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Chapter Text

Raylan lies about his age to get a job in the coal mines.

He figures it's a good, if not semi honest, way to earn money so he can get the hell out of this place.  Harlan is where hope and dreams come to die.  Raylan knows both of his withered away when his mamma passed, and then disappeared altogether when any possibility of a baseball career seemed less like a sure thing after his brief suspension over the whole Dickie Bennett baseball bat to the leg thing.  Raylan doesn’t regret taking a bat to the idiot, but he morns the loss of baseball being his ticket out of here.

He doesn’t have the stomach to sell drugs for anyone.  Mostly because he’s grown up seeing the aftermath of what those drugs do.  If not directly to the user, then the toll they take on the families of the users.  Raylan’s grown up knowing he’s never going to be the reason his wife is afraid, or his children are sporting bruises or that he can’t make a mortgage payment because getting high was more important.  He’s also not going to be the reason some law officer has to darken someone’s doorstep with news that their kid just overdosed, and their family will never be whole again.  With all those avenues closed, it leaves him with few options for financing his great escape.

Once covered with soot, no one’s any the wiser if he’s a soft fourteen or a bonified eighteen. Those that can tell, don't give a shit either way as long as the mine gets worked. It's a good plan, one already a year in the making and if he keeps it up, keeps his grades from slipping, he has a real shot at early admission to a college decidedly not in Kentucky. Doesn't matter where after that, just as long as Harlan is in the rear-view mirror. It's all coming together for Raylan, that is until he comes home after a shift one day to find Arlo tearing his room apart in a desperate search for the paycheques he's been squirreling away.

“Where is it you little shit!” Arlo screams in his face, spittle flying everywhere, once he manages to get his hands around Raylan’s neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” chokes Raylan as the pressure around his throat increases.  He instinctively knows what his daddy is talking about.  The only time Arlo acknowledges his existence is when he needs money for something. 

Arlo slams the fist of his free hand into the wall next to Raylan’s head.  Drywall sprinkles down, fine white dust covering Raylan’s plaid shirt and worn jeans.  “I know ye been workin’ at the mines the last year.  The foreman is an old drinking buddy of mine.  Now where you hidin’ the money!”

Raylan’s vision is going grey around the edges as he frantically claws at his father’s hand.  “Ain’t no money,” he wheezes. 

“Lyin’ little shit!” Arlo screams before backhanding Raylan so hard Raylan sees stars and hears ringing.  He lets go of the boy, letting him drop like a stone to his knees and goes back to tossing the room, seething, “After everything I do for you, you see fit to steal from me.”

Pain explodes in Raylan’s knees as he hits the wooden floor.  Staying there on all fours, he gasps for breath to feed his starving lungs.  He can hear the destruction of all his personal belongings but pays them no mind.  It’s just stuff- his mother was the only irreplaceable thing around here anyways. 

Raylan decided years ago he was going to take after his mother.  She was smart, kind, patient and sweet.  She was a shelter from the storm but quite capable of raining down hell if someone threatened her kin.  Raylan knew right away she was the example he should follow.  He’s not naïve enough to think part of Arlo isn’t in his DNA.  It’s what he attributes his stubbornness, masochism and smart mouth to. 

He knows he’ll catch hell for it, that a smart person would just keep their mouth shut and wait for Arlo to punch himself out.  He just can’t help himself.  “And what is it you do for me exactly?” he coughs out.  His hand rubs at his throat.

Like a red flag in front of a bull, the question get’s Arlo’s attention.  Raylan doesn’t even have time to brace himself for the kick to his midsection that knocks him onto his back.  He’s a little more prepared for the second kick, getting his arm in the way to protect his now aching ribs but that just sends a shockwave of pain surging along his arm.  He cries out, unable to stop himself from giving Arlo the satisfaction of his pain.

“What I do for you?” wails Arlo, getting another kick in.  “I put a roof over your empty head.  I feed your ungrateful mouth.  Put clothes on your traitorous back.”

Raylan would like to argue the points- like the reason he has a roof over his head, is because Arlo needs a roof over his head too, and no one is interested in buying his momma’s land just yet.  Raylan does the cooking or Arlo wouldn’t eat so he feels they’re equal contributors to the food situation, especially since it’s Raylan that does the grocery shopping and coupon clipping.  Most of Raylan’s clothes, that fit at least, he’s pilfered from the school lost and found and anything that Arlo’s supplied him with is stuff Arlo fished out of the donation bins at the church or stole from the local stores. 

Arlo goes back to trashing Raylan’s things now that Raylan’s too strung out on pain to get a word in.  “I told your mamma a coat hanger was a much simpler solution to raising ya.”

Raylan lies there listening to the chaos around him and the creak and moan of the old floorboards as Arlo storms around.  The fire in his arm hasn’t settled any and there’s a real concern Arlo may have broken something.  He can work with the still bleeding gash above his eye that’s surely going to swell it shut by morning and the split lip is nothing new.  His chest aches, though he doesn’t think any ribs are broken this time.  A broken arm though- he can’t go back in the mine with that.

Raylan’s recalculating his plans to accommodate what losing six weeks of work will set him back by when the creak of the floor stops.  He turns his head, his good eye zeroing in on Arlo’s feet which have stopped right above Raylan’s hiding spot.  His heart stops.

“You sneaky little shit.”  Arlo bends down, fingers prying at the lose floorboard until he manages to pry it up.

“That’s mine!” yells Raylan hoarsely.  He tries in vain to crawl over there and snatch the metal box out of his father’s hands, but he can’t seem to get his arm to cooperate.

Arlo’s eyes light up like he just hit a vein of gold.  “You’ve been holding out on me, boy.”  He snatches up the rolls of money, a whole year’s worth of Raylan’s blood sweat and tears, and stuffs it in his pocket before throwing the box at Raylan.  The old tattered photos of Francis flutter out of the box and scatter across the floor.

He gets up and heads for the door, stopping at Raylan’s prone form.  Looking down at his snotnosed spawn, he spits, “I own you boy.  Everything you think is yours, is mine,” before taking off out of the house like the devil is on his tail. 

Raylan lies there, fighting back tears.  He’s in pain.  His ticket out of here is gone.  His means to start again are on hold until his arm is healed. 

Turns out a year of paycheques doesn’t come close to paying off the debts Arlo has incurred for drugs and his other schemes.  He owes so much much more. 

Arlo takes Raylan to the walk-in clinic a county over.  Raylan’s arm is fractured but not broken and when they can’t pay for medical treatment a nurse bestows mercy on the kid and fits him with a used sling that’s laying around the clinic and makes Raylan promise to avoid using his arm as much as possible.  He gets butterfly bandages for the gash on his eye instead of stitches.  The nurses take pity on him and his rehearsed story of how his momma passed away and his daddy is just too heartbroken to hold down a job just yet, and they pool their money together to cover the cost of some pain meds.  The former part of the story is true, the latter is a complete work of fiction.

Arlo relieves him of his pain meds the second he gets back in the truck.

 Raylan reports for his shift the day after that, but can’t lift any tools. He fumbles the dynamite once.  Nobody gets hurt and nothing is damaged, but nobody wants to take the chance, least not for a kid.  Boyd Crowder looks a little sad, like he should have been supervising Raylan a little more closely and maybe the whole incident could have been avoided.  Raylan goes home that night jobless for the next few months and breaks the news to his daddy that Arlo’s newest cash cow is a bust. 

Arlo happens to be a bit more resourceful than Raylan has ever given him credit for.

He drags Raylan out to the truck before dawn and throws him in the passenger seat.  Neither says a word and Raylan just stares out the window looking sullen at the passing scenery.  Obviously, Arlo has found away for Raylan to work off his debt, which is great for Arlo but means Raylan will be performing back breaking labor for free, which doesn’t get him any closer to escaping Harlan.  It’s not the first time.  Raylan worked as a ranch hand for the summer when he was twelve to cover one of Arlo’s gambling debts and did yard work for four months when he was ten, to pay off Arlo’s bar tab.

Raylan should be paying more attention, that’s probably why he doesn’t notice the gravity of what he’s walking into.  Arlo strides up to the porch to talk to Mags Bennett and her associates while Raylan hangs back in the truck, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie with his hood pulled over his head to keep people from staring at his black eye.  The group chats for a while, with Mags looking over Arlo’s shoulder at Raylan a few times.  It’s odd.  The Bennetts don’t interact with the Givens often without the threat of violence.  Clearly Arlo and Mags have found something to be civil about.

Raylan has met Mags in passing, brief encounters at the local store and sporting and school functions she attends due to her three boys.  He knows far more about her from her reputation and the feud that used to exist between their two families until a shaky peace was established.  It took all of Helen’s skills to renegotiate that peace when Mags wanted Raylan’s head on a platter over crippling Dickie.  He’s far more intimately familiar with her three sons.  The middle brat, Dickie, and him have a long, sometimes violent, history together.  Coover being Dickie’s shadow, has Coover tied up in their long-standing feud.

