Chapter Text
Three weeks later...
He worked the chamber, racked it in, all movements slow and steady. As quiet as possible. He kept an eye on his target, letting some awareness keep track of his surroundings- any people around, friend or foe. The wind direction and speed. The barely-there dull ache in his side.
Deep breath, let it out. Fire.
Tim was sitting up before the sound of the gunshot had cleared the air. He didn’t smile- of course not- but allowed himself a quick nod of satisfaction. There was that little bit of ache, but his shot wasn’t affected. The stitches were out, there wasn’t even a slight pull at his side, no burn across his ribs with the recoil.
Full recovery.
...Well. Relatively speaking.
He put his rifle and himself through the paces for awhile longer, more for the comfort it provided than anything else. Some people drank, some people listened to Hank Williams, some people (Ava, though she thought she was hiding it) ate ice cream by the pint, some people fired rifles. Tim was that last people. And maybe a little of the first.
He took the long way around back to the front office to sign out of the range, taking the time to stretch his legs back out, keep that clearness in his head as long as possible. He took another deep breath, letting in the smell of oil and gunpowder, sweat and mechanics. The staccato of gunfire in the short range hall...
A second’s hesitation, and then Tim slipped inside the building, wondering if maybe Johnno or Coop was in there, if maybe they wanted to go grab a drink. They were okay guys, despite the unfortunate affliction of being Marines.
Former Marines, he corrected himself. They were almost all ‘formers’ here. Making buddies out of each other, clinging to camaraderie like the nostalgia it was, since too many of their own buddies from Over There never made it to retirement.
“Aaaaand shit,” he groaned, mostly to himself. Because it wasn’t Johnno or Coop or even MJ (Navy SEALs are alright guys too, sometimes better because of their classified shit- Tim sometimes wished he wasn’t allowed to talk about his service either) or any ‘former’ in the middle range. Fucking Raylan Givens and his fucking hat hanging next to him.
Tim stayed in the hallway and watched through the window, unable to quell the curiosity. He’d heard through a few grapevines that Raylan was still recovering from his own gunshot wound, maybe his quickdraw wasn’t as-
He couldn’t help but wince when Raylan tried to cross-pull and nearly doubled over in the recoil. Tim was gonna go ahead and guess Raylan was still on desk duty. And he almost winced again- Lord help Tim if he ever had a job that entailed a desk of any kind. No way. That was one of the reasons he’d taken the discharge; they weren’t going chain Tim to some military office for the rest of his-
“Why, Timothy Gutterson, as I live and breathe,” Raylan had packed up and left the range, catching Tim in the hall. All trace of pain gone from his face, but Tim raised an eyebrow, quirked it just high enough to tell Raylan he’d seen, but not high enough to look like he actually cared. Non-verbal smartassery was an artform, really. Tim had perfected it when he was sixteen.
“How’s the side?” he asked, perfectly bored, maybe a little taunt to it.
“How’s yours?” Raylan said right back. Somehow by unspoken agreement, they walked in time back to the office. Raylan’s wound kept his stride from being as long as it usually was, Tim easily able to keep up.
“I hit my targets,” he shrugged.
“Hey, I hit all the targets too,” Raylan protested.
“I hit my bullseyes,” Tim corrected himself, said it with the exact same inflection, mocking and dry.
Raylan just made a face, unconsciously tracing the holster at his side. Tim had a slight flash of... not sympathy, fuck that, but commiseration. He’d hated being sidelined after his first war wound. Two weeks stuck in medical and then in command tents while his guys got sent out into the sand? It sucked.
“What does a U.S. Marshal on desk duty do, anyway?” he asked, somewhat curious, mostly because he knew it would annoy Raylan.
It worked. “Count paperclips, mostly,” he grumbled. They entered the main office, going to the front desk to sign out. Raylan went first, and Tim wasn’t really pleased to note that Raylan’s name was on the short range sheet a couple times. Was it because Tim had told him not to come back here? Probably. He was as much of a contrary asshole as Tim.
