as the teacher starts talking. He catches Raylan looking at him for the rest of the day, and deliberately doesn’t limp.
Raylan has never smelled like wolf, but Boyd knows there are ways and ways to keep a secret.
-
The first time Bo goes to prison, the tension in the pack ratchets up noticeably until Johnny’s mottled grey and black bulk steps up as Alpha in Bo’s place. Privately, there’s so much more to do to keep order.
Johnny comes to them two nights before the moon, armed with bourbon and a small ziploc bag.
“One of you’s gotta go give ‘im the bane,” he says, and Bowman nods like he’s heard it all before. Boyd seethes, livid that something like this has been kept from him. Johnny glances at him and Boyd knows that he can see the new scars on his hands, the new growth of ripped nails and torn palms.
“I’ll do it,” he growls, and Johnny’s shoulders drop ever so slightly; Boyd seizes upon his submission, borne of guilt or not. He’s eighteen now, and he’ll never be big, but he’s learning to be vicious. “I’ll take it to him.”
Bowman looks between them, but this is something he can’t touch. He’s family but he isn’t wolf.
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:13:18 UTC
“Orange ain’t really your colour,” he says, sliding the bag into his daddy’s sleeve before the guard sees.
“Thought I’d be seein’ Bowman,” Bo says, suspicious.
“You thought you could keep this secret from me, Daddy?”
“Now Boyd, I was just teachin’ a lesson we all must learn,” Bo drawls, no fear on him.
“And what lesson is that?” he asks, wanting to hear it for himself.
“We answer to the moon, boy. You may think you’ve got it under control, but you don’t. None of us do.” Bo leans in closer, as if to share a secret. “That bloodlust you turned on yourself? That ain’t never goin’ away.”
“You can stave it off.”
“You can. But it builds up.”
“Good luck in prison, Daddy,” he says, standing up. “See you in a month.”
-
Bowman’s not cut out for mining, but Boyd finds a kind of peace in it, likes the darkness and the heat and the explosives at his command.
“You’re a daylight soul, brother,” he tells him, only half mocking.
“You’re full of shit, Boyd,” he snaps, wiping his face with a dirty rag.
“There’s always the family business,” he says, extending an olive branch.
“As if Daddy would ever let a normal dip into that well,” Bowman snarls, unscrewing the cap on his first bottle.
“Daddy ain’t here, is he?” he asks, waiting. If Bowman puts a boot in the door, so much the easier down the line. His brother looks at him with something like suspicion, but he’s never been the brightest. Why not let him try his hand at protection and collection?
“No he ain’t,” says Bowman, ideas kindling behind his eyes.
-
Raylan’s always just around the corner, it seems, turning up at the mine just after Boyd’s nineteenth birthday, pupils wide in the low light, scent of fear too strong.
“If you’re stalking me, Raylan Givens, I oughta warn you to stay downwind.”
“That bad, Boyd?” he asks, extending a hand.
“Not much for small spaces, are you?” he says in reply, switching on his headlamp.
“Ain’t much else to do in this county,” Raylan says, by way of an answer.
-
Arlo Givens is out of jail again, waiting for Raylan at the end of their shift. To Boyd, he reeks, a bloody, aggressive scent that makes his nose wrinkle in curiosity. He’s only ever seen him from a distance, a figure whose path occasionally intersects with Bo’s; there’s something unhinged about Arlo that Boyd can truly say he’s never seen in his own father and it pulls at him.
Raylan glares him away as he moves to walk with him, head shaking minutely. Their bodies speak of no love lost between them as Boyd watches them go.
-
The first time he breaks off from the pack, Johnny is leading the hunt. Boyd catches another scent and veers off without thought of future complications, just a pull to follow his nose. There’s a long-legged brown wolf hunched over a deer carcass less than a mile away, muzzle already red with the fresh kill’s blood. Boyd’s hackles rise, feelings of territory, mine, interloper warring with curiosity and the heady draw of meat. The other wolf sits down, not submissive, but not aggressive either. If ever he’s encountered neutral before he’s ignored it, or painted it weakness.
The new wolf’s big grey eyes hold his with no challenge, and Boyd finds himself sitting too, hackles smoothing. It’s easy, to take a bite, to watch the other do the same. The scent is safe, clean, known and when the newcomer pricks his ears and sprints away, Boyd follows. There’s joy in running that he has never felt anywhere else, and he gives in to it.