Eventually Mags comes sauntering over, Arlo hot on her heels.  Arlo opens the truck door, yanking Raylan out by his elbow and forces him to stand at attention.  Mags circles around Raylan a few times like the kid is a god damn circus attraction.  Reaching out, long calloused fingers brush along the side of Raylan’s head as she pulls his hood down.  The gentleness of it all makes Raylan flinch, considering she’s looking at him like a hungry gator.

Mags places both hands on the side of Raylan’s head and turns Raylan’s head from side to side, examining him.  She tuts at his black eye, still puffy and dark.  Raylan just holds his breath.  The only time anyone besides a young girl touches him these days, is to deliver a beating.  It’s not unreasonable to assume Mags wants to take her frustrations out on Raylan over Dickie’s hobbled leg.  Raylan puts taking a beating on his list of Arlo’s potential repayment options. 

“You have yourself a deal,” says Mags with a nod. 

One of the farm hands that’s been waiting on the porch comes down and hands Arlo a wad of cash. Arlo counts it right there; big grin on his face.  “Rid of my debt and my problem all in one swoop and made a profit to boot,” he crows, as Mags grabs Raylan by the upper arm in a crushing grip and begins to drag him towards the house. 

Raylan digs his heels in.  If this was about a beating or work, it would happen out in the yard or the barn. “Arlo?” he says, panic creeping in his voice as he passes his father.  “What are you talkin’ about?  What did you do?”  He tries to look back at his father, but Mags is a mountain of woman with an unrelenting grip.  He doesn’t know exactly what’s happening, but he feels his world is going to end if he ends up in that house.

Low and firm, Mags says in his ear, “No need to worry about your daddy no more.  Now you belong to me.”

Raylan’s eyes widen.  That son of bitch, father of his, sold his ass like he’s a piece of meat.  He starts struggling in earnest, anything to get away.  He’s leaving this god forsaken town and being someone’s property isn’t going to accomplish that.  All of his squirming and directionless swings free him from Mags’s grasp but also drop him right on his ass.

“We’ve got a feisty one here, boys,” laughs Mags as she watches Raylan scramble to his feet.

Rumbling to life, Arlo’s truck starts off down the long driveway.  Taking off after it, Raylan screams for Arlo to wait.  The jokes gone on long enough.  He’ll be better behaved, watch his mouth around Arlo, but this sick joke has to end.

Mags watches it all with amusement until Raylan gets halfway down the driveway.  “Alright, go get him boys.  But don’t damage the merchandise too much.”

Raylan’s a rabbit at the racetrack and Mags’s just released the dogs.  Her men tear after him, running him to ground and piling on to him until he’s pinned down.  He cries out in pain as one of them wrenches his fractured arm behind him, tying his hands behind his back.  A knee to the stomach forces him to try and curl up but there’s too many hands on him holding him in place.

One of the bigger thugs, lifts Raylan up like he’s nothing more than a sac of potatoes and throws him over his shoulder to slowly lumber back to the house.  Raylan watches as his daddy’s beat up old pickup disappears down the dirt road, tears burning his eyes.  Arlo never looks back.  Not even once.

“Welcome home,” says Mags as Raylan’s dragged away.

Chapter Text

Raylan spends about three weeks locked in a windowless room.  No one comes to see him, not even Mags.  In the morning a bowl of oatmeal is pushed under the door and at night a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  The loneliness and anticipation about what is to come, is killing him.  Mags means to break him and it’s probably going to work.

It gives him an abundance of time to think- to fret, about what is going to become of him.  But he supposes that’s probably the point.  That and to acknowledge the futility of his situation.  Mostly he uses the time to think of all the ways he’s going to get back at Arlo should he ever be in his father’s company again.

He briefly entertains the idea that maybe someone will notice he’s missing.  School should notice his absence but it’s Harlan and the drop out rate is exceptionally high.  Despite his good grades, his teachers aren’t exceptionally fond of him, so they’ll probably be relieved more than concerned that he isn’t showing up.  Turn over at the mine is high, and the only person who might give it a second thought that Raylan isn’t back working in a few months is Boyd Crowder.  Arlo would probably just convince a social worker he’s run off.  It wasn’t like Raylan wasn’t planning on it.  The best-case scenario, his picture ends up on a milk carton.

When the door finally opens, it’s Mags standing there looking at him like he’s some near drowned cat someone left on her doorstep.  “Go get washed up and put these on,” she says tossing him some fresh clothes.  “Then come on up for dinner.  We’re going to talk about how you can best serve this family.”  There’s no room for argument or negotiation in her statement.  Raylan isn’t even sure he could muster one with his voice so hoarse from disuse.

She leaves him standing there and heads on back up stairs, the bedroom door left open.

It’s not like he can escape the basement and if it’s dinner time, the house is probably full of people, all of which are most likely motivated to keep Raylan from freely using the front door.  His stomach rumbles, making the decision for him.  Something other than oatmeal and PB sandwiches does sound appealing.  Raylan complies with Mags’s request.

Raylan’s the last one to the table.  Everyone already has full plates of what is probably the best smelling food Raylan’s been in the presence of since his mamma passed.  It could be anything and it would appear delicious at this point.

Mags is at the head of the table; her boys on either side of her and the farm hands filling out the rest of the table except for one open chair between her oldest son and Wade Booker who currently manages Mags weed sales. 

Raylan stands there, feeling rather lost.  He’s on unsure footing here.  He doesn’t know what to expect given the circumstance and certainly not in the face of what looks like a real functioning family that he is obviously not a part of, but Mags is staring at him like he should play along.  She nods to the empty chair.  “Sit down and dish up before it gets cold.”

Raylan doesn’t want to be complicit in any of it, but that pot roast does smell good.  Slowly he takes a seat, all eyes following him as he moves.  It’s like walking through a den of snakes waiting to see which one is going to be bold enough to strike.

The second he sits down, Wade drops a huge scoop of mash potatoes on is plate and goes about filling it with the rest of the spread.  Raylan wants to ask if Wade plans on cutting his meat for him too but thinks better of it.  He’s hungry.  So very hungry.    He needs to get a lay of the land if he has any hope of escaping this prison and he can’t do that if he’s being antagonistic.  Taking his fork, he starts eating, trying not to enjoy the taste too much.

After dinner and Mags’s laundry list of responsibilities Raylan’s expected to shoulder while he resides on the Bennett family land, he’s treated to a live show of just what happens to people who don’t fulfill their obligations to the family.  Afterwards, Raylan’s first job is to dig the hole for the body.

Raylan’s mostly stuck on the farm during harvest season, working long hours with little water.  Weekdays he’s fed the scraps from dinner that the Bennett boys don’t eat.  Except for Sundays when Mags cooks a feast and sits everyone down like some perverted Norman Rockwell.

Raylan misses playing baseball.  He dreamed of playing in the major leagues, not just for the love of the game but because it was the absolute furthest, he could get from living in these hollers.  Hell, Raylan even misses school a bit.  His mamma always said the road to salvation was through education.  It led to Raylan’s penchant to gaining as much information on a subject that he could get his hands on.  His mom never came out and said it, but he always figured she meant if she was a little better read, and finished school she might have been able to avoid marrying Arlo and been able to make her own break from Harlan. 

Raylan takes to stealing Dickie and Coover’s school books. He hides them under the flop mat he calls a mattress and reads them at night with the light from the bathroom.  It’s an innocent crime that’s unlikely to get reported by either Dickie or Coover, who have no love or aptitude for school and a horrendous track record with doing homework.  At first, it’s alright, just having something to read but the two idiots keep flunking which doesn’t help Raylan finish his own high school education.

When the weather turns and there’s nothing to do in the fields, Mags has Raylan cleaning the house and working in her store.  Raylan is aware it’s a test of what he’ll do when presented with the company of other people, even if she didn’t have Wade lurking around stroking his side arm like a substitution for his dick. 

It’s kind of an empty threat because where is Raylan going to run to?  No one in Harlan is doing so well they feel that have time to go against the Bennetts, which is exactly what they’d be doing if they help the unfortunate store hand.  Without cash, he’s not going to get far or survive long if he tries to make it on his own. 

Arlo comes in once and awhile. The first time Raylan practically throws himself over the counter to take a swing at the man, cursing up a storm and making promises he can’t realistically deliver on.  Doyle just stands there laughing as Arlo gets Raylan in a choke hold. Finally, he comes over and takes Raylan by the scruff of the neck when he and Arlo start to break things around the store.  Doyle takes Raylan out back as Arlo laughs, saying, “Your family got the short end of the stick in this deal.” 