“And you’re actually following the rules? I’m... what’s the opposite of impressed?” he headed out to the parking lot after he signed out, Raylan following.
“Unimpressed,” Raylan muttered.
“That’s it,” Tim snapped his fingers.
“What else am I supposed to do?” he snapped, probably not at Tim specifically though. “Only got one case going on right now, and I can’t-”
“Can’t drive a car and talk to people? Weird, you’re doing an aggravatingly good job of it now,” Tim talked over him, slow and lazy. He leaned against his truck, eyeing Raylan expectantly.
Raylan glared back but couldn’t (of course) back down from a challenge. “Ever hear of Fletcher Nix?”
“Well, that’s a stupid name. Dr. Suess?”
Raylan made that face again. It was probably supposed to be stern and intimidating, but came closer to petulant instead. Tim refrained from pointing that out. “Also goes by the name The Ice Pick.”
“Oh shit, him? What’s he doing in Lexington?” Tim continued his unconcerned lean against his truck.
“So you’ve heard of him,” Raylan did the same lean against his own car, even though he needed a hand on his side to brace the movement. Tim raised his eyebrow again, just for a second. I saw that too. “Have you met him?”
Tim shook his head. “I know a guy who knows a guy. He plays this weird fucking game with his targets before he shoots them, pretends to let them have a chance.”
“I reckon that’s where the ice pick through the hand comes in?” Raylan mused, eyes shrewdly looking him over.
He shrugged. “Don’t reach for his gun, that’s all I know.” He eyed right back, choosing his words carefully. “Last I heard, he used to work for some people in Frankfort.”
Raylan smiled darkly, the smile that meant ‘of course my day is ruined.’ “How did I know Wynn Duffy was gonna be involved.”
Tim wasn’t really familiar with the name, filed it away in his brain in case it was useful later. “You gonna go talk to him?”
He grimaced. “Can’t. Desk duty.”
Tim rolled his eyes, standing up straight to open his car door. “Just say you’re going on lunch.”
“I’m not supposed to be-”
“Or stay and count your paperclips, whatever makes you happy,” Tim huffed, climbing into his truck. With the door still open, he fixed a completely unimpressed gaze on Raylan. “Have a productive rest of your day, Deputy.”
Raylan faltered, glared, faltered again. Tim bit back an annoyed sigh- the guy really was off his game. “I can’t go talk to Duffy.”
Don’t ask why, don’t ask why. “Why not?” Oh, fuck you, Gutterson.
“Last time I saw him, I told him our next conversation wasn’t gonna be a conversation,” he answered, a little wayward helplessness coming through.
Tim made sure to really roll his eyes this time. “And I’m sure that was real clever at the time.” Off Raylan’s pout, “So, this is a different conversation.”
Raylan raised his own eyebrow. “That’s the best you got?”
“Pot? Kettle?” Tim drawled back. “Whatever. Go do something. Stop coming to my range.” He shut his door, wishing his window wasn’t broken so he could roll it up and block out Raylan.
Alas. “But I like this range,” Raylan smirked.
Tim sighed, started up his truck. “I hate you.”
***
“Damn it!” Ava was two and a half seconds away from throwing the knife across the room. Or start crying. Maybe both. Both seemed like a major possibility. “Damn it.”
The front door opened and closed, and as if he knew where he was needed, Tim walked into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. “Ava?” he ventured cautiously.
“Yeah?” she set down the knife, swiping at the tears on her face with the back of her unimpaired hand.
He seemed to weigh his words carefully. “Are you attacking the lemons or did the lemons attack you?”
She laughed a little, watery, still frustrated. “I made iced tea.”
He dared to come closer. “And decided to celebrate by sacrificing some fruit to your god of...” he picked up the knife, sent her a disapproving look. “You thought you could cut lemons one-handed?”
She shrugged, mindful of her sling. “I thought I could try.”
Tim shook his head, flipped the knife around expertly in his hand. “Couldn’t wait five more minutes for me to get home? Take your glass- just yours, just one- out to the porch. I’ll bring the rest out,” he huffed, so put upon and annoyed, already slicing up the lemons with quick, practiced cuts.