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:13:57 UTC
Usually, he comes awake in his bed, already licked clean by the pack. He’s not expecting to snap awake just after dawn, naked under Raylan Givens’ truck, tucked up against his side. He jerks away, making to roll out from under the metal when Raylan grabs him by the shoulder, fingers like a vise on his skin.
“There’s a bag of clothes in the flatbed,” Raylan says, voice scratchy.
“What the fuck?” he manages, prying his fingers off.
“You tell me,” Raylan says. “looks like you were the one wantin’ a change of scenery.”
Boyd glares at him, feeling exposed like he’s never been before. He looks around at the clearing they’re parked in and snatches the first set of clothes he lays his hands on, sneaking a last look at Raylan, who’s already curled up and gone back to sleep.
-
Most of the pack has slinked off back to their homes when he steps into Bo’s house, only Johnny still around, making coffee in his boxers. His head whips around as Boyd walks in, nostrils flared.
“So, you been shoppin’ around,” he says calmly.
“Not exactly,” he responds, aware suddenly of Raylan’s smell all over his borrowed clothes.
“Make sure you get it outta your system ‘fore Bo gets out,” Johnny says, fishing for a pan. “You want eggs?”
Boyd takes the offered peace and goes to change, oddly reluctant.
-
He throws the bag of clothes at Raylan in the locker room, glaring. Raylan catches it with his baseball player’s grace, putting it in his locker without checking the contents.
“If you’re lookin’ for an apology I suggest you search elsewhere,” he tells him, and Boyd, absurdly, fights down a smile.
“Actually, I was gonna ask if you planned to make a habit of it,” he says, deliberately casual. He’s never felt better the morning after a moon then he has this time, even if his first reaction was suspicion, and he’s not going to let it go without finding out why.
“I could be persuaded,” Raylan says after a beat, something that could be a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. They ride the elevator down the shaft together, comfortably silent.
Raylan’s never been at ease in the mine the way Boyd has, but Boyd notices less fear about him, these days.
-
He and Bowman have been taking turns bringing Bo the wolfsbane, and it’s his job this month. He pulls into Tramble with the usual sense of foreboding, checking to make sure there’s nothing out of place.
“I hear you been running alone,” Bo growls, taking the little baggie quicker than usual. There’s a rough edge building in him, eyes wider than they ought to be, fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“What of it?” he asks, as mild as he can make himself.
“Don’t you ever forget who you belong to, boy,” Bo hisses, hands curling into fists on the table.
“How much longer you got left, Daddy? Six months?” he asks, looking him up and down. “You reckon you’re gonna make it?”
Bo has enough self-control not to leap across the table, but Boyd can smell the aggression rising in him, a sharp spike of rage. Boyd pushes himself back away from the visitors’ table, stands up slow. “Bowman’ll see you next month.”
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:15:18 UTC
“What does your daddy do for mine?” he asks Raylan, passing him the bottle of shine. He doesn’t answer right away, looking out into the woods from the rock they’re perched on side by side.
“Nothin’ good,” he says at last, bitterness deep in his voice.
“You don’t seem like the followin’ kind,” he says, by way of comfort. It’s not enough, he knows.
“You ever feel like maybe we don’t have a choice?” Raylan asks, and it’s quiet enough to be a real question, tied fast to notions of family, loyalty, pack that seem so much bigger than just the two of them.
“I think choice is relative,” Boyd responds carefully. “I haven’t run with my pack in months.”
“And when your daddy gets out?” Raylan asks, the storm-cloud on the horizon.
“I guess I’ll challenge,” he says, voicing it for the first time.
“He’ll kill you, Boyd.” Raylan’s voice has a note of finality in it, like he’s already preparing for the worst. Boyd’s got nothing to say to that, so he takes another kind of leap, moving closer to him and kissing him lightly. Raylan makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t pull away. What’s one more transgression, Boyd asks himself, letting it lie.
-
He feels it before he hears it, a rumble in the soles of his boots, setting his teeth against each other. The faint tearing sound comes a split-second later and then he’s running, grabbing Raylan’s wrist as he sprints by him, yanking him onwards. Boyd feels every ton of rock crumbling through his body, feels every jagged piece of coal catching in his throat as time slows to a crawl. Raylan’s pulse beats hard in his hand, faster, faster, faster.