Doyle beats Raylan into submission pretty good that afternoon.  Just to drive the point home he hauls an old chain out of the storage room and uses it to teether Raylan to a post in the store, short enough that he won’t be able to attack any other customers that come in. 

It’s months before Arlo saunters in the store again.  Long enough that Raylan entertains the idea of getting on his hands and knees and begging Arlo to take him back, that he'll work harder and keep his damn mouth shut- but he can't bring himself to ask that man for anything. Arlo would probably run up his debt again and resell Raylan to cover it.  The next time he gives serious consideration to taking one of the shovels on sale, to Arlo’s head.  Arlo never says anything to Raylan when he comes in the store- nothing a father would say to his son or a master to his former slave. He just looks at Raylan like he's a piece of the furniture. It suits Raylan just fine. He's got nothing to say to Arlo anyway.

Raylan’s pretty much been on his own since his mom died.

Mags swears when Raylan works off what she paid Arlo for him, he'll be free to go. He knows it's a lie but whether Mags is lying to Raylan or herself, he isn't sure.  It’s a pretty lie that somehow hurts far more than just telling him his life will be at the end of a chain until they fit him for a pine box and burry him in the ground of the place he aches to escape from.

Mags rarely takes a hand to Raylan.  He takes a whooping if she thinks he’s been slacking or something isn’t as clean as she would like, but she’s never cruel for her own enjoyment.  The boys on the other hand- have different ideas.  Mostly Dickie and Coover; Doyle’s graduated and off to police academy. Raylan figures it’s easier to plant your own dirty cop than bribe them and commends Mags on her ability and foresight to play the long game. 

Dickie and Coover are usually tasked with picking Raylan up from his shift at the store.  Wade’s busy with more important weed related obligations and the two dimwits are the most expendable for babysitting duty.  Mostly they tie Raylan to the back of the truck and force him to run along side of it once they hit the long dirt road to the Bennett homestead.  It’s all clouds of dirt and Dickie laughing as he presses the accelerator unevenly.  Mags never says anything about it, but Raylan catches hell every time he falls and rips his jeans as a result.

The boys’ funsies aren’t over with that.  They leave Raylan bound and run him off the dock into the ice-cold pond for his daily bath.  Their enjoyment continues as they make him walk naked back to the house.  Coover takes to poking at Raylan with a stick as they walk back to the house, leaving dark circular bruises on his chest, buttocks and inner thighs.  Coover’s attention is malicious, but the way Dickie looks at Raylan’s naked body, boarders on vindictive and lascivious.

Raylan supposes Dickie’s just exercising his long-held resentment for Raylan kicking his ass at their last baseball game together.  Dickie has a permanent limp and Raylan would be happy to oblige him in doing the same to the other leg if he thought for one second Mags wouldn’t strip his hide for it.

Mags does eventually put an end to the naked pond adventures when Raylan ends up in bed for a week sick and burning up with fever.  She keeps Raylan wrapped in blankets and personally spoon feeds him chicken soup until he can finally stand without getting dizzy and his cough that leaves him breathless and aching, has subsided.

Some buddy of Dickie's is working the store. Well, more like babysitting the pot and the cash register and by defacto, Raylan- who's really managing things around the store, though not allowed to handle the cash himself. The notion being Raylan might be tempted to skim from the register, like he has somewhere to go, and buy things for himself. Even if he did, Dickie and Coover would relieve him of any personal affects within minutes. Everything he has, Mags gives him, which is nothing more than food to eat, a mattress to sleep on and her boys’ old clothes, because he can't sweep the store up naked, despite what Dickie wants. 

The kid minding the store- Dallas or something the like, might as well be dumbass, because he's a God damn spoon in a knife drawer, clearly failed remedial math a few times. Raylan has to correct his accounting several times so the Bennetts get paid what they're owed and don't come up short at the end of the night. It would probably be more satisfying to let dumbass botch the job, but there's no doubt in Raylan’s mind, he'll be the one catching hell for it if the till doesn’t balance.  

It must be close to 4pm because Dickie comes bursting through the door from his third try at attempting grade ten, and Raylan has to wonder why Mags bothers sending him to school at all. Dickie’s hooting and hollering about meeting some girls down at the swimming hole and the dress code being bathing suits optional. He's too enthused to heed Raylan much attention and it doesn't take much to get dumbass caught up in the excitement.

"I have to mind the store," replies Dallas when Dickie informs him he's driving.

Dickie rolls his eye. "Ahh shit, Raylan can watch it for a bit," he decrees giving Raylan a shove in the back for good measure, then reminds Dallas of the glory of Peggy Sue’s ample bosom.

Raylan elbows Dickie just because, though there isn't much strength or malice in it. It might be worth it if it was a fair fight but last time Raylan returned the favor and popped Dickie one, the other two Bennett boys held him down while Dickie evened the score. They both know, Dickie had his finger on that scale. He'd like to knock Dickie’s front teeth out, just for the sheer satisfaction but Raylan likes his teeth where they are and knows Mags will take his as recompense if Dickie loses his.

Dumbass weighs his options for a whole minute before deciding the chance of getting laid out by the waterhole is more enticing than the fear Mags will find out and skin his hide.  He leans over the counter, puts his key in the register and hits the button to eject the cash drawer, pulling a twenty out.  “Need gas money,” he says with a big dumb grin.

Dickie snickers, clapping him on the back and they tear out of the store.  Raylan can hear the gravel spitting as the truck burns out of the parking lot.

Raylan goes back to sweeping but the still open cash register catches his eye.  In their haste to leave, neither boy made sure the drawer clicked shut and now it’s sitting there proudly showing off the piles of cash it stores.  He has no delusions about what will happen if he gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar or what will be his fate if he dares to run but he’s damn tired of playing Cinderella and being worked to the bone. 

Nobody will notice he’s missing for hours and there’s enough in that drawer that he should be able to make it past state lines.  He drops his broom and stuffs the money in his pockets.  Maybe god, is smiling down on Harlan this moment.

                Every part of Raylan aches.  It’s not that he isn’t fit but toiling for Mags and being fed just enough to keep him from starving has taken its toll on him.  He’s been walking for hours, and the sun is just starting to set.  Hitchhiking hasn’t produced any results, but he supposes he wouldn’t pick up a rail thing teenager in ratty clothes either- probably a junkie that staggered a little too far on a trip.

He can see the county line sign in the distance when lights and sirens come on behind him.  It’s not like Mags can report a missing child when she’s the one holding him prisoner, but she can label him a thief.  Regardless, he doubts any lawman is going to believe his story and save him from Mags’s tender mercies.  He contemplates running for a bout half a minute but figures cops not being able to cross territory lines is a thing in the movies.

The car comes to a slow next to him, window rolling down and the haunting click of the hammer coming back on the gun that the oldest Bennett boy levels at his head is all the sign Raylan needs that the jig is up.  He stops walking, defeat dropping his shoulders as his head hangs low. 

 “Git in the damn car,” growls Doyle.

Raylan weighs the value of going out in a blaze of glory.  He isn’t quite ready to die just yet.  He’ll probably come to regret that decision but right now he doesn’t have it in him.  He climbs in the backseat, his white t-shirt pulling and sticking as the sweat makes it cling to his skin. He might be trapped back there but there's bars protecting him from Doyle. At least for the drive back to Mags.

Raylan's strung up shirtless in the barn before the car even rolls to a stop.

                He doesn’t have a defense for what he’s done.  He did it, outright and without remorse.  He’s a prisoner and they basically left him alone with the door open.  It would be stupid if he didn’t try.  To that end, he knows full well what Mags is going to do, what she has to do.  He’s not going to beg because he doesn’t feel remorseful about it and contrition has never worked in the past.  The only things he regrets is getting caught and being Arlo’s son.

The old leather belt slices through the air before it cracks against Raylan's back, creating a bright red welt while the buckle bites flesh from bone. He flinches and squirms desperately pulling against the course rope binding him to the pillar in the barn. The ropes don't budge or do more than abrade his wrists. After a couple of hits, courtesy of Wade, the ropes are the only thing keeping Raylan on his feet. Sagging down, his face presses against the harsh grain of the wood column. Drool runs over his lips around the piece of hard leather Mags shoved between his teeth, so he doesn't bite through his tongue during his punishment. It mixes with the snot and tears already painting his face and chest as he moans and whines behind his gag.

He's taken his fair share of beatings in his life.  Started more than a few fights himself and never shed a tear as a result.  But this is pain on a level all its own.  He tries to fight the tears and whines at first, but it just becomes too hard and requires more effort than he has the strength for at the moment.

Mags just stands there silently watching the whole affair. She doesn't need to say anything, Raylan knows what he's done. Tonight, it's his turn to be the cautionary tale.

His breath hitches in his throat as the next lash comes down a little lower, over his kidneys instead of across his shoulders, a sure sign Wade's arm is getting tired. One sharp look from Mags and the next strike is back on target.