Ava had to smile. If she’d had both hands free, she would’ve reached out and ruffled his hair to annoy him further. Once she was out on the porch waiting for him, she let herself really grin.
Tim had called it ‘home’.
She had the smile back under control when he joined her, his own glass of tea (and probably bourbon, she didn’t ask) in hand, lemon slices on a plate for her. “Aw, thanks honey,” she said sweetly.
He grimaced at the term, of course, but settled onto the porch rail across from her chair. “You didn’t pull anything, did you?”
She glanced down at where her wound was covered up by her shirt. “It’s fine. The doc said I’ll be able to get rid of the sling in a few days.”
Tim nodded, sipping at his drink. Definitely had bourbon in it, if he was sipping. “Until then? No knives.”
“Yes dear,” she grinned some more. The grumpier Tim got- his playful grumpy, not his real (scary) temper- the happier she was. She’d been happy a lot lately.
It had taken a few days, and a combination of both of them on painkillers, but Ava was finally able to convince Tim to move- officially and really- into the guest room. And to what she was sure was his surprise, it worked. Ava wouldn’t trade these last three weeks for near anything.
The two of them recuperated, Tim faster than her, with Boyd a constant presence, prodding them both to good health. Boyd had a decent caretaker quality to him, she’d discovered. Maybe they’d all discovered. Including Boyd.
She readjusted the strap of the sling around her collar bone. “Never had a sling before. Hell, before Bowman, I’d never been injured before,” she said lightly. “Mama never really let me roughhouse as a kid, run around in the woods or anything.” Another smile, remembering. “Wasn’t lady-like.”
Tim offered a smile too. Attempted, more accurately. “Can’t say I relate.”
She didn’t frown, tried not to pry too hard. “No?”
He sipped his drink, sitting sideways so he could see both her and the front yard. “I’m not very lady-like.”
Ava laughed softly. “You’ve worn a sling before, then.” She knew bits and pieces. Tim only ever revealed himself in bits and pieces. She had this image of him, everything cut up and broken on the inside, his pieces barely held together- all under his skin and making him up as a person.
Boyd, and Raylan too now that she thought about it, they were the same- bodies of cracks and things about to shatter. But whereas Boyd and Raylan fought and railed against it, told themselves whatever they needed to to deny the cracks... Tim just accepted. Didn’t try to patch himself together. Just carried on.
Ava just wanted to put some of it back together. She was helping with Boyd with his, she knew she was. And she knew Tim needed her too. He just didn’t know he could.
He shrugged now. “Once or twice. Don’t like ’em, I’d rather crutches than a sling.”
“You can still shoot on crutches,” she half-guessed, half-teased.
He rewarded her with a genuine smile. “Maybe.”
“How old were you, first time you had a sling?” She was anticipating something young; his father (and it was never ‘daddy’ like everyone else- Tim had a father) was the subject of Tim’s worst jokes- the ones that fell flat and tasted bitter.
Tim tilted his head, counting back. “Eleven, I think.”
“Dislocated shoulder,” she guessed some more. If she tried hard, she could picture it. A scrawny, scrappy eleven year old kid in need of a haircut, with a hard glare and bruised face, a much larger hand grabbing him by the shoulder, yanking hard...
He lifted his glass a little, cheers to her. “Yep.”
Ava drank her tea, a few sips at a time. “I’m glad Bowman never got me pregnant,” she confessed in a rush, surprising herself. “I’d hate myself if I let... if I put a child through that.”
Tim shook his head after a pause. “You’d get out.”
“Tim-”
“If you had a kid, you- you’d love that kid so much. You’d protect it. You would’ve left Bowman,” he said it firmly, no question, barely stumbling over the L word.
“Your mama didn’t,” she said quietly.
He didn’t flinch. Of all Tim’s cracks and pieces, this was something he was completely at terms with. “Ava, my mother was in prison by that point anyway.” Not mama- mother. “Since I was seven or eight. Never got out,” he shrugged again. “Died in some fight, ten years back I think.”