It’s over in a split second, a minute, an hour. He’ll never know, head down between his knees and fingernails deep in the palm of one hand. Boyd lets go of Raylan joint by joint, shaking all over. His breath comes in rasps next to him, quick, heavy drags as if to claim as much air as possible. Boyd reaches over and puts his hand on the back of his neck, sweat soaking them both, and shoves his head down.
“Breathe slower, god damn it,” he growls, throat raw. Boyd can feel him trembling, leaves his hand where it is. Raylan’s rhythm evens out and he mirrors him, pulling air deeper into his bruised lungs.
It’s the night before the moon, and the blood is high.
-
Raylan slams into him as soon as they’ve shed their clothes, a solid ball of brown fur bowling him over before taking off into the woods, a snarl of pursuit rolling out of his chest in response.
It feels more like they’re hunting each other, this time.
There’s neither winner or loser in their game, only the need to breathe air not laden with coal and heavy with the threat of death. Theirs isn’t a killing spree, just a wild hunt, chasing the fastest deer they can find and falling on it with abandon.
They chase each other back to the truck as the moon begins to set, still breathing hard. Boyd doesn’t think twice about curling into Raylan, the first stirrings of mine in his wolf-senses.
Boyd thinks that he never wants to move again in the morning, his legs tangled in with Raylan’s and his arm thrown over his back. Raylan’s the one to roll away first, sitting up in the grass and burying his face in his hands. Boyd waits, unsure.
“I’m leaving,” Raylan says, and Boyd hardens himself, something fragile turning to dust.
“Probably for the best,” Boyd lies, tongue heavy in his mouth.
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13engage_protocolJuly 10 2012, 20:16:53 UTC
Johnny’s at his bar by the time Boyd gets there, not caring that he reeks of Raylan. Johnny looks up at him over the row of glasses he’s polishing, the fresh, green scent of a good hunt lingering around him.
“Good moon, cousin?” Johnny asks him.
“Good moon, Johnny,” he responds, sinking into familiar rituals.
“What can I do for you, Boyd?” he asks, putting down his rag.
“Where do you get the wolfsbane?” he asks at last.
“What the hell’s in your mind?” Johnny snaps, crossing his arms.
“Nothin’ you need concern yourself with,” he says, not giving an inch.
“If you’re plannin’ on taking the coward’s way out, I have a right to know.”
Boyd laughs, far from amused. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I just though it’s about time to see the world.”
Johnny searches his face, blue eyes cold. “You cuttin’ ties?”
“For the time being,” he responds. Johnny nods, once, and jots down a name on a beermat.
-
“So you’re the little one,” says Mags Bennett, leaning towards him over the counter. “You ain’t got the look of a Crowder.”
“I’m reliably informed that I was not adopted,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“Not least ‘cause a’ that wolf-smell all over you,” she says, and he grins. Mags herself hasn’t got any tells, but then, he’s a long way from knowing every clan in the mountains. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crowder?”
“I hear you’ve got a nice sideline going, Mrs. Bennett.” Mags laughs, taking a sip of her ‘shine.
“You accusin’ me of moonlightin’?”
“Merely appealing to your knowledge of useful herbs,” he says mildly, quirking a smile at the dig.
“You know that too much bane’ll kill ya slow,” she says, index finger sliding a pack across the counter. “One pinch at sunset, no more.”
“I appreciate the concern,” he replies, handing over a roll of cash.
“You got a mind to travel?” she asks, and he doesn’t fool himself that she’s concerned for his well-being; her ammunition’s more than plants and bullets.
“My mind’s my own,” he says, holding back and the moon’s.
He’s got enlistment papers in his front pocket and a set of shirts that aren’t his in his bag. He’ll be back, when he’s ready.
Re: FILLED: If ever there were a lucky kind, Raylan/Boyd, pg13lymricksJuly 17 2012, 00:20:32 UTC
WOW. I DON'T KNOW WHY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO READ THIS. This is awesome. This is everything I ever wanted out of a werewolf fic and I didn't even know I wanted that until now. So perfect.
The pack licks him all over, rub their noses with his, mark him as their own. His momma watches closely, but doesn’t join in. She’s a pale, tiny thing, eyes over-large in the darkness.