Arlo used to take a belt to Raylan’s backside every once and awhile. Arlo’s weapon of choice was usually his fists, but when he did decide Raylan needed a whipping, it was usually only a couple of strikes. This is unending, chewing up Raylan’s back and drawing blood that coats his skin and soaks into his jeans. Each new hit unleashes liquid pain that pours over him and all he can do is let the tears fall and bite down harder on his gag. Either Mags will tell Wade to stop, or she won’t, and someone else will be digging a hole later tonight.

Raylan doesn't know how long it goes on. Everything hurts so bad, he can't think. There's just the steady rhythm of the belt and the squelching sound it makes as it crashes into his mangled flesh. Raylan’s never given God much thought, never found solutions or comfort in prayer before, but he thinks if there is a God, he certainly isn't in Harlan.

His vision grays around the edges, limbs hanging useless. With each fall of the belt little flecks of red, paint the wooden support Raylan’s tied to, framing his body like a macabre halo. There's a disturbing nothingness curling around his brain, slowly dripping down the rest of his body. The pain of being torn open is so constant it's not even registering anymore. Wade could have very well stopped whipping him and he wouldn't know except the force of the hits against his lax body causes him lurch forward slightly with every hit.  

Mags holds her hand up for Wade to stop and he drops his tired arm by his side. Raylan doesn't have the strength or the wherewithal to lift his head, but he can hear her footsteps over the buzz in his ears. There's a pain at the top of his skull, more pressured based than anything else, and his head is forced back so she can look him in the eye.

He's a pitiful sight. Eyes, red and puffy from crying, and he's covered in all manner of fluids. She has to work hard to pry the leather from between his teeth and past his cracked and dried lips. Raylan wants to spit but doesn't have any moisture left in his body.

"Look at me," says Mags, giving him a gentle slap upside the head as his eyes swim out of focus. "Did you learn your lesson?"

Raylan tries to nod but between the grip she has on his hair and having no strength, he doubts his head moves at all. "Yes ma'am," he croaks, and it's so silent he can barely hear it.

"Cut him down and get him in the house,” she orders, and Wade pulls his pocketknife to comply.

With the ropes cut, Raylan falls to the ground like a marionette, face planting in the dirt unable to convince his limbs to even try and break his fall. He just lies there focusing all his energy on breathing and wishing the dark angel of death would swoop down and claim him. 

It’s not the angel of death, but Wade that picks him up, gentle like a baby and throws Raylan over his shoulder so as to spare his back. Raylan’s dimly aware of entering the house and the creaking of the basement stairs before Wade drops him on his side on the bed and disappears quickly. Pulling his knees to his chest, he’s rather content to just lay there until he dies. It's Mags that taps his flank prompting him to rollover onto his belly bearing the shredded ribbons of his back to the world.

Burying his face into his thin pillow, he hides his tears that are still falling despite his body's inability to tremble and cry.  Whatever Mags has planned now, he hopes she ends him.

Mags washes out each cut, first with warm water then with iodine that makes Raylan hiss and buck. She just shushes him, manipulating his broken body until his head is in her lap and she's carding her fingers through his hair, twirling the longer pieces around her fingers in a maternal manner.  “You know why I had to do that?” she asks, gently.

Raylan lets out a moan.  His jaw aches and he’s so ruined he doesn’t have the strength to form actual words anymore.

“You forced my hand,” she says still petting his head.  “Now I can understand why you ran.  You had to try.  Can’t put a fox in the hen house and expect he won’t have a chicken dinner.  But stealing from me?  That I cannot abide.  Especially after all I’ve done for you.”

Raylan wants to ask exactly what generosity Mags has afforded him.  But asking would just mean he’ll have to experience life without whatever kindness she’s extended him, and his life already sucks.

“You’ll have to work this off now too.  The money that you took, the lost wages from up and leaving the store unattended and the time Doyle had to devote to tracking you down.”

Doyle relieved Raylan of the money the second he picked Raylan up minus the price of a milkyway, a bottle of water and a questionable gas station sandwich that Raylan purchased on his way out of town.  Though Raylan supposes the real question is if Doyle gave the money back to Mags.  He probably did.  Doyle is rather loyal like that.

Mags stops running her fingers through his sweat dampened hair. Reaching over his head, she grabs a jar off the side table and twists off the lid.  “I’ma need you to sit up,” she says getting a hand under him to help Raylan up.

The world tilts and spins like a carnival ride and he sways and rocks now that his head has nothing to rest against.  It makes him queasy. 

Mags just pulls him close, stretching and pulling already ripped up skin, until he’s leaning up against her.  She presses the open jar of bright amber liquid to his lips.  “Apple pie.  It’ll help, so drink up,” she says, tipping the jar up.

The alcohol burns all the way down, but he drinks it back until he can’t swallow anymore, and it starts to run over his lips.  It doesn’t necessarily help anything in the way of improving his condition, but Mags plies him with enough that he can ignore most of the pain.  She wraps him up in bandages to keep his back from getting infected and leaves him for the night.  Between the pain and the moonshine, Raylan falls into a dreamless sleep.  Or maybe it’s because he no longer has any dreams of his own.

Chapter Text

Things more or less, return to being the same once Raylan’s low-grade fever abates and Mags can go back to working him like a dog without reopening his wounds causing him to bleed through his shirts.  It’s the same, in that he still takes care of his chores at the house and does double shifts at the store.  Different, in that he’s being watched more closely to the point that Doyle spends more time at home taking a personal interest in Raylan, and he only ever gets scraps to eat.  Just enough to eat that he has energy to work, but not sate his hunger pains and certainly not enough to have the energy to run again.

He doesn’t get to come to Sunday dinners anymore.  He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.  Of course, the family sentiment was fake, but it was nice to be a part of it regardless.  Now he feels even more alone than he did when Arlo dumped his ass, or when his mom passed.

Doyle makes a show of tying a rope around his waist and chaining Raylan to a post in the store with enough slack that he can do his chores but not step out the front door.  It’s secured by a knot, so it’s mostly ceremonial but keeping him there really isn’t the point.  It’s a reminder that he can’t run- that he’s not free.

The extra attention lasts about six months and then because either the valuable members of the Bennett operations have more important things to do or out of boredom, Raylan’s supervision is handed over to Dickie and Coover once again.   Both have dropped out of school now, so Mags probably needs something to keep them occupied and out of trouble more than she’s concerned about Raylan taking off.

Dickie and Coover are board with the arrangement and take their frustrations out on Raylan in all manner of ways.  It’s mostly mild bullying and pointless pranks, enough to irritate and get under Raylan’s skin and cause the occasional scuffle when Raylan gets tired of taking shit and nobody of consequence is looking.  Dickie somehow manages to figure out it’s Raylan’s seventeenth birthday and decides to celebrate by hanging Raylan up by his leg and swatting at him like a piñata.  Raylan figures it’s more belated payback for the permanent hitch in Dickie’s step, curtesy of Raylan, than anything else.

One day, while Raylan’s busy scrubbing the basement floor and Coover’s sitting in the old, dilapidated recliner shooting rats that scurry out of the corners trying for the pile of food he’s placed in the center of the rec room, Dickie comes home all hot and bothered.  Grabbing a six pack, he sets up shop on the couch in the rec room.  Raylan doesn’t pay too much attention to his muttering about Harriette and her rebuffing of his advance.  He’s more focused on where Coover’s pointing the damn pistol.  That is until four beers in, Dickie starts throwing the empty cans at Raylan.

“You have a particular problem I can help you with there, Dickie?” asks Raylan.

“Matter a fact there is, Raylan,” he slurs, pointing at the bulge in his jeans.  “You always been a mouthy cunt.  Might be time to put it to use.”

Raylan rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face.  He drops his brush back in the bucket of soapy water to rinse it and goes back to scrubbing.

This time, Dickie pegs him in the head with a full can of beer.  “I’m talkin’ to ya.”

“You’re talking out your ass,” replies Raylan, disgruntled and rubbing the sore spot on his head.

“I said suck it,” says Dickie, low and menacing.

“Suck it yourself.” He flips Dickie off for good measure.  Raylan’s willing to tolerate a lot of shit, mostly because it’s not worth dealing with Mags over something he can ignore, but this is a sticking point for him.  He’ll hold his ground, no matter what hell he’ll catch for it.

Dickie whips his last can at Raylan like he’s pitching for the Yankees, then throws himself off the couch to tackle him.  They tussle back and forth, rolling across the ground, each getting in punches until they roll up against the couch.  Pinned between Dickie and the couch, Dickie uses the advantage to get a few good hits in.

Raylan’s seeing stars as his head bounces against the cement floor.  He’s still trying to get his bearings as Dickie grabs him by the hair, pulling Raylan between his legs as he climbs back on the couch.  Unzipping his fly with his free hand, Dickie lets his half hard dick fall out.  “I said suck it,” he reiterates, with Raylan kneeling before him.

