Holiday FIC: Bone Deep (Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse, PG-13) for myhappyface
Bone Deep, PG-13, 500 words for myhappyface
Thunderheart, Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse, second winter
Since the leaves turned, Ray had been after the tribal council for the funds to fix the heat in the department’s cruisers. He remembered the bone-deep ache of hours with nothing separating him from the Badland winter’s single digit lows but the shaky skeleton of his squad car and the sick, tepid breath of the aging radiator. But you cannot urge blood from a stone; the money wasn’t there. Ray’s breath crystallized in the air, pure white like a cartoon character’s speech bubble, and he kept having to wipe the fog from the windshield, because the defroster didn’t work too well, either.
The cruiser shook, the cold leather seat vibrating beneath him. If the transmission cut out, God knew what they’d do. They’d switch to walking patrols, he guessed, or mounted, if they got fancy. Maybe Walter could scare up some horses, the ponies folks painted up for powwows, animals who spent the rest of the year growing fat off sweet prairie grass and giving rides to grandkids.
Ray’s hands ached like they were broken. He cupped them and filled his palms with his own breath, but it wasn’t much warmer than the air sputtering from the cruiser’s vents. He rubbed them together, then stuck them in his coat pockets, but it was colder in there; the artificial material did not hold the heat. Teeth chattering, Ray stuck his hands between his thighs, hoping for enough warmth to at least ease the pain of a six degree January morning with no fucking gloves.
“Hey, chief,” Crow Horse said, peering at him from over the tops of his Raybans. “I’m paying you to nab speeders, not to play with yourself.”
Ray scowled. “Fuck you. I lost my gloves.”
“No, you didn’t,” Crow Horse said.
Ray huffed out an aggravated breath. It appeared in the air as an apathetic fog, the roar of a sick dragon. It made Ray feel foolish enough to drop the argument he was preparing, accusing Crow Horse of being contrary to everything because he enjoyed getting Ray’s hackles up.
Crow Horse pulled off his own gloves, and thrust them at Ray.
“Here,” he said.
“No,” Ray said. “Then you’ll be cold.”
“Just take the damn things,” Crow Horse said. “Indians are built to withstand extreme weather. You’re only a quarter, so it’s all diluted with white whining.”
Ray recognized the gesture behind Crow Horse’s ribbing, and was touched enough to be grateful instead of petulant.
“Thanks,” he said. He pulled the gloves on. And frowned. “These are my gloves.”
“Yeah,” Crow Horse said. “I said you didn’t lose them. I took them outta your jacket last night; I did lose mine.”
Ray sighed. Three more months of bone cold, endless night winter, the desert snow brittle and sharp as broken glass, his winter clothes constantly missing.
Crow Horse was looking at him, the amusement gone from his expression, just watching him. Ray flexed his fingers inside his gloves. The pain was receding.
“We’ll share them,” he said.