Bo turns towards the moon and lets out a low howl, and oh the heat of challenge seeps away as he throws his head back and joins in, throat open wide.
They run. They hunt. Boyd Crowder comes to in the morning soaked in gore, raw meat between his teeth, blood on his tongue. Bo is standing at his feet, reaches out a hand to pull him up. He’s clean, smells nothing like the forest or the deer they’ve killed. Boyd lets himself be hauled up, carried, dumped in the bath like a child, lets the trembling take over as he sinks beneath the water.
“You did good,” says Bo, scrubbing his fingernails. “Too bad you’re a late bloomer, boy.”
Boyd’s holding in the bile by force of will so he just nods, no room for anger around the shock. Bo’s still talking but Boyd tunes him out, enjoys the rare feeling of gentle hands.
-
Bowman never turns. The pack’s been waiting for him ever since he turned thirteen, but his eighteenth birthday passes, and the next moon he’s still human. Boyd turned at fifteen, much too late by Bo’s reckoning. Bowman should have been his successor, huge man that he’s growing into a promise of a massive wolf form. But Bowman’s still just a man.
Boyd would hold it close, this one unasked-for advantage over his better sibling, but Bo’s never been clement to those he thinks have let him down. The next moon, his mother’s dead, and there’s competition to be his next mate.
Boyd quietly shuts it down, quietly buries her, quietly marks her grave.
“Tragic, your momma runnin’ off like that,” he hears, on the lips of even those who know the truth. He’s nowhere near big enough to challenge for alpha, so he says nothing, and waits.
-
“Where you goin’?” Bowman slurs, blocking the door.
“School,” he replies shortly. Bowman’s all but given up on it, the promise of a football career not enough to erase the failure of his blood to listen to the moon.
“You ain’t ever gonna have to bother with schoolin’ Boyd,” he says, leaning in close. “You’re gonna work for daddy.”
“No I ain’t,” he says, and shoves him hard. Bowman lets out a quick huff of pain and stumbles out of his way. Boyd stares, amazed. It’s the first time he can remember that his strength has been enough to move his brother. Bowman growls and tackles him down, still the bigger body. Boyd digs his nails in and bites him, feels the hot rush of blood beneath the skin. Bowman shrieks and tries to bat him away, but Boyd pins his arms, growling. He knows there’s blood seeping into his school clothes, smeared over his face. He just grins at his brother beneath him, lets the manic glee rise in his chest. “I ain’t plannin’ on working for anyone but myself,” he says. Bowman just nods, speechless.
It may come back to haunt him later, that pronouncement, but for now, he’s late for school.
Reply
“It ain’t mine,” he tells him, and Raylan just shrugs, flipping to the next page in his book. The teacher’s not in yet, but he can feel blood flaking off his neck, itchy.
“Need a change of shirt?” he asks, and Boyd blinks at him, nonplussed. Raylan reaches into his bag and pulls out an extra button down, handing it over like he’s already forgotten about it.
Boyd changes in the locker room, wipes himself down with the paper towels by the sink. He looks himself in the eye, and tries to ignore the hint of yellow creeping into his irises.
“Thank you,” he says to Raylan, sitting back down just as the teacher starts the roll call, glaring at him for his late entry.
“Don’t mention it, “ he says, and so Boyd doesn’t.
-
Bo grabs him by the throat as soon as he comes home, huge hand hot on his skin.
“Don’t nobody enforce discipline in this pack but me he says as he presses him into the wall, and Boyd shows him his teeth. Bo laughs, an ugly, booming sound. Bowman’s nowhere to be seen, but Boyd knows he’s behind this.
“Bowman ain’t pack,” he forces out before Bo’s hand tightens further.
“Watch your tongue, boy,” he says, and this close to the moon, Bo’s already beginning to smell of wolf, a dark, canine tang. There’s not enough air in his lungs. He shoves against his father but Bo doesn’t budge, planted like a tree in the hallway. If Bo’s trying to choke him out he’ll have to try harder, but Boyd still can’t dislodge him.
“You’re going to fall in line, son, for your own good.” Bo releases him, and he drops to his knees, gasping. There’s no immediate retribution, but he knows it’s coming.
-
Three days later, he wakes up in a pool of what smells like his own blood, body screaming. Or, well, maybe that’s just him. The pain is incomprehensible, and he thinks that maybe he’s not even fully human again yet, the noises escaping his throat too wild and high.