“I ain’t sucking nothing.  I’m not gay, Dickie.  Didn’t think you were either,” Raylan protests.  This game has gone on long enough.

“Ain’t gay either, but Harriette was uninclined to do the job, and since you do all the bitch work round here, I guess that means you’re up to bat.”  He yanks on Raylan’s hair until Raylan’s face smashes against his dick.

Raylan stiffens, pulling back as best he can with Dickie’s hand entwined in his hair.  He clamps his mouth tightly shut as Dickie’s member rubs against his lips.  “Fuck off,” he mumbles through tight lips.

Dickie punches Raylan in the ear.  “Open.”

Raylan shakes his head.

The cocking of a gun causes both boys to freeze and stiffen.  Raylan can only see in the periphery of his vision that Coover’s attention has drifted from shooting rats to the two of them.  Gun leveled at Raylan, Coover says, “He said to suck it.  I suggest you suck it.”

There’s something in Coover’s voice that suggests he doesn’t give a shit if Raylan lives or not and has no compunction about pulling the trigger if Raylan gives him cause.  Raylan bites his tongue and closes his eyes.  Is this the hill he’s going to die on, after everything he’s been through?  He opens his mouth letting Dickie push in.  He thinks maybe Arlo was right about him being weak.

Dickie lets out a long moan as he shoves in, pushing in further when he feels Raylan start to choke.  Keeping a firm grip on Raylan’s hair, he yanks on it to make the other boy’s head bob up and down.  The motion is rough and Raylan’s ministrations uneven and awkward.  Dickie has a hair trigger so mercifully the whole sordid affair is over embarrassingly quickly, and he pushes Raylan off of him to choke and sputter in a desperate attempt to expel Dickie’s load.

Raylan attempts to give Dickie a wide berth after the basement incident, which is hard given the fact that Dickie is his current jailer.  Raylan had thought the whipping was the worst thing that could happen to him.  He was wrong.  Very wrong.  He doesn’t know how to slot the whole incident and his part in it, into his brain.  Forgetting seems the most merciful, except he can feel it play out every time Dickie enters the room.  It doesn’t help that Dickie now has a permanent smile on his lips, a big toothy predatory grin, like a shark finding its next meal.

The next time Dickie corners him, it’s in the barn and Coover and his gun are nowhere to be seen.  Backed into one of the horse stalls, Raylan gets to his knees without much fuss.  This time when Dickie forces his dick in Raylan’s mouth, he bites. 

Dickie howls, staggering backwards holding his abused dick in his hands.  “You bit my pecker!”

“Anything you put in my mouth, you better be prepared to lose,” warns Raylan, glaring hard.  If he acts braver than he feels, it might deter Dickie’s new interest.

“Oh yeah?” seethes Dickie, stomping forward.  He grabs a two by four left leaning against the stall door and charges at Raylan swinging. 

Raylan manages to get his arms up to block some of the impact but Dickie’s swinging for the fences.  The second blow clocks Raylan in the side of the head, sending him crashing to the ground.  Pain explodes through him and as he tries to blink the darkness away, finds he can’t open his left eye at all.  Dickie doesn’t stop because his victim is sprawled on the ground, he gets two more hits in with the board, one across Raylan’s ass and the other against the inside of his right thigh. 

Raylan hisses, pulling himself into a tighter ball to become the smallest possible target.  He flinches at the sound of the board clanging against the ground as Dickie drops it.

“You two boys done dicking around?” demands Wade, sauntering over from his plants.  Neither boy answers.  “Pretty sure there’s work to be done.”

“Ahh shit,” says Dickie, tucking himself away.  “I was just on my way to lunch.”  He gives Raylan one last kick then fucks off out of the barn.

Wade doesn’t say anything, just goes about his business.  Raylan isn’t sure if Wade knows he’s his personal savor today or not, but figures out pretty quickly Dickie has an aversion to being a pervert in the company of anyone other than Coover.  Especially when Dickie makes a point to tell Mags, Raylan’s swollen shut eye is a result of him falling off one of the stable gates while he was mucking out the barn.  Mags doesn’t question it, just warns Raylan to be more careful in the future.

Dickie gets a little more creative after that. 

It’s a hot summer night and despite kicking off the thin thread bare blanket Raylan’s been afforded, he’s still damp with sweat.  He spends most of the night tossing and turning so it’s surprising when he blinks his eyes in the near darkness that Dickie’s managed to sneak into his room and position himself to plaster a strip of duct tape over Raylan’s mouth. 

Raylan start’s protesting as best he can through the gag, arms flailing in the dark to make contact with any part of Dickie.  Dickie delivers one hard punch to the head that dazes Raylan just enough that Dickie can turn him over on his stomach and climb on his back.  Raylan tries to buck and squirm, anything to throw Dickie off.  His heart really starts to pound as Dickie ties his wrists to the headboard.

He blinks, adjusting to the sudden light of a flashlight Dickie props up on the side table, skin prickling as his boxers are yanked down exposing his ass to the room.  Raylan tries to press his legs together, but Dickie pushes them apart, kneeling between Raylan’s legs, declaring, “Let’s see you bite now.  You know from behind, in the dark, you don’t look any different from any other bitch.  I won’t have to imagine that hard.”

“Don’t you do it, Dickie Bennett.  Don’t you do it,” mumbles Raylan from behind the tape as the gravity of the situation penetrates his addled brain.  Dickie either can’t make out his unintelligible mumbling or doesn’t care, just lines himself up with Raylan’s unprepared hole and shoves in with one unrelenting thrust.

Raylan screams.  Tears burn his eyes, and he clenches and bucks and reefs against his bonds, desperate to get away from the unrelenting pain that’s threatening to split him in two.  He can’t breathe, can’t get enough air through his nose nor past his screams.  And then, Dickie starts to pull out most of the way before slamming in again until his balls slap against Raylan, and Raylan thinks he’s going to puke.  Both from the agony and the violation itself. 

Dickie’s obviously built up some stamina since the first forced blow job because his violent abuse of Raylan’s ass doesn’t end after two minutes.  One hand on Raylan’s shoulder and the other around Raylan’s hip, he digs his fingers in hard, bruising the tender flesh as he increases his relentless pace enjoying the franticness at which Raylan pulls at the ropes around his wrists until they start to bleed.  Raylan’s fighting and clenching of his muscles to try and stop Dickie’s invasion only make the friction more stimulating. 

Dickie finally comes, moaning as his release shoots deep into Raylan and collapses panting on the other boy’s back.  After a few moments of heavy breathing, he laughs realizing it’s Raylan that’s shaking and not the heaving of his own chest that’s reverberating through him.  “Hope it was as good for you as it was for me,” he says with a chuckle, slapping Raylan on the ass as he pulls out. 

Dickie reaches up and loosens the knot in the rope around one of Raylan’s wrists and grabs his flashlight.  The light catches the heated glare Raylan shoots that says, “I’m going to kill you, Dickie,” since he’s unable to actually speak.  Dickie just laughs and heads up stairs.

Raylan lays there, very aware of every inch of his body.  Everything hurts in waves of sharp pain and dull aches that ebb and flow with every raggedy breath.  Trembling he works his right hand free.  It takes some doing, even though Dickie undid the knot.  His brain just doesn’t seem capable of making his limbs work.  Ever so slowly, with his one hand now free, he works the tape off of his mouth and takes his first deep breath.  He can feel the seaman and blood dripping out and down his thigh as he just lays there trembling, left hand still strung up to the headboard.  He should move out of the mess; get in the shower and burn away the memory and evidence with hot water but doesn’t think his legs are steady enough to get him there.  So, he just lays there until morning, blinking slowly and staring at absolutely nothing.

Raylan takes to sleeping with a rusted fish scaling knife he found out back behind the Bennett store, long buried and forgotten in the dirt.  It’s not the most effective tool for fending off attack, but Raylan can only work with what he has, and he doesn’t have much.

Dickie doesn’t try a night raid again.  Raylan desperately clings to the idea that now that Dickie’s gotten what he wanted, has violated Raylan in every conceivable way, the game is over, score even between them.  Raylan broke Dickie physically and Dickie broke Raylan every other way.  They’re even.

Mags's aunt takes a turn for the worse and she leaves for a few days to stand vigil by the woman's bedside in the nursing home. Doyle checks in on things but goes home every night to his new wife. Wade's around but mostly in the barn tending to the pot plants and helping Coover who turns out to be the Picasso of Marijuana. He never sets foot in the house.

Raylan has a list, half of which Mags actually left, and half bullshit Dickie and Coover dreamed up.  