Ava tried hard not to stare at him. “I didn’t know you... why was she-?”
Tim was already shrugging. “No idea. They didn’t tell me when it happened, and my father didn’t talk to me about much of anything. Ever. I stopped caring a long while ago.” He turned on the railing to face her straight on. “You ain’t her.”
There was a lot behind that statement. Ava looked right back at him, running through her brain for the right response. It didn’t seem fair, or right, or anything. What if Tim had had a mama like hers, not a ‘mother.’ What if-
Tim snorted, amused, leaning back again. So at ease. “Of course, with your luck, you’dve ended up with a boy like me,” he smirked, sipping his drink again, inviting her in on the joke.
She threw a smile on her face, hoped it stuck, and sat back too. “If I did, I would’ve loved him. So much.”
He flinched this time, really did. She pretended she didn’t see it, adding another lemon to her sweet tea. He tried to cover, checking his watch. “Boyd’s probably getting himself arrested right about now. You think Raylan’ll be the one to call you with the news?”
Since when are you calling him Raylan? Ava wanted to ask. But she grimaced instead. “I still don’t think this is the wisest plan Boyd’s ever come up with.”
He snorted again. “None of Boyd’s plans are that wise, Ava. They’re just built to work.”
She conceded that. “A lot has to go right on luck, though.”
Tim conceded that right back. “I’m surprised you’re okay with it, to be honest.”
Ava took her time answering. “Boyd’s always gonna do what he thinks is best. And his way of thinking is different from most everybody,” she smiled when Tim smirked at that. “Most times I have no idea where his thoughts come from, and by the time I see the logic in ’em, he’s moved on to a dozen new thoughts.”
“You see the logic in this one yet?” Tim asked, giving no indication if he himself did or not.
Ava scrunched up one side of her face. “Maybe. I know it seems like this is all for his grudge against Dickie Bennett, but we both know it’s more than that.”
“It usually is,” Tim agreed lazily.
She studied him again. After getting it through his thick skull that she didn’t blame him for Dickie shooting her- that it wasn’t his fault- and getting him to move in for real, Ava liked to think they’d gotten closer. As close as Tim let people get. He was a bit lighter around her, and she could read him better. And right now... “You do still, don’t you?”
Tim glanced at her. He could read her better too. “What, hold a grudge against Dickie?”
“Yeah,” she leaned back in her chair, giving him just that much more space.
Tim ticked his jaw left and right a few quick times. “Yeah, maybe.” He tilted his head at her. “I watched him shoot you in front of me. Even if I’da killed him then, I’d still probably have a grudge.” He shook his head, looked down at his empty glass. “That kinda shit doesn’t go away just ’cause someone dies.”
Ava hated how true that was.
***
She had a bad taste in her mouth the second they pulled up to Arlo’s house. “Well-” she started to sigh, sizing up the unfamiliar car in the driveway.
“Tennessee plates,” Tim pointed out as he shut off the truck.
“-Shit,” she completed the sigh. She and Tim exchanged a glance before getting out and walking up to the porch.
“Ava,” Devil near-skittered out of the house to meet them on the steps. Like a cockroach. “Tim.”
“Devil,” she took point, not surprised when Tim stayed close, maybe a step or two behind her, eyes tracking movement inside the house. He kept quiet. “Arlo throwing a party?”
He laughed politely, which, coming from him? Just sounded gross. “We got a buyer for Mags’s weed,” Devil was talking too smooth, too proud. “Rodney Dunham.”
“Rodney ‘Hot Rod’ Dunham?” she asked. “Out of Memphis?” She said it all innocently, but making sure he knew she wasn’t an idiot. She was getting so tired of these shifty behind the back dealings, ever since Boyd had gotten arrested. “What, with Boyd locked up you thought you could go into business for yourself, you and Arlo?”
“It ain’t even like that,” Devil protested, way too unconcerned for her liking. It pissed her off even more. Tim shifted a little behind her, sensing it.
