FIC: Polaris (Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse, PG) for staringiscaring
Polaris, PG for staringiscaring
Thunderheart, Ray/Walter, businessman drink my wine, plowman dig my earth
Ray bruises his knuckles punching the wall after the latest of Maggie’s media contacts turns him down, and Walter’s had enough of his temper, firing more often than usual these days, and puts him out. Dusk is blooming like a dark flower at the horizon, and Ray’s still gone, out somewhere in the desert without a jacket or any damn sense, so Walter puts on his coat and gets Jimmy in the truck to go look for him.
It’s still light out, but only just, when he finds Ray, the sky the dark orange of a dying fire. Ray is at the edge of Grampa’s property, digging in the stubborn earth and listening to Grampa talk story in slow English. Walter can’t keep a leash on his smile; it only took Grampa a couple weeks to put Ray to work when he comes up for lessons, but Walter would have thought of it sooner, because Ray can’t sit still under the best of circumstances, least of all when he’s frustrated. He does better at concentrating when you tire the extra energy from him.
“It’s about time,” Grampa says in Lakota as Crow Horse jogs down the hill to meet them. “I told Ray you’d be here a quarter of an hour ago.”
“You owe me five bucks,” Ray says, right on cue.
Grampa looks off into the distance, the first stars dotting the sky, his I don’t speak English, G-Man face. Ray frowns. He drops his shovel and wipes his hands on his jeans, but there’s more dust on the denim than on his hands, so it does nothing. He’s stripped to his undershirt, and so slick with sweat that the white cotton sticks to him, like another skin. A thicker skin, which probably he could use one of, but things ain’t as simple as that.
Ray wipes some of the sweat from his brow, smearing dirt on his face. Walter smiles.
“You look like a man could use a drink,” Walter says.
Grampa must have worked all the fight out of him, because Ray lets himself be led off without any kind of fuss. Walter stops at Sammy Moon Dog’s and buys Ray a Coke, and then they park at the edge of a clearing and watch Jimmy run through the tall prairie grass, leaning against the metal body of the truck. Dirty and sunburned, hair disheveled, Ray looks darker and more lovely than Walter’s ever seen him, and Walter lifts him into the cab, and undresses him, and lays him back. Ray tastes briny and loamy, like the earth and the sea, and the little noises escaping his soft mouth are sounds from the heavens, and Walter takes his sweet time.
Afterwards, Ray gets dressed and goes out to call Jimmy back. Walter sits in the truck, sweat-slicked against the leather seats, and watches Ray’s fine form lit by moonlight, just the outline of him, like a constellation. He thinks maybe he should give Ray a talking to, tell him he doesn’t need to let bad things get him so excited, because there’s a lot of bad out there and he’ll just exhaust himself. But then he figures maybe a better lesson would be to teach Ray to live for the good things, and he’s already done the work on that tonight, so he’ll let it be. Ray and the dog get back in the truck, and Walter starts up the engine and drives into the dark night, the heavens twinkling overhead. He reaches over, casual, and rests his palm on the back of Ray’s neck, and Ray smiles.