He's up on the roof patching up some ruined shingles in an unseasonably hot day in late fall, summer’s final push back against impending winter, when Dickie comes out of the house to complain about all the hammering making it hard for him to hear the TV. Raylan ignores him, focusing on his chores instead. Dickie's pretty lazy, so it's unlikely he'll bother climbing the ladder to harass him.  

"It's hotter than Satan's taint," declares Dickie, before storming back inside.

Raylan wipes his sweat-soaked bangs out of his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief that his biggest concern has retreated. Except maybe he hasn't, because suddenly Raylan's bombarded by a couple of water bottles. The first one hits him square in the shoulder, clattering against the roof and rolling off to the ground. The second one just misses his head, overshooting and rolling off the other side of the roof. The third he's ready for and catches it before taking it in the face.

"Momma will have my ass if I don't water ya," yells Dickie, unscrewing the cap of his own bottle and taking a drink.

Raylan watches suspiciously, careful to see Dickie swallow before opening the bottle in his own hand. It irks him that anyone's concern for him is equivalent to that of an animal that needs to be fed, watered and walked, but the sun is blazing and he's terribly parched. He takes a long swig and goes back to taring shingles ever mindful that Dickie hasn't gone back inside. Dickie just stands there, drinking his water and weirdly staring at Raylan.

“What do you want, Dickie?" asks Raylan tiredly. His shoulders sag and his head dips. The work’s fatiguing, his life is tiring, and Dickie is just extra exhausting.

"You'll see," replies Dickie, cool.

Raylan sets down his hammer. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, but suddenly the world starts to spin, and Raylan feels weird, almost floaty. He puts his hands down on the roof to steady himself but it's a jerky and uncoordinated movement. "Whad di’ja do?" he slurs, eyelids growing impossibly heavy as he fights the urge to close them with everything he has.

He can't seem to stay up right anymore. His limbs are far too heavy, and the roof is rolling like the ocean in a storm. Top heavy, he tips forward, body going loose. Gravity reaches up to grab him, the angle of the roof directing him to the ground at an undesirable rate.  It’s probably a good thing his body feels like it’s drunk because he doesn’t tense up as he lands in the bushes.

“Ugh,” Raylan moans.  Coherent thought runs through his fingers like water and his vision fades in and out.  He tries to get up, but nothing moves.  There’s a distant alarm in his head that maybe he’s paralyzed from the fall; he can’t seem to hold onto that concern.  Nothing hurts, so that’s probably not the case.  Not being concerned about his current state, is its own kind of scary too.  There’s danger here, like this, especially around Dickie who’s proven himself the worst kind of predator.  He should be doing something, but that notion is elusive too.

Suddenly there are hands on him, yet his head lulls to the side and he can’t get it to lift or turn it to see who the hands belong to.  They grab his wrist pulling him up and then another hand wraps around his waist and suddenly he’s walking.  “Whas… hap’ning?” he slurs.  The world is a streak of colors that refuse to hold shape. 

Someone says something, their breath hot in his ear.  The words don’t make sense.  Raylan doesn’t know where they’re going but something inside of him says he doesn't want to go there.  He tries to push away from whoever is leading him along but he’s too uncoordinated to be effective.

Raylan’s escorted in the house and dropped on a bed.  It’s not his, this one is far softer with thick blankets piled on it.  The springs squeak as someone else sits beside him.  Slowly his belt buckle is undone, and the belt pulled free from the loops in his jeans.  “’Op it,” he slurs batting at the hands with his own.  His pants are yanked off anyways.

Suddenly Dickie’s face is looming in Raylan’s swimming vision.  “You’re all mine now, Raylan,” he crows. 

There’s a brief spark of clarity that comes as Raylan’s heart starts to pound.  Dickie’s drugged him, leaving him completely helpless and at Dickie’s mercy.  Without ropes and tape, Dickie can position Raylan however he likes and with no one home, be as loud as he likes. 

“If you aren't going to fight back, I'll use you like the party favor you are,” Dickie whispers low and slow in Raylan’s ear.

Turns out it hasn't been about the sex for Dickie, it’s been about winning.

Dickie takes Raylan, unprepared and dry, using his filthy mouth to shout out all sorts of perversions.  Raylan blinks owlishly.  Turns out the defense he’s mounting in his mind isn’t translating to his actual body and he’s just sprawled out taking it while performing a symphony of pained moans and whines. 

Raylan’s grip on consciousness is in and out after that, coming and going like the ocean tide.  In some of his more lucid moments, Dickie’s there, vice grip on his jaw until Raylan opens up enough that he can cram a bottle in his mouth and pour more of that laced water down his throat.  Sometimes when he comes to, there's someone new inside him, sometimes not. Apparently, Dickie decided to take a page out of Arlo’s book and sell Raylan like a time share.  Sometimes it's Dickie sodomizing him with whatever he can find around the house, at one point its one of Coover’s bongs. Dickie likes watching Raylan grimace in pain when the objects are inserted, not totally aware of what’s happening, but unable to do anything but show his pain and discomfort. 

Raylan can't quite climb out of the fog, when he's almost breached the surface and he can hold onto a string of thought, he gets pulled under a wave of drugs again. There’s a blur of faces and stream of customers filling him and using him anyway they see fit, and he can't convince his body to do a god damn thing about it. On his slightly more lucid moments, he feels the constant ache deep inside him, the angry rawness from Dickie's friends riding him like a carnival ride, the way his skin itches from his own dry sweat and everyone else's semen. He's so detached it's like someone else's body.  The one thought that keeps sticking with him through it all, is that it’s not a fair fight.

What finally does permeate his brain is someone screaming, "What the hell is this?" Raylan's head lulls in the direction of the voice that didn't come from Dickie who's working something long and cold in and out of Raylan's ass just to hear the pained gasps he makes when Dickie forces it in his abused and gaping hole, or shoves it just a little further than anything previously.

Raylan hears, "You’re home, momma," before Dickie yanks out whatever he was using. It clangs on the floor like a gun and Raylan distantly thinks they're all in trouble now, like he hasn't been in trouble this whole time.

Then someone's dragging him off the bed by the arm and then down the hall.

"I said carry that boy, you nitwit, Coover."

Raylan's world tilts upside down and lurches again a little later as he’s unceremoniously dumped in his own bed.

Raylan doesn't know how long he's left there or how long it takes the drugs to breakdown in his system now that he's not being forced to consume the laced water. He is aware they're wearing off because the pain of the last few days becomes brighter, sharper, now that he can focus more.

He pulls himself along the bed until he’s at the edge, forcing his jelly legs to swing off onto the floor.  The cold from the cement leaches into his feet.  Pushing up off the bed, Raylan succeeds at being vertical for a whole twelve seconds before he wobbles and sinks to the ground.  He could just pull himself back onto the bed, lay there in his own degradation or he can drag his broken body to the bathroom.  “Fuck it,” he says, beginning to crawl. 

He's drenched in sweat and trembling like a leaf, but he makes it the ten feet. Dragging himself into the shower, he reaches up to turn the tap on.  Sitting at the bottom of the shower, scalding hot water pours over him.  He stays huddled there, long after the water turns cold, and he’s left shivering. 

He should be disgusted with Dickie and his friends- the perpetrators of the crime.  As he stares at the water streaming down his bruised legs, he mostly feels disgust for himself.  Raylan’s weakness is a constant disappointment to Arlo, and now, he’s let himself down as well. 

Raylan should have been smarter than to take a drink of water from Dickie.  He should have been able to fight harder, to fight at all, anyone of those who dared to put a hand on him.  He should have been braver and taken off from the Bennett house again or refuse to let Doyle take him back alive.  All of Raylan’s inadequacies have led him here and he can feel nothing but contempt for himself in the wake of this most violent violation.

Chapter Text

“You understand why it has to be this way?”

Raylan’s scowl just deepens as he pretends to be more interested in the scenery passing outside the truck window than anything Mags has to say.  He doesn’t understand a god damn thing.  He does know one thing, if he ever ends up alone with Dickie again, only one of them is walking away. 

“I can’t have that in my house,” she continues like Raylan is the bad influence and somehow coerced Dickie into raping him and then having him gang raped by anyone willing to pay.  “If that’s the life you want to live, there are places for that.  But it ain’t in my house, with my boys.”

She makes it sound like it was Raylan’s brilliant idea to be drugged to the gills while Dickie finds objects of various shapes and sizes to shove in Raylan’s ass like a toddler figuring out a shape sorter.  Is that the general consensus one comes to having walked in on that?  Lord knows Dickie and Coover certainly would have sold it like that.  “None of this is the life I want to live,” corrects Raylan because it needs to be said if he hasn’t made that clear by now.

“Yeah, well, life usually isn’t about what we want.  It’s about playing the cards you’re dealt,” concedes Mags.  “And you didn’t play yours very smartly.”