“What is it like, then?” she kept at it. “Tim and I are somewhat in the dark here-”
Arlo joined them on the porch, grimacing at Ava and Tim’s presence. “Dunham would like a word.”
“Well then send him on out here,” Ava put on her professional smile, sweetened her voice.
“Ava-” Was Devil actually trying to warn her to stay back?
Hell no. “Mr. Dunham,” she stepped forward, warm and friendly. “Ava Crowder.”
He didn’t even look thrown at her introduction, she liked that. “I’m proud to know you,” he even sounded genuine enough.
“Likewise,” she smiled some more. This was a sale, he was a customer. Tim remained silent behind her, no doubt studying Dunham’s men, cataloguing each one for a threat. She didn’t always like when Tim went into Soldier Mode, but she could appreciate why he did. And felt safer for it.
Her attention went back to Dunham as he tore into Devil. “You’ve got mold, mildew, you’ve got rats and mice eating it out in the shed...”
Shit, Boyd wasn’t gonna be happy with this. If all the weed was ruined, that was a lot of money down the drain. Devil, damn him, was actually trying to argue with the man. “No, we got a hundred and twenty kilos of premium weed here.”
Dunham shook his head, surprising Ava with his patience. “Three weeks ago, maybe.”
Ava took a step forward. There had to be a way to salvage this, either the weed or their standing with Dunham. “Maybe there’s-”
“Stay out of this,” Devil snapped, barely taking the time to even look at her.
“Let us handle it, Ava,” Arlo warned her just after.
She glared at them both. Really? She opened her mouth to argue, but felt a hand on her arm, restraining. While Devil started going at Dunham again, she turned to Tim. He shook his head just a little, cautioning. Hold back. Now now.
And he was right. Not in front of the customer. Boyd would keep his cool, keep trying to make some sort of profit, even if it was just keeping good terms. “Mr. Dunham, we-”
“Ava,” Devil snapped again, moving to stand between her and Dunham, trying to push her away at the same time.
He got half a step. Tim was there, shielding Ava’s side just before Devil would’ve made contact with her sling. He fixed Devil with a look, and everything on the porch seemed to freeze for just a moment. Tim had locked eyes with the other man, seemingly calm, but as a brick wall that wouldn’t move. “Don’t put your hand on her,” he murmured, maybe just for Devil to hear.
Devil pulled back sharply, blinking, and tried to save face by turning back to Dunham. But Ava had already taken advantage of the distraction, stepping up to him again. “Understandable, sir. Thank you for coming by anyway,” she kept her tone appreciative, respectful.
Dunham, for all that he was a weed-slinging criminal, was also a man of respect. He had smirked a little at Tim scaring Devil. “Ma’am,” he shook her hand, not even hesitating at it being the wrong hand with her right still caught up in the sling. He nodded at his men to leave, one last glare for Devil from each of them. Ava had almost let down her demeanor when Dunham paused next to Tim. “You’re a shooter?”
Tim didn’t freeze or flinch, but did frown a little, confused. “’Scuse me?”
Dunham nodded to the tattoo on Tim’s wrist, the rifle visible with his sleeves rolled up. “You were a sniper. With who?”
She could see Tim fight the urge to roll down his sleeves, hide his wrist. “75th.”
Dunham nodded. “Rangers.” Tim nodded back. “1st Battalion?” Another nod. “How many tours?”
His eyes getting narrower and narrower, Tim still managed to answer civilly. Maybe he’d actually picked up some social skills from Ava. “A few in Afghanistan. One outside Baghdad.”
Dunham almost smiled but didn’t. “Good for you, son.” He twisted his own arm, showing off some tattoo Ava couldn’t see. “Did two with the 173rd Airborne, myself.”
Tim looked at the tattoo for a respectful amount of time, looking back up to Dunham with a nod. Dunham did smile then, clapping Tim on the shoulder. “Shit, son you’re still there some, aren’t ya? It’s still in your head.” He chuckled, not waiting for an answer, and left.
