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Raylan is back in Harlan dealing with Arlo’s house. He needs to sell it or rent it or maybe set it on fire, because spending time within those walls messes with his head. Just being in the Givens homestead raises his ire, even with no one left alive inside. Yelling at Arlo’s grave is not an option. He feels like looking for someone to fight, and that’s how he ends up in Boyd’s bar.
Boyd’s in a rotten mood these days, too. He hasn’t yet found a new obsession to replace his indicted – and denied conjugal visits – fiancée. That’s probably a good thing, since at this point Raylan wouldn’t be surprised to learn Boyd has taken up as an international warlord or something equally overachieving and psychotic.
So they’re both pissed off, which is a nice.
Boyd’s new minion turned bartender doesn’t kick Raylan out of the bar on sight, though he probably should. And Raylan accepts drink after drink from the guy, though he probably should have had just the one, counted Boyd’s absence as a heavenly sign to get the hell out of Harlan, and left. Instead, he stays and gets drunk.
“Marshal’s here,” the bartender says, abruptly, and promptly vanishes into the backroom. Where the heroin and bodies probably are.
Raylan doesn’t look up as he hears Boyd’s footsteps amble closer. His glass is sadly almost empty.
“Raylan,” Boyd says, with only some of his affected graciousness. “What brings you here?”
“I dunno,” Raylan answers, “What are you doing that’s against federal law?”
“Nothing that falls under your purview,” Boyd says, which is hilariously honest.
He slides on to the stool next to Raylan and examines the bottle he’s draining. “You appear to be contributing to my perfectly legitimate income, ain’t that strange?”
“Your boy said it was on the house,” Raylan says.
Boyd raises his eyebrows. “How many times you have to hit him?”
“I just promised I wouldn’t run him,” Raylan admits, “since I bet he’s got warrants and probably federal ones at that.”
“Asshole,” Boyd says.
“That’s what he said,” Raylan says. “But then he started pouring.” He runs his finger around the rim of his glass, licks the last remnants of alcohol off his hand.
Boyd watches him, eyes dark and focused. Raylan has a flash of regret about crawling so far in the bag before he got here.
“Well, he’s gone now,” Boyd says. “Probably half the way out of Harlan, telling everyone Raylan Givens was shooting at his heels.”
“That kind of talk gets me in trouble,” Raylan complains. “And gets gun thugs dead,” he adds, when Boyd chuckles. “I don’t shoot at heels unless I want them to dance. I don’t miss.”
Boyd is suddenly leaning in, his face close to Raylan’s own. “You’ve missed,” he says. He’s so close, his breath is hot against Raylan’s neck. “As I live and breathe.”
Raylan turns his face towards Boyd, a comeback forming on his lips that might also be a death threat. The retort, which almost certainly would have ended with one of them getting tossed over the bar, vanishes into a haze of alcohol and emotion Raylan doesn’t care to identify, as he makes close eye contact with Boyd.
Boyd lets the silence win the exchange, as Raylan turns back to his glass.
“Closing time,” he says, softly. “I think you’ve had enough.”
Raylan doesn’t move as Boyd rises, swipes the glass and bottle, and gives the bar a perfunctory wipe-down.
“You ain’t driving anywhere,” Boyd says, with soft amusement. “You want me to drive you back to Arlo’s?”
“No,” Raylan snaps.
Boyd raises his eyebrows. “You wanna walk?” Raylan glares at him. Boyd stifles a laugh. “Far be it for me to allow an inebriated patron to toddle off on his own into the dark night. Someone might take advantage of your lowered inhibitions.” He grins at Raylan, showing teeth.
That’s how Raylan ends up in Boyd’s truck. In Boyd’s truck, drunk, without his gun, driving into the Harlan darkness.
“Not going back to Arlo’s,” Raylan snarls at Boyd, mostly to establish he’s still in control here. He gives the dashboard a good kick to prove it.