He’s missing fingernails, thinks he may have loosened some teeth. The world is dark and close, and he breathes painfully, talking himself down, taking inventory of his flesh.
A square of light opens above him, blinding, and a rough hand reaches into the cellar and hauls him into the daylight. He’s too weak to do anything but curl into a ball, guarding his lacerated belly.
“That’s what happens when you spend a moon alone, runt,” he hears Bo say. “It ain’t pretty.”
Boyd trembles like he hasn’t done since his first cycle, but there are no gentle hands this time.
-
Raylan whistles long and slow at him when he eases himself into a chair on Monday morning. He’s no stranger to bruises; Boyd’s seen them marching up and down Raylan’s arms, ringing his eyes sometimes. This is different. There’s nothing pitying about his look. Raylan’s sideways glance is cutting, and Boyd has the sudden feeling that he can see right through his clothes.
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, hiding his hands.
“He coulda given you the wolfsbane,” says Raylan, accusatory. Boyd’s head snaps around, paining his neck, just as the teacher starts talking. He catches Raylan looking at him for the rest of the day, and deliberately doesn’t limp.
Raylan has never smelled like wolf, but Boyd knows there are ways and ways to keep a secret.
-
The first time Bo goes to prison, the tension in the pack ratchets up noticeably until Johnny’s mottled grey and black bulk steps up as Alpha in Bo’s place. Privately, there’s so much more to do to keep order.
Johnny comes to them two nights before the moon, armed with bourbon and a small ziploc bag.
“One of you’s gotta go give ‘im the bane,” he says, and Bowman nods like he’s heard it all before. Boyd seethes, livid that something like this has been kept from him. Johnny glances at him and Boyd knows that he can see the new scars on his hands, the new growth of ripped nails and torn palms.
“I’ll do it,” he growls, and Johnny’s shoulders drop ever so slightly; Boyd seizes upon his submission, borne of guilt or not. He’s eighteen now, and he’ll never be big, but he’s learning to be vicious. “I’ll take it to him.”
Bowman looks between them, but this is something he can’t touch. He’s family but he isn’t wolf.
Reply
“Orange ain’t really your colour,” he says, sliding the bag into his daddy’s sleeve before the guard sees.
“Thought I’d be seein’ Bowman,” Bo says, suspicious.
“You thought you could keep this secret from me, Daddy?”
“Now Boyd, I was just teachin’ a lesson we all must learn,” Bo drawls, no fear on him.
“And what lesson is that?” he asks, wanting to hear it for himself.
“We answer to the moon, boy. You may think you’ve got it under control, but you don’t. None of us do.” Bo leans in closer, as if to share a secret. “That bloodlust you turned on yourself? That ain’t never goin’ away.”
“You can stave it off.”
“You can. But it builds up.”
“Good luck in prison, Daddy,” he says, standing up. “See you in a month.”
-
Bowman’s not cut out for mining, but Boyd finds a kind of peace in it, likes the darkness and the heat and the explosives at his command.
“You’re a daylight soul, brother,” he tells him, only half mocking.
“You’re full of shit, Boyd,” he snaps, wiping his face with a dirty rag.
“There’s always the family business,” he says, extending an olive branch.
“As if Daddy would ever let a normal dip into that well,” Bowman snarls, unscrewing the cap on his first bottle.
“Daddy ain’t here, is he?” he asks, waiting. If Bowman puts a boot in the door, so much the easier down the line. His brother looks at him with something like suspicion, but he’s never been the brightest. Why not let him try his hand at protection and collection?
“No he ain’t,” says Bowman, ideas kindling behind his eyes.
-
Raylan’s always just around the corner, it seems, turning up at the mine just after Boyd’s nineteenth birthday, pupils wide in the low light, scent of fear too strong.
“If you’re stalking me, Raylan Givens, I oughta warn you to stay downwind.”
“That bad, Boyd?” he asks, extending a hand.
“Not much for small spaces, are you?” he says in reply, switching on his headlamp.
“Ain’t much else to do in this county,” Raylan says, by way of an answer.
-
Arlo Givens is out of jail again, waiting for Raylan at the end of their shift. To Boyd, he reeks, a bloody, aggressive scent that makes his nose wrinkle in curiosity. He’s only ever seen him from a distance, a figure whose path occasionally intersects with Bo’s; there’s something unhinged about Arlo that Boyd can truly say he’s never seen in his own father and it pulls at him.