“Well,” Ava watched them go, her voice directed specifically at Devil and Arlo, “did that go the way you’d planned?”
“I could use a drink,” Arlo mumbled by way of answer, stubborn as shit of course.
“Amen to that,” Devil was much the same, and she could feel his glare on her as he followed Arlo inside.
Ava stayed where she was. “What are we gonna do with all that weed?” she finally turned to Tim. And stuttered to a stop.
Tim was still watching after Dunham’s exit, one hand twitching, yanking down at his sleeve to cover the tattoo. His jaw was tight, everything else hidden behind his mask. Dark, empty eyes.
It’s still in your head, Dunham had said. Shit. “Tim?” she didn’t touch him, didn’t move.
He let out a breath slowly, almost hissing through gritted teeth. Purposefully put his hands at his sides, as though he didn’t want to draw any more attention to the ink on his skin. The mark, permanent-
“You should go talk to Boyd,” he said. She was impressed, she had to admit. He almost sounded like normal, just a little of that brick wall still in his voice. “Tell him what Dunham said.”
Ava nodded. “What about those two?” she nodded towards Arlo’s house, daring to come a little closer to Tim now that he was talking. This was throwing her off a little- Tim had been doing better with all that, he hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night to wander the house in weeks. Liquor bottles didn't appear and empty out as quick as they used to. This was going to push him right back down, wasn’t it?
As if he’d heard those thoughts, Tim turned to her, face grim but a bit nervous. “You’ll be able to handle yourself with them, right?”
She smiled a little painfully. “You going away for a few days?” It always happened- something random spooked him, took his mind somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint, and he took off.
He shrugged, shuffled his feet some. “Could use some fresh air for a bit. Once Boyd gets out, there’s not gonna be much time for anything but... Boyd.”
“That’s true,” she said carefully. She didn’t want him to go, but she didn’t want him upset, losing sleep, drinking too much either.
He caught the tone, misinterpreting it. “Will you be okay with them-”
“Oh hell, Timmy, I can handle them,” she forced the lightness back into their conversation. “Arlo can’t do shit, and-”
“And Devil-”
“And Devil just needs a firm hand,” she spoke over him, reassuring. “I’ll see what Boyd wants to do and take it from there. Just don’t go too far this time, you hear?”
Tim gave her a smile, the best reassurance he could provide. “I never do.”
***
It was a good day, to be sure. Boyd held himself calm and steady as Tramble’s gate closed behind him, then broke out into a grin. Free man, yet again. And there she was, the most amazing woman in the world, waiting for him. With the sling finally gone, it was like Ava was free again too.
“Baby,” she was grinning too, and hopped off the hood of the truck, her arms already opening to greet him. “What happened to your face?”
“There she is, the apple of my eye,” he rambled happily. “Is it possible that you could be more beautiful?” Boyd gathered her up, spinning them around, kissing her soundly. A man could get used to having this in his life, he surely could. He kissed her again, just because.
She laughed a little, smiled a lot, but didn’t let go of her questioning. “What happened to your face?” Not disapproving, not disbelieving, just curious. Really, the perfect woman.
“Ah, well, you know I don’t play well with others,” he reluctantly set her down, trying to school his face to innocence and failing.
She just smiled, shook her head. “You found out where Dickie’s got his mama’s money?”
He sobered some. Time to talk shop, it seemed. “I did.”
Ava eyed him. “And since you ain’t dancing around this parking lot, I’m gonna guess there’s a ‘but’ coming...”
“But,” he obliged, “It’s gonna be harder to get to than I thought.” She raised an eyebrow, waiting, but the gesture reminded Boyd of something else. “Where’s Timothy?”
Ava’s smile faltered just a bit. “Out and about, you know.” She waved a hand around.
Boyd didn’t frown, not wanting to feed into Ava’s worry. That encounter with Dunham that Ava had described must’ve shook Tim up some. It could’ve been anything the man said or did, something sparked a memory or a feeling Tim couldn’t confront. “Has he been taking his cell phone with him now?”