“Don’t suppose you could show my property some respect,” Boyd says, peevishly. He doesn’t comment on Raylan’s refusal to go the only home he’s got in Harlan.
“No,” Raylan agrees. “Why, afraid I’m going to dislodge your heroin compartment?”
“Where the hell am I taking you, then?” Boyd practically interrupts, pointedly.
Raylan shrugs. “I hear Ava’s place is vacant,” he says.
“No,” Boyd says, instantly. And he stomps the accelerator so hard the engine guns.
Satisfied that he’s landed at least one verbal blow, Raylan slumps down in the truck seat. It’s dark and he’s drunk, so he’s asleep in no time at all.
Boyd shakes him awake, what feels like seconds later.
“Up,” Boyd says. “I ain’t carrying your drunk ass.”
Raylan opens his eyes. It’s still dark. He can’t see anything but the lights on the radio dash.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Meth lab, armory, fugitive hideout, whorehouse,” Boyd ticks off. “Multipurpose, but I believe it’s zoned for farming.” Raylan glares at him. “It’s got a bed,” Boyd says. “Princess.”
In the blackness, Raylan has to follow Boyd out of the truck and down a gravel driveway that crunches beneath their feet. He’s a little less drunk now, and knows this is among his dumbest ideas. If he’s lucky, there’ll be no visible felonies, Boyd will leave, and Raylan can sleep off the liquor without Art or any DA finding out about this.
Boyd rummages around in the darkness. Keys jingle and then a door opens. When there’s finally light courtesy a dingy porch bulb, Raylan sees a remarkably clean little wood cabin.
There are just two rooms, a bedroom and a bathroom. There’s a mini-fridge, and a coffeemaker and a hot plate on an old table near the bed. Raylan doesn’t see any heroin or hookers, thankfully.
“I gotta use the facilities,” he mutters, and heads off to the other room. He hopes Boyd will be gone when he’s done.
Raylan pisses. He contemplates a shower just to get some of the drunk off, but washing his hands suggests this place may not have much of a water heater. He listens for the sound of Boyd leaving, of the truck starting. He doesn’t hear anything, and he can’t stay in the john forever.
Boyd hasn’t left. In fact, he’s sitting on the bed. His boots off and his plaid shirt unbuttoned to the naval. Raylan halts in the bathroom doorway.
“I thought this was my room,” he says, putting both arms up against the door frame.
“I learned in Kindergarten how to share,” Boyd says, a smile on his face.
“That and sniffing glue the only things that stuck?” Raylan asks. He stays where he is.
Calmly, Boyd continues taking his shirt off. Next goes the sleeveless undershirt, and now Raylan can see his tattoos. That doesn’t do much to improve the situation.
“Boyd,” he says, sharply. He’s aware he sounds desperate. Boyd rests one hand on his belt buckle.
“What did you think we were coming here for, Raylan?” he asks. “I understand why you don’t want to fuck in Arlo’s house.”
“And I understand why you can’t fuck in Ava’s house on account of the retainer her scumbag lawyer needed,” Raylan says.
Boyd flies off the bed. Raylan is honestly too drunk to even try to counter him, but Boyd’s punches don’t land on his face like they should. Boyd grabs him and pulls, so Raylan grabs him back and tries to move the other way.
They slam into the walls, Raylan taking the brunt of it. In retaliation, he tries to throw Boyd into the table, but Boyd won’t let go of him, and they both fall together.
The table is broken and the hotplate corner is digging into Raylan’s back. He grasps wildly for a table leg to bash Boyd’s brains in. His fingers find nothing, and then Boyd grabs that hand and intertwines their fingers. Boyd’s on top of him, and he instantly becomes aware that the kitchen stuff isn’t the only thing pressing into Raylan.
Boyd’s jeans are tented and he unabashedly shifts his weight so his groin presses against Raylan’s belly.
“So we’re in agreement as to why we’re here,” Boyd says, grinding into him. Raylan’s other hand is free, and he really should punch Boyd or get a handful of that stupid hair and pound his face into the floor.