Raylan glares him away as he moves to walk with him, head shaking minutely. Their bodies speak of no love lost between them as Boyd watches them go.
-
The first time he breaks off from the pack, Johnny is leading the hunt. Boyd catches another scent and veers off without thought of future complications, just a pull to follow his nose. There’s a long-legged brown wolf hunched over a deer carcass less than a mile away, muzzle already red with the fresh kill’s blood. Boyd’s hackles rise, feelings of territory, mine, interloper warring with curiosity and the heady draw of meat. The other wolf sits down, not submissive, but not aggressive either. If ever he’s encountered neutral before he’s ignored it, or painted it weakness.
The new wolf’s big grey eyes hold his with no challenge, and Boyd finds himself sitting too, hackles smoothing. It’s easy, to take a bite, to watch the other do the same. The scent is safe, clean, known and when the newcomer pricks his ears and sprints away, Boyd follows. There’s joy in running that he has never felt anywhere else, and he gives in to it.
Reply
“There’s a bag of clothes in the flatbed,” Raylan says, voice scratchy.
“What the fuck?” he manages, prying his fingers off.
“You tell me,” Raylan says. “looks like you were the one wantin’ a change of scenery.”
Boyd glares at him, feeling exposed like he’s never been before. He looks around at the clearing they’re parked in and snatches the first set of clothes he lays his hands on, sneaking a last look at Raylan, who’s already curled up and gone back to sleep.
-
Most of the pack has slinked off back to their homes when he steps into Bo’s house, only Johnny still around, making coffee in his boxers. His head whips around as Boyd walks in, nostrils flared.
“So, you been shoppin’ around,” he says calmly.
“Not exactly,” he responds, aware suddenly of Raylan’s smell all over his borrowed clothes.
“Make sure you get it outta your system ‘fore Bo gets out,” Johnny says, fishing for a pan. “You want eggs?”
Boyd takes the offered peace and goes to change, oddly reluctant.
-
He throws the bag of clothes at Raylan in the locker room, glaring. Raylan catches it with his baseball player’s grace, putting it in his locker without checking the contents.
“If you’re lookin’ for an apology I suggest you search elsewhere,” he tells him, and Boyd, absurdly, fights down a smile.
“Actually, I was gonna ask if you planned to make a habit of it,” he says, deliberately casual. He’s never felt better the morning after a moon then he has this time, even if his first reaction was suspicion, and he’s not going to let it go without finding out why.
“I could be persuaded,” Raylan says after a beat, something that could be a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. They ride the elevator down the shaft together, comfortably silent.
Raylan’s never been at ease in the mine the way Boyd has, but Boyd notices less fear about him, these days.
-
He and Bowman have been taking turns bringing Bo the wolfsbane, and it’s his job this month. He pulls into Tramble with the usual sense of foreboding, checking to make sure there’s nothing out of place.
“I hear you been running alone,” Bo growls, taking the little baggie quicker than usual. There’s a rough edge building in him, eyes wider than they ought to be, fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“What of it?” he asks, as mild as he can make himself.
“Don’t you ever forget who you belong to, boy,” Bo hisses, hands curling into fists on the table.
“How much longer you got left, Daddy? Six months?” he asks, looking him up and down. “You reckon you’re gonna make it?”
Bo has enough self-control not to leap across the table, but Boyd can smell the aggression rising in him, a sharp spike of rage. Boyd pushes himself back away from the visitors’ table, stands up slow. “Bowman’ll see you next month.”
Reply
“Nothin’ good,” he says at last, bitterness deep in his voice.
“You don’t seem like the followin’ kind,” he says, by way of comfort. It’s not enough, he knows.
“You ever feel like maybe we don’t have a choice?” Raylan asks, and it’s quiet enough to be a real question, tied fast to notions of family, loyalty, pack that seem so much bigger than just the two of them.
“I think choice is relative,” Boyd responds carefully. “I haven’t run with my pack in months.”
“And when your daddy gets out?” Raylan asks, the storm-cloud on the horizon.
“I guess I’ll challenge,” he says, voicing it for the first time.
