Chapter Text
1.
Evidence Ryan had narrowed herself down to three weaknesses in life. Most people had so many more, so she figured that was exceptionally good going, and knowing what they were -- well, that much, too, was a step towards controlling them. The three, in order of potency, were Duke Crocker, excellent whiskey, and men of God.
They weren't all weaknesses that operated in quite the same way, of course. Especially in light of how some of the things she felt about the first might edge into the territory of uncomfortable blasphemy if applied to the last.
Duke Crocker's soulful eyes and devillish smile could make her follow him anywhere, although she might take a while and get there by the scenic route, because although it was a weakness, it didn't make her a total pushover. She had even married him, when marriage was something she'd sworn she'd never do, and though that was a situation with its ups and downs, every down naturally segued back into an up eventually.
The whiskey was something she never could resist; hypnotic once she caught the smell. Not in the bad way, but fine things called to her soul, and most of them she had some control over, reducing them down to numbers and gain, practicalities, while she rolled over like a kitten once she got a whiff of the good stuff.
Men of God... she'd been raised to respect a preacher, and that was all. Even one so very mesmerised by the whiskey he'd brought her as a lure to sit and listen to his schemes. She was well aware of how his hungry eyes followed the glass up to her lips, and the craving with which his tongue flicked out to whet his own. Evi, tempted despite her ingrained respect, swayed the glass from side to side in her hand as she spoke, watching his eyes follow, and was so very entertained that he didn't even realise what he was doing. Preacher liked the whiskey in the bad way. Maybe she could hypnotise him like this and learn all his twisty secrets.
She said, "So you bring me news of my darling husband. You bring me whiskey. And you..." She waggled her finger at his collar, amused how he'd dressed the part even though he was a long way from home and couldn't possibly travel everywhere dressed like that. "Why, it's like you know me."
"Don't begrudge a man preparation and research," Driscoll said hoarsely. A smalltown preacher from Duke's small hometown, and so very charmingly crooked. He jerked his neck, pulling his eyes aside with an effort. His hands gripped and smoothed out reflexively upon the edge of the table, drawing her attention to long, thin fingers, worn with hardship and age. "Especially in pursuit of the Lord's work. It wasn't easy to find you."
"No. It wouldn't be," Evi agreed silkily. "And your interest in me is... Duke." She dipped her finger in the glass and licked it off. Driscoll scowled. "I could ask for another glass. We could share."
The bar they were in was all dark corners and old wood, like some rogues' bar from a movie. It was, honest to God, one of the few times she'd actually hung around in anyplace quite like it, though it suited something about the tone of their meet so very well. There were probably hidey-holes and secret passages behind these panels, and Driscoll was about to tell her that Duke was some lost heir, or about the immense fortune that he had waiting for him at home if he could only beat his evil brother to the prize. It was quiet this early in the day, so didn't quite have the smugglers' ambience of danger and imminent bar fights. Perhaps she should suggest they come back later?
He'd found her, somehow, in Egypt. She'd been playing Lara Croft with an archaeological expedition, paid handsomely to infiltrate the team by a French gentleman who had a yearning to procure some finds that these days honest money just couldn't buy. But half the camp had come down sick with some desert bug, and she'd cut her losses and settled for spending a few weeks searching the local markets for anything she could sell at inflated costs back in the States.
"Not today," Driscoll replied, after his drawn-out hesitation, shaking his head with stirrings of anger. "I won't deny that I endure a constant struggle with that bottle, but I didn't come here to be tempted."
"...But you did come here to tempt. Tell me--" She smiled wryly and set her glass aside, wrapping her hands together on the table in front. "What is Mr Crocker doing with himself these days?"
She was shocked to be told how Duke had gone home and gone straight. Less so that he was running a bar and restaurant, because she could see that if he was going to go straight at all, that was one way he'd do it. But that alone was every reason to go and dig him out of there, tooth and nail. Her man was clearly in need of rescue. The dull, insipid strings of muggle life had got ahold of him. In the past, they'd talked about just this sort of scenario happening to either of them, and had made a pact, leaving each other strict instruction. Pulling him out of this wasn't a matter of option. It was a duty.
"It must be one hell of a bar, to pin Duke Crocker in one place," she said, knocking back the whiskey left in her glass. "Or... one hell of a woman, maybe?" She broached the subject cautiously, not wanting to offend the Reverend (exclusivity: they'd dabbled in it, once or twice, but it had never been either of their scene).
Driscoll grimaced. "One very hell of a woman, a blonde hellion who is the work of the devil himself. I'm sorry to say, Mrs Crocker, that I was startled to discover the man was married. There's no sign he's been honouring your vows." He reached across the table and bestowed a gentle pat on her hand. Sweet, manipulative old goat. Evi managed to turn her automatic impulse to a shrug into a dismayed pout.
"'Evi' is fine." She'd meant to set the whiskey aside and stay sharp throughout whatever double-dealings the man of God had to offer, but the thought of Duke mixed with the smell of it curled into her, warming her inside, and she poured again, sighing as she raised the glass to her lips. "So tell me, what's so important about the new, smalltown Duke Crocker, who runs a bar and pays his taxes, that brings you all the way out here to see little old me?"
"'Important'," Driscoll caught and echoed. "Now there is, indeed, the rub. Although--" His expression flattened in doubt "--I'm not sure about the taxes."
Reassuring, thought Evi. A sign that he hadn't fallen so far, after all. She nodded the twisty Reverend encouragement to carry on.
"Duke Crocker is chosen by the Lord," Driscoll shared, leaning in, though he didn't lower his voice, and if anything it grew stronger as he framed the words, its timbre rich with the tones and power accustomed to filling a church. Evi's heart, which was usually on a very tight rein, fluttered a little at his intensity, too fierce and full for those words to be anything but what he believed was the truth. "In a town of the damned and the cursed, Mr Crocker may be the only man who can bring salvation, but he does not know his very special destiny. A destiny which I fear he might refuse to shoulder, swayed by ignorance and irreverence, unless brought to it in the proper manner. Shepherded, you might say, by the subtle hands of those who are passionate to ensure he fulfil his true potential. Such as myself and... you, Evidence, if I may take the liberty to suggest."
Evi almost laughed aloud. No bones about it, he was a Preacher all right. And that little sermon to the Church of Duke Crocker... well, Mr Crocker himself would have been creased up on the floor by now. But there was something... something else, too. Something that made it easy to stop herself from laughing. Because she'd felt it herself, from the very beginning.
Duke was special. Duke was magic. How else could he keep her coming back, trapped in his orbit -- at some times closer than others, but always there.
She leaned in to the centre of the small table, almost touching foreheads with the Reverend. "Tell me more."