“Fuck you,” Raylan spits out, running his free hand through his hair as he wipes the sweat from his forehead.
“I think not,” Boyd says. One handed, he expertly starts undoing Raylan’s belt. He swiftly pulls it free, gives it a wicked snap in the air.
“No,” Raylan tells him, grabbing at the belt with one hand and trying to wiggle the other free.
“Noted,” Boyd says, throwing the belt somewhere on the floor. He shoves Raylan’s arching body back flat. “You want to do this in the wreckage like brutes or you want to use that perfectly acceptable bed over there?”
Raylan pretends to ponder this, then tries to knee Boyd in the gut.
He doesn’t hit the way he should and in the next round of tussling, they’re off the floor and the pointy kitchen things, and on the bedspread. Boyd is still on top and in the meantime, he’s managed to rip Raylan’s t-shirt such that’s it’s torn right down the middle from collar to hem.
“Thought we were respecting people’s property,” Raylan grouches, aware of the heat of Boyd’s hand where it presses against the rip just over his heart.
“You okay with walking back to Lexington bare-assed?” Boyd asks, his hands moving to Raylan’s fly.
He gets Raylan’s pants off in short order, but at least the jeans are still wearable. Raylan ends up flipped over, face down on the bed as Boyd pulls them off. He feels vulnerable and disoriented, especially when he sees a second pair of jeans land on the floor on top of his.
Boyd is naked behind him. The knowledge sends Raylan trying to scramble away, but he only ends up on his hands and knees, with Boyd draped over his back. He can feel Boyd’s erection against his skin and it suddenly stills him.
Raylan pants, out of breath. He’s more winded than he should be.
Boyd hooks his chin over Raylan’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around his torso like some kind of human octopus.
“You wanna go all Greco-roman,” he says, tiredly. “Or can we just get to it?”
One of Boyd’s many hands is shoving the waistband of Raylan’s briefs down. The cotton is no protection, as he quickly palms Raylan’s genitals. Raylan tenses, awaiting a threatening grip. But Boyd keeps his touch, and his voice, gentle. “What say you?”
Raylan lets out a shuddering breath. “I know you can’t get no conjugal, but there’s always collect phone sex –” he halts himself, waiting for the explosion of violence, even though his testicles are in Boyd’s fist.
Boyd doesn’t hurt him. He doesn’t even tighten his grasp. He just leans closer to Raylan’s ear. “Hey, at least there’s no chance I’m a get you pregnant, right?”
Raylan tries to elbow him in the face. He misses, but at least he gets to flip over onto his back.
He feels better this way, even though he loses his underwear completely in the process, and Boyd ends up between his wildly spread legs, one foot lifted and resting over his shoulder.
Boyd sticks two fingers in his own mouth, slicking them with saliva. In the next second, they’re rubbing over Raylan’s asshole. Not inside, but almost.
Raylan freezes. Among other things, he feels his dick take interest in the proceedings. Boyd starts to press a finger in, leaning forward to spit once on his target.
Saliva isn’t going to work. Raylan gasps when Boyd’s finger pushes in, then reaches down to sharply stop Boyd’s hand.
“There’s lube somewhere around here, if you’re going to be a pussy about it,” Boyd says, annoyed.
That almost breaks the spell and Raylan thinks about kicking him hard in the chest, right where the knot of angry scar tissue marks their first reunion.
Boyd leans forward, leaving his hand where it is. The movement bends Raylan almost in half, brings their faces dangerously close as Boyd scrabbles under the pillow cases with his other hand.
“Ugh,” Raylan says, because Boyd’s dry finger pushes deeper, while the rest of him weighs on Raylan’s torso. He sees a bottle appear in the Boyd’s hand from underneath the sheets somewhere.
Boyd’s face is level with his, and Boyd takes the opportunity to try and kiss him. It’s rough and artless, with a lot of teeth and a lot of tongue. Raylan might be trying to bite him, and Boyd finally pulls back.