“He’ll kill you, Boyd.” Raylan’s voice has a note of finality in it, like he’s already preparing for the worst. Boyd’s got nothing to say to that, so he takes another kind of leap, moving closer to him and kissing him lightly. Raylan makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t pull away. What’s one more transgression, Boyd asks himself, letting it lie.
-
He feels it before he hears it, a rumble in the soles of his boots, setting his teeth against each other. The faint tearing sound comes a split-second later and then he’s running, grabbing Raylan’s wrist as he sprints by him, yanking him onwards. Boyd feels every ton of rock crumbling through his body, feels every jagged piece of coal catching in his throat as time slows to a crawl. Raylan’s pulse beats hard in his hand, faster, faster, faster.
It’s over in a split second, a minute, an hour. He’ll never know, head down between his knees and fingernails deep in the palm of one hand. Boyd lets go of Raylan joint by joint, shaking all over. His breath comes in rasps next to him, quick, heavy drags as if to claim as much air as possible. Boyd reaches over and puts his hand on the back of his neck, sweat soaking them both, and shoves his head down.
“Breathe slower, god damn it,” he growls, throat raw. Boyd can feel him trembling, leaves his hand where it is. Raylan’s rhythm evens out and he mirrors him, pulling air deeper into his
bruised lungs.
It’s the night before the moon, and the blood is high.
-
Raylan slams into him as soon as they’ve shed their clothes, a solid ball of brown fur bowling him over before taking off into the woods, a snarl of pursuit rolling out of his chest in response.
It feels more like they’re hunting each other, this time.
There’s neither winner or loser in their game, only the need to breathe air not laden with coal and heavy with the threat of death. Theirs isn’t a killing spree, just a wild hunt, chasing the fastest deer they can find and falling on it with abandon.
They chase each other back to the truck as the moon begins to set, still breathing hard. Boyd doesn’t think twice about curling into Raylan, the first stirrings of mine in his wolf-senses.
Boyd thinks that he never wants to move again in the morning, his legs tangled in with Raylan’s and his arm thrown over his back. Raylan’s the one to roll away first, sitting up in the grass and burying his face in his hands. Boyd waits, unsure.
“I’m leaving,” Raylan says, and Boyd hardens himself, something fragile turning to dust.
“Probably for the best,” Boyd lies, tongue heavy in his mouth.
Reply
“Good moon, cousin?” Johnny asks him.
“Good moon, Johnny,” he responds, sinking into familiar rituals.
“What can I do for you, Boyd?” he asks, putting down his rag.
“Where do you get the wolfsbane?” he asks at last.
“What the hell’s in your mind?” Johnny snaps, crossing his arms.
“Nothin’ you need concern yourself with,” he says, not giving an inch.
“If you’re plannin’ on taking the coward’s way out, I have a right to know.”
Boyd laughs, far from amused. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I just though it’s about time to see the world.”
Johnny searches his face, blue eyes cold. “You cuttin’ ties?”
“For the time being,” he responds. Johnny nods, once, and jots down a name on a beermat.
-
“So you’re the little one,” says Mags Bennett, leaning towards him over the counter. “You ain’t got the look of a Crowder.”
“I’m reliably informed that I was not adopted,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“Not least ‘cause a’ that wolf-smell all over you,” she says, and he grins. Mags herself hasn’t got any tells, but then, he’s a long way from knowing every clan in the mountains. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crowder?”
“I hear you’ve got a nice sideline going, Mrs. Bennett.” Mags laughs, taking a sip of her ‘shine.
“You accusin’ me of moonlightin’?”
“Merely appealing to your knowledge of useful herbs,” he says mildly, quirking a smile at the dig.
“You know that too much bane’ll kill ya slow,” she says, index finger sliding a pack across the counter. “One pinch at sunset, no more.”
“I appreciate the concern,” he replies, handing over a roll of cash.
“You got a mind to travel?” she asks, and he doesn’t fool himself that she’s concerned for his well-being; her ammunition’s more than plants and bullets.
“My mind’s my own,” he says, holding back and the moon’s.
He’s got enlistment papers in his front pocket and a set of shirts that aren’t his in his bag. He’ll be back, when he’s ready.
Reply
Reply
Thanks for taking the time to comment and god, I love your writing so much, I'm so glad you enjoyed it!
Reply
Would love more. But still so nice.
Reply
Leave a comment