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.
“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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