He up ends the bottle of lube between Raylan’s legs, spilling it mindlessly over his balls and ass. For a second his finger withdraws, and then it’s back in with a friend, only slicker this time. There’s less burning and Raylan doesn’t stop him again.
It’s starting to feel good, when Boyd mouths Raylan’s nipple, bites a little, and definitely leaves a hickey.
Raylan shoves Boyd’s face back, leaving his hand lingering on Boyd’s chin. “No marks,” he says. “Are you crazy?” He answers his own question. “Nevermind. Don’t do that.”
“Tell the other fine Marshals I beat the fuck out of you,” Boyd says, a mild protest.
“With your tongue?”
“My dick,” Boyd corrects. He introduces a third finger into Raylan and goes back to sucking on his chest. But lower, so Raylan just leaves his hand on the back of Boyd’s head, tangled in his hair.
Boyd pulls up for another kiss, and this time Raylan lets him. He lets Boyd dominate, cooperating when he feels teeth, and soon finding his mouth open and plundered. When Raylan’s allowed to breathe, Boyd takes the opportunity to slide a condom down his dick. Raylan’s not sure where it came from, but he’s glad it’s there. Boyd slicks it up with more lube then turns his attention back to Raylan.
Boyd lifts Raylan’s other leg, and begins penetrating him. Boyd is thick and hot, even in the condom. He also holds Raylan’s gaze intently, one hand stroking Raylan’s flagging erection where it’s pressed between their bodies.
Raylan can’t look away, but he concentrates on breathing, on not gasping. He holds the sheets in his fists, probably destroying them, until Boyd is fully within him. Boyd holds still, jerking Raylan back to fullness.
Boyd drops his gaze from Raylan’s face so he can stare at where they’re joined. He withdraws just a bit, then thrusts hard back in. Raylan jerks at the movement, watching Boyd’s face. The man looks fascinated.
“Come on,” Raylan orders.
“Don’t you ever stop bossing?” Boyd complains, looking up
“Make me,” Raylan says, which is the wrong thing to say to Boyd when they’re fully clothed and armed, but maybe the right thing to say now.
Boyd fucks him so that Raylan doesn’t give any more orders, doesn’t say anything coherent for as long as Boyd’s dick in slamming inside him. He orgasms under Boyd’s hand, splattering both of their bodies, and Boyd follows almost immediately.
It takes a few minutes, but Boyd finally peels his heavy body up, off and out of Raylan. He disposes of the condom, while Raylan hazily watches him move naked around the room.
Boyd gets dressed, which is good because Raylan’s orgasmic disorientation is fading. He’s going to mouth off, and soon. At least no one has a gun.
“I heartily endorse resolving our differences in this manner, in the future,” Boyd says, fully dressed and immediately infuriating. “You just give a whistle when you’re filled to the brim with the need for my dick.”
“I should have brought my gun,” Raylan says, instead chucking the lube dispenser at Boyd’s head. It’s chunky and solid, and best of all it connects with Boyd’s cheek.
Boyd ducks, late, and comes up wincing. He touches his skin where it hit, which is split and bleeding. For a second, Raylan thinks they’re going to fight again. Which isn’t fair, since he’s fucked out and drunk, and Boyd isn’t.
But Boyd just sighs, wipes his hand on his pants. “Bring the truck back to the bar in the morning,” Boyd requests, as he heads towards the door.
Raylan mutters assent, deciding he doesn’t care how Boyd is getting home in the middle of the night. “Talk to strangers and get in windowless vans,” he advises.
Boyd smirks. “Not up for cuddling all night with you unless you wear cuffs,” he says. “Or that belt,” he adds, thoughtfully.
“Get the fuck out,” Raylan tells him.
Boyd grins and shrugs. “Oh well,” he says. “No afterglow in Harlan.”
“No,” Raylan agrees. “There isn’t.”
~the end~