“I wasn’t smart because your son decided he wanted to be an ass pirate?” says Raylan.  If Mags is driving him out in the woods to kill him, he might as well go down swinging and on the record.  It’s the ninth inning; no point in holding anything back.  Weirdly, he’s a little jealous.  It doesn’t seem to matter what Mags’s tads get into, she has their back against the world.  Raylan mildly wonders what life would be like if someone had his back, even just for a minute.

Mag’s backhands him so hard, he cuts his lip on his teeth and his head bounces off the truck window.  “I took you in and looked after you as if you were my own, so you will keep a civil tongue when you speak to me or about my tads.  Especially Dickie, who you’ve already left lame.”

He dabs gently at his lip with the sleeve of his sweatshirt leaving a bright red spot on the cuff.  “You didn’t take me in, Mags.  You bought me,” he protests, petulantly.  “There was nothing about this transaction that was done out of the kindness of anyone’s heart.”

Mags looks pensive for a moment.  “You’re probably right.”

Raylan tips his head.  He’s never right about much, but damn he knows his place in this world.

They drive in silence after that until the truck makes its final turn.  As an old cabin comes into view, and not an empty thicket or abandoned mine shaft to dispose of a body like Raylan assumed, Mags says, “So, you should be able to understand why this is going to happen the way it is.”

Raylan peers at the cabin and the man standing on the porch.  He recognizes the imposing figure of one Bo Crowder.  Arlo often has dealings with the man and is a little afraid of the man himself.  Most of Harlan trembles before Bo.

“You’re eighteen now and an adult.  Crowders run establishments that can put your unseemly talents to use without concern of being busted for trafficking a minor.  I just don’t have time to police my boys and any ungodly acts you all get up to.”

“I ain’t gay,” says Raylan getting out of the truck and slamming the door.  He knows what this is without having to be told.  He’s become an old hat at being sold.

Mags gets out of the truck and walks to meet Bo in the yard.  Amazing how rival factions can come together when it comes to the sale of Raylan’s ass.

Raylan hasn’t met Bo Crowder personally, but the man’s reputation has spread far and wide.  He recognizes him from dropping Boyd off at school or more recently at the mine when the two boys used to work together.  Any time Raylan actually went to Boyd’s house, Bo was either at work or in jail.

Bo grabs Raylan’s face by the chin hard enough that there’ll be more bruises on him come morning.  Tipping Raylan’s head from side to side, he assesses Raylan like breeding stock.  “He’s pretty, like his mamma,” Bo says affectionately.

  Raylan scowls.  He can do without being called pretty.  When he feels the heavy weight of Bo’s hands on his shoulders, rubbing gentle circles, his stomach sinks.  Bo’s involved in a little of everything and none of it good.  If he has use for Raylan…

“I’m sure he’ll suit your needs quite well,” agrees Mags.                

“There is an opening in the market,” concurs Bo.  He turns and looks at one of his men standing off to the side brandishing a rifle.  “Pay the lady.” 

The hired gun shuffles forward and hands Mags an envelope.  Morbidly, Raylan wonders just what he’s worth.  If he’s the burden everyone has made him out to be or a cash cow to answer their prayers.  He doesn’t get to find out, Mags doesn’t pull the money out, just nods appreciatively as she peeks in the envelope and heads on her way leaving Raylan behind.

Raylan would have thought watching someone leave after selling him would hurt less the second time.  Mags isn’t his kin, just his jailer.  Oddly, it hurts just as much being left a second time as it did the first.  This one paints him with a new shade of lonely.

“You’re going to love it here,” says Bo, all malicious smile, as they bring Raylan back to the cabin and carry him down to the basement.

Raylan begins to wonder if secret bedrooms in basements is the hallmark of assholes.  Being left alone and chained to a bed with enough tether to reach the bathroom might be intimidating if he hadn’t already done it before.  He gets dinner every night from the thug of the day and four bottles of water to hold him over.  No one in this organization is a chef but it’s not like Raylan can complain to the concierge about the food.

He is left alone physically, despite Bo’s insinuation that he intends to whore Raylan out rather than use him for labor.  Raylan can’t even enjoy the respite with the fear of what’s to come, tumbling through his head constantly like a tumbleweed. 

“Well, happy birthday to me,” says Boyd finding his way downstairs one day.  He just stands there, leaning against the door frame watching Raylan lie there.

 Raylan bends his knees drawing them up closer to himself.  “Fuck off, Boyd,” he spits.  He’s tired.  He’s just so tired of existence these days. 

“I’d have thought your momma would have taught you better manners, Raylan.  She always seemed like a nice proper lady.”  Boyd strides over, smooth as silk and sits at the edge of the bed.  He lets his hand rest on Raylan’s calf, giving it a gentle rub.

“I aint gay,” spits Raylan.  Whatever designs Boyd has on how tonight’s going to go, he’s going to have to realize Raylan isn’t going to be a willing participant.  Despite what Dickie did, Raylan wanted no part of it and he certainly doesn’t want to do it again.  He’s kind of shocked Boyd would even be into that.

“I was never under any delusion you were, Raylan Givens.  But given your current predicament, I don’t think your preference of sexual partner is going to come into play around here.  Especially with what daddy intends for you.”  Boyd looks Raylan in the eye, gaze never faltering once.

“I won’t do anything willingly,” says Raylan, softly, suddenly unnerved by Boyd’s unwavering attention and what can only be described as affectionate touch after everything Dickie did to him.  Part of Raylan thinks he’s saying it more for himself than Boyd.  Gun to his head, Raylan’s proven he is willing.

Boyd wraps the chain attached to Raylan’s leg around the hand he was stroking Raylan’s calf with and gives it a sharp tug, creating extra slack in the tether.  “You misunderstand my intentions here, Raylan.”  He reaches over Raylan with his free hand, pulling Raylan’s leg until it straightens out and Boyd can better reach the shackle and lock.  Slipping a small silver key in the hole, he undoes the cuff.  “And I think anything you do here to night will be of your own volition.”

Getting up, Boyd straightens his shirt and heads to the door, stopping at the threshold.  “Are you coming?” he asks, not bothering to turn around to see if Raylan’s dared to move now that he’s free.  Raylan doesn’t answer him, but he can hear the springs of the bed slowly squeak.  With a smile on his face only he knows about, he heads upstairs.

Raylan cautiously gets off the bed.  The whole thing feels like some sort of test.  He just wishes Boyd didn’t pretend it was a request instead of a command.  He’s careful to keep his distance going up the stairs, just out of reach in case Boyd decides Raylan’s lesson tonight will be taught by falling down the stairs he never should have ascended in the first place.

Boyd just saunters through the kitchen and takes a seat on the couch in the living room.  There’s no one else there and the cabin is filled with the sounds of evening TV.  Sitting on the coffee table is a pizza box from a local place across from the high school where they would all go after school for a slice or to celebrate a winning game.  Boyd grabs a slice out of the box and leans back, with his feet up, taking a bite and focusing on the TV.

Raylan stands there awkwardly, his stomach rumbling at the sight of pizza.  It’s been a long three years since he’s had a slice.

“It’s rude to lurk,” says Boyd.  “And it’s getting cold.”

Raylan swallows.  He can’t shake the feeling it’s a trap, but damn it smells good.  He slowly takes a slice out of the box like he’s sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar and makes a point to sit on the opposite side of the couch as Boyd.  Boyd doesn’t look at him, but Raylan keeps one eye on Boyd the entire time he’s eating his pizza.

Taking a second slice, Boyd motions for Raylan to do the same.

Raylan takes a second slice too, eating this one a little faster, like Boyd might snatch it out of his hand.  When finished, he bites his lip contemplating whether he should risk reaching for a third slice.  Boyd just tosses the box so it’s next to Raylan.  There’s still half a pizza in it. 

“You don’t want any more?” asks Raylan.

“I can get more anytime I like.  You might have a more arduous time acquiring another one,” says Boyd blandly.

Unable to argue that point, Raylan takes another slice.  A basic peperoni pizza has never tasted so good.  He doesn’t really relax but his guard starts to slip a little after the pizza is gone, and they both just sit there watching TV.  Raylan doesn’t really know what they’re watching and honestly, he doesn’t care; it just feels- normal. 

It’s long since gotten dark, and Raylan’s struggling to keep his eyes open, but he won’t give into sleep.  First, because he’s still kind of waiting for Boyd to spring his trap and second, because he doesn't want this weirdly domestic normalcy to end or find out it was all a dream to start with.

There’s a rumbling in the driveway and Boyd glances towards the living room window.  “That would be your cue to scurry back to the basement and resecure that fine piece of jewelry daddy got you,” says Boyd, calm and cool. 

Raylan’s trying to decide if Boyd is joking, or not, as heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs and across the porch. 

“Make it quick now,” cautions Boyd.  “Or there will be hell to pay.”