Ava’s smile reappeared at that; it was a rule she had forced upon Tim once he moved in- he had to take his phone with him when he went on his retreats. “Of course.”
“Good,” Boyd nodded. “Call him. We’re going to need his eye for this business, I think.”
“Why? Where’s the money?” she prompted again, linking their hands together as they went to the truck.
He tugged her closer, knowing this was going to drudge up memories and a whole lot of history. “It’s with Limehouse.”
Ava went still for a moment, but damn if he didn’t love this woman and her infinite well of strength as she gathered herself up with a firm nod. “Guess I better go pay him a visit, then.”
***
She wasn’t the same person she’d been last time she was up at Noble’s Holler, Ava realized it as she watched Limehouse poke and prod at the pig he was cooking. She could feel it, and she was more than pretty sure Limehouse could see it.
“You were coming up here less and less frequent,” he commented. “I’d wrongly assumed he’d stopped beating on you.”
Ava smiled, shook her head. “I just got some extra help at the house.”
Limehouse chewed that over, flipping the meat on the grill. “Well, I realized I was wrong when I heard what you done to your late husband. At the dinner table and everything.” There may have been a note of pride, but she’d never be sure.
She also was never sure how he knew so much, so she just played along. “Shame in it was wasting all that ham.” (It had been fried chicken, but Limehouse was a hog man. He’d like it better that way.)
Sure enough, he chuckled. “And here I was thinking the shame in it was we’d see your shining face around here a lot less.”
“That’s sweet, Mr. Limehouse,” she smiled genuinely. He was a confusing trickster of a man- more than Boyd was, more than anyone- but there were some things he was always real about.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring that pit bull with you up here tonight,” he mused.
And trickster again. “Pit bull?”
He smiled, showing his teeth. “Your guard dog kid who tries to look after you, the one who shot the late Sheriff Bennett.”
Tim. For some reason, she was startled that Limehouse knew about Tim. And that yet another person was calling Tim the Crowder guard dog. It made her nervous, though she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe she wanted to keep Tim away from attention as much as she could. Because now people knew him- and their weakness for each other. It wasn't really a weakness; it was a vulnerability. In this world, those were the same thing.
Limehouse continued, unaware (or very aware) of her internal worry. “That boy seems to have a world of anger in him. You know pit bulls can be dangerous, girl.”
“I don’t think-” Ava frowned, defensive.
He waved at her argument. “But they can be good, loyal dogs in the right home.” He looked at her sideways. “I may never trust a white man with an affinity for gunplay, but I can see you do.”
He was giving her an opening. Ava took it. “Tim did the same for me that you did. Protection without question.” She hesitated, then added, “Made my home safe again.”
Limehouse really looked at her for that. “Like a guard dog.”
“Not like-” she started to protest, vehement, forgetting why she was there in the first place, but Limehouse just smiled again. She stopped. She couldn’t tell if it was a reassuring smile- he got what Tim meant to her- or a trickster smile- he didn’t care and never would. Either way, she’d be wasting her breath talking about it.
“New confidence, new friends,” he listed off. “And I hear you got yourself a new boyfriend too.”
Boyfriend seemed like too trivial a word for someone like Boyd, too girly, too cheap, but she let it go. “Funny, that’s why I’m here.” She waited for Limehouse to look over at her again, curious. She steeled herself, professional smile in place. “I think you two should meet.”
***
Boyd looked down to hide the grin on his face when Tim shifted again, very obviously forcing himself not to pull the gun from his back pocket. “Timothy. Relax.” He said it quietly enough for just him to hear.
Tim glared at him, probably instinctively. “No.”
He almost laughed, but didn’t want Devil to hear. He wanted him to think he was still (rightly) pissed at him and Arlo. “She’ll be fine.”
His glare didn’t go away. Tim glanced back at the truck where Devil was still sitting and grumbling, then back at Boyd. “She’s by herself.”
