Work Text:
You’re probably wondering how I ended up here.
A horseback ride in the Blue Ridge mountains sounds idyllic, if you’re the kind of person that takes vacations straight out of the free tourist brochures at gas stations. I am not that person.
In fact, I had never been on any vacation before this week. If I were to take a vacation of my choosing, I would absolutely not be doing an activity that requires me to activate my core while breathing air that smells like animal shit.
Yet here I am. Sitting on a horse double my height, following a group of people I don’t even particularly like down a stinky, too-green path through the woods.
You might ask, why did you put yourself in this situation? It’s a good question, and I fear I have the worst answer of all:
There’s this guy.
I know, I know, how cliche. If it helps, I am not prone to them: I’m an orphan but not a Chosen One. I’m a college athlete who couldn’t care less about winning. I’m a twin but I’m nothing like my brother.
The boy problems, though? I’ve got ‘em. And oh, do I know how to pick ‘em.
Neil’s horse ambles down the wide path next to mine. The man himself is slumped forward in his saddle, reins held loosely in his bandaged hands. Neil has the misfortune of being very murder-able, so the bandages are a more common part of his whole look than one would hope.
This most recent bout of “almost getting killed” was particularly… vexing. (We don’t need to go into detail. All you need to know is that I didn’t handle it well.) Neil is moving on, though. He’s taking in the scenery, and his expression befits a tourist brochure even if the rest of him screams, “I should probably still be in a hospital.” When he catches me looking his lips curve into a small smile, and Reader, it is imperative that you understand how passionately I hate him.
“This is cool,” Neil says.
“Well, as long as you’re enjoying it,” my cousin grumbles from behind us. Nicky enjoys nature about as much as I do. I shoot him a look, and he mimes zipping his mouth shut.
Neil only shrugs, leaning further against the neck of his horse. I’m not sure how he’s awake. In the last four nights, he’s slept in a hospital, on a cot in an FBI conference room, on a dorm room floor, and then finally one night in a real bed in the luxurious “cabin” our teammates are renting. Minus the hospital, I’ve dealt with the same sleeping arrangements (yes, including the giant fluffy bed, no, we will not make a big deal of it). Even without the copious injuries, I do not have why don’t we go horseback riding? energy. But somehow Neil, with his half-melted face and arms, has giddied up to come smile at me and the sky and the trees.
This brings me to my point: I’m in deep. I’m so fucked. This morning, I would have told you that you’d never catch me in touching range of a horse. But for twelve hours, I thought Neil Josten might be dead; if he’s going to stand in front of me, saying he wants to go horseback riding, then yeah, every person on this goddamn team is going to get on a goddamn horse unless they want me to gut them.
My thighs are so sore and itchy. I’m on a horse that smells worse than my gear bag, swatting away flies and dodging low branches. I genuinely despise the present moment. It’s my fault, I know: these are the perils of letting ourselves fall for stupid ass men. These are the perils of getting attached to anyone at all.
But put yourself in my shoes. Really visualize it — they are cowboy boots with honest to god spurs, and I was forced to pay money to rent them.
Now ask yourself: Did I really have any other choice?