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.
“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.”
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“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.
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“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.
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Thanks for taking the time to comment and god, I love your writing so much, I'm so glad you enjoyed it!
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Would love more. But still so nice.
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