“Not entirely,” Boyd assured. “Limehouse ain’t gonna hurt her. She’s probably safer up there in the holler then she is most anywhere else.” And perhaps they should have had her come here during the Bennett debacle instead of trying to hide her in the basement, he realized. Hindsight was never really his friend or compatriot, that was for sure.
Tim was still frowning, twitching. Boyd made a show of stretching, leaning against the truck, hiding his grin again when Tim caught him and glared even more. “You do realize we’re not gonna be the only people going after that money, right?”
Boyd nodded, both to answer the question and to accept Tim’s change of subject. He decided to gloss on over the fact that Tim had actually said ‘we’ and therefore included himself in the group. “I am, however, counting on our head start being a deciding factor on the matter.”
Tim’s eyes started to narrow, the way he got when he was puzzling something over. “Have to think Dickie’s gonna tell other people the same thing he told you.”
“Like who, Dewey Crowe?” Boyd kept an eye trained on the other side of the bridge, waiting for signs of Ava and (hopefully) Mr. Limehouse.
“You better pray not,” Tim smirked. “If Dewey knows, everyone’ll know.”
“Well,” Boyd stretched again, “I’m not much for praying these days. And yes, chances are that Dickie Bennett’s mouth will run to other people’s ears as well. Which means we have to be fast, and we have to be smart.”
Tim nodded, glancing back at where Devil was sitting in the truck. “Oh. Great.”
Boyd laughed as quietly as he could. “Ava will come through.” Tim nodded again, glanced at him, brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing away. Boyd waited, and waited, then decided to bring it up since Tim wouldn’t. “You worried about Ava being involved in my activities?” Worried, disapproving, downright angry- Boyd needed to know.
Tim took his time answering, making Boyd wait some more. “She said, just a few days ago, she said that you’re always gonna do what you think is best.”
“And you suppose she’s the same way?” Boyd guessed.
He shrugged. Which meant yes. “She believes in you.”
Boyd knew that, he did. Still, hearing it out loud, especially from this young man, was something else. He ducked his head a bit again, trying to hide the pleased smile. Judging by Tim’s eye roll and sigh, he was unsuccessful. “None of that really answers my question, Timothy,” he pointed out, mostly just to regain the higher ground.
“I’m pretty sure you already know my answer, Boyd,” Tim said right back. “Worried? ’Course I am. But it’s... it’s not like I don’t know you’re going to protect her as best you can.”
He kept smiling. “I occasionally direct a similar line of thoughts towards you, you know.”
Tim shut him up with a look- now was not the time for that (if Tim had any say, it probably never would be). “If I disapproved of the line of work, I wouldn’t be in it. So,” he waved a hand around at nothing. “There’s that.”
“So what exactly is it that’s troubling you? You can lie and say nothing, if you’d like. Then I’ll lie and say I believe you,” he made sure his voice was as solicitous as possible.
Tim grunted. “So kind of you.” And then he fell quiet again, looking out across the bridge.
“Tim?” Boyd prompted. He could see lights up ahead, a car or two. Ava on her way back with Limehouse.
He was puzzling something out, one side of his face scrunching up in a surprisingly childish gesture. “I’m trying to think of the right saying.”
Two trucks appeared over the hill, approaching the bridge. Behind them, Devil finally got out of the car, his shotgun ready. Boyd gestured for him to keep it pointed down. “Which one?” he kept his eyes on the bridge, his focus on Tim.
Tim’s rifle was still leaning against the front of the truck. Instead of reaching for it, he nodded towards the lead truck as it parked on the other side of the bridge, relaxing a fraction when Ava got out of the passenger seat. “‘Ain’t nobody’s hands clean in what’s left of this world.’”
And Boyd got it. Tim knew where he stood in this world, he knew where Boyd stood. What they were capable of. Where their lines were. How far they could go. But for all that, he didn’t know where Ava stood in these matters.
And the funny thing was, neither did Boyd. But he was saved from admitting that- and from trying to guess who said the quote- by Ava herself, leading Ellstin Limehouse across the bridge. Boyd brushed imaginary dirt off his jacket and moved forward to meet them. Time to do business.