Raylan scrambles off the couch and heads down the stairs just as the front door creeks open.  He dives into bed and grabs the open shackle lying there.  It feels heavy in his hand as he gives serious consideration as to what he’s about to do.  Mags’s lesson about stealing and disobeying hasn’t faded completely from his back.  He clicks the lock shut and pulls the blankets over himself.  He can hear a muffled conversation upstairs and soon someone comes down to check on him.

Closing his eyes, he feigns sleep but whoever comes to check, gives his chain a quick tug and then disappears back up stairs.

Raylan always pictured his first time in a bar being different.  Well, the first time he was in a bar for a reason other than collecting Arlo’s drunk ass.  Bo’s number one, Clyde and number two, Jasper toss him in the trunk of their car which desperately needs new suspension and take him from the cabin to Audrey’s.  He’s shoved not so gently into a rickety old chair at a table across from Bo, his shackles clanging. 

“Excited for your first day of work?” laughs Bo, as he counts the stacks of money in front of him.

Raylan presses his lips tighter.  He doesn’t answer.

“You make your quota for the week, or the boys get a free night for whatever they fancy.  Some of them have predilections for some pretty violent things.  You work as a bar back in your down time or there’ll be trouble.  You see anything, you keep your mouth shut or…”

“There’ll be trouble,” finishes Raylan.  He gets the idea.

Bo smashes his fist into Raylan’s face.  “You got a smart mouth.  If it ain’t making me money, I don’t want to see it flapping.”

Raylan scowls, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth to make sure all his teeth are fine. 

“Sheila will give you the lay of the land.”  Bo snaps his fingers and the brunette at the bar strides over.

She runs her red nails over Bo’s shoulders, sitting in his lap.  “You called boss man,” she purrs, looking at Raylan with interest.  “Who’s the kid.  He’s a cutie.”

“He’s going to be your newest pup.  Take him around, show him the ropes.  But he’s going to be crate trained in the basement for awhile.  We wouldn’t want him running away,” Bo says with his malicious smile before kissing Sheila.

“You gonna take the leash off?  It’s kinda hard to serve drinks or give a blow job with those silver bracelets on,” points out Sheila.

“I seem to recall you being pretty enthusiastic last time I gave you a set.”  Bo gropes her right breast sliding his big meaty hand over the top of her low cut, blue sequined dress. 

She lets out an affectionate laugh, tossing her hair over her shoulder before nibbling on his ear lobe.  “You want it done right or not?”

Bo nods to Clyde who pulls out the key and undoes the handcuffs.  Raylan rubs his wrists now that they’re free.  Bo leans over the table.  “You give Sheila any grief or make my boys chase and they’ll never find every piece of you,” he warns.

Raylan nods; jaw still aching from the earlier hit.

Sheila gets up, saying, “Come on, Sugar.  Let’s go meet the other girls.” 

Bo grabs her wrist, firmly yanking her back.  “I want him ready to go by the end of the week.  If he ain’t earning me money then he’s costing me,” warns Bo.

Sheila nods before beckoning Raylan to follow her out back. 

Raylan blinks as the bright sunlight hits him upon emerging from the dark and smoky bar.  He follows along silently, both because Sheila hasn’t done anything to him- yet, his momma taught him to always respect a lady, and because he’s too busy getting a lay of the land- where Bo’s men are situated.  Audrey’s is a functioning bar and whore house.  There are people coming and going all the time.  If ever there was a chance to escape, it’ll be here where he can get lost in the flow of customers and then the surrounding forest.

“In here,” says Sheila yanking open her trailer door.  “Take your shoes off if they’re muddy.  I like a clean place.”

Raylan shakes his head amused at the very idea, but complies with the request.  It isn’t the Hilton, but it’s miles better than the dungeons he’s been sequestered away in for the last few years.  He stands there awkwardly leaning against the counter by the sink so as not to brush up against the undergarments that are hanging everywhere on any available surface.

Sheila sits down on the bench seat attached to the kitchenette table, lighting a cigarette.  Offering the pack to Raylan, he shakes his head.  “Best you don’t start.  It’s an expensive habit that’ll require pullin’ extra tricks to support.”

“I ain’t getting paid for any of it,” huffs Raylan, indignantly.  At least the whores get to keep part of their money.  Raylan imagines Bo will have it off Raylan before the johns even zip up. He glances out the window, checking out the visibility angles from the trailer.

She blows out a ring of smoke that might almost be classy if it wasn’t a hastily home rolled smoke settled between her fingers.  “If you ain’t here of your own accord, I’d caution you against running.  Those trigger-happy pricks’ll pick you off before you make it out of the parking lot.  Or worse.”

“This is worse, so a bullet might be the better option,” says Raylan, looking solemn.  He can’t go through what he did with Dickie every night, though history has taught him he isn’t ready to conclude his story just yet either.

Sheila looks at him, trying to determine if he’s a lost cause already.  “You got any experience?” she asks like she doesn’t believe Raylan’s resolve to go out in a blaze of glory.

He’s a little indignant, that with one look she has sussed out that he’s lacking in the fortitude department already.  Truth is, he’s been wondering about his character too, ever since Dickie raped him and is still walking around.  It burns that Arlo maybe right, that when push comes to shove, Raylan’s just a weak little boy.  “Not by choice,” he says bitterly.

She stubs out her cigarette and reaches over the back of the bench seat for something in the basket sitting on the shelf.  “Here you can practice on this,” she says throwing a dildo at him.

Catching it on instinct, he looks at it like it might bite.  “Not interested.”

“The better you are the more you can charge.  The more you can charge the faster you make rent, the less sleezeballs you have to suck or let fuck you.”

“I have no desire to be good at it.”

“You think anyone is working here because they dreamed of being a prostitute when they were little girls?  No one wants to be grabbed and fondled by these degenerates, but you tolerate it, and you get good at it so you have to do less of it.  You can slum a little willingly or slum a lot forcefully.  I suggest you make it easier on yourself and do what needs to be done.  It’s not about love or hell, even liking it.  It’s about necessity.  Now I’ll show you some techniques to give’em the best head of their lives and then we’ll move on to making cocktails.”

Chapter Text

The clientele isn’t really into cocktails, so mostly Raylan just has to master being quick at pouring the various whiskey’s and popping beer caps off, then being a master mixologist.  He’s given a fake ID in case anyone of consequence comes in and questions how old the new bar tender is. 

Sheila’s in charge of the girls and managing any ‘appointment’ requests that come up.  Most of the other girls have pretty regular customers that fill their time, but Sheila distributes the new customers, or the important marks Bo wants to distract with tits and ass.  Sheila also happens to be Bo’s personal favorite.

No one said Raylan had to actively look for clients.  He has no desire to go out and shake his ass.  Given the bar clientele and the general population of people he knows around Harlan, he suspects there isn’t going to be a line up of people at his door.  But then again, he isn’t sure.  Dickie managed to find some takers.  He should be relieved when he gets through the night without having to be fucked, but Bo’s words about making rent ring in his ears and he knows bar backing isn’t going to be enough to satisfy that bill.  In the end, Raylan isn’t sure which he’s more afraid of- getting fucked or not getting fucked enough.

Mags’s punishments were brutal and painful, but on some weird level she cared a little.  Raylan also knew exactly what to expect.  Bo is scarier in that Raylan doesn’t know what to anticipate when he fails to whore himself out effectively.  Or satisfy anyone who does pay for him because despite Sheila’s tutelage, Raylan’s heart is never going to be in it to be effective at it.

At the end of the week Sheila brings an empty serving tray back to the bar and leans over the counter to whisper, “I have your first client for you.”

Raylan freezes, beer bottle and bottle opener in his hands.  The color drains from his face. 

Sheila places a reassuring hand on his arm.  “He’s a really sweet guy.  I promise, he’ll be gentle.”

It doesn’t ease any of Raylan’s nerves.  Sheila has to gently pry the bottle and opener out of his hands and set them on the bar.  He swallows hard.  He can see Clyde, standing at the door to the basement stairs, glaring at him expectantly, out of the side of his eye.  The client must already be downstairs and waiting.

Sheila places her soft hands on either side of his face, blocking out the rest of the bar so he can only look at her.  The blood is rushing through his veins so loud it blocks out the noise of the bar until Sheila’s lips start moving.  “It’s going to be alright.  You can do this.  Just like I showed you.  Make it good, it will be over quickly.”

Raylan nods but still can’t make himself move.  It’s Sheila that has to shove him a little to get him moving.  It’s like his body has a mind of its own, putting one foot in front of the other, carrying him to a place he doesn’t want to go.  He passes by Clyde who gives him a shit eating grin that makes his stomach turn. 

Raylan makes it downstairs, and the space designated his room, where the john is in fact, waiting for him.  The man lights up when Raylan walks in the door.  “You’re even better looking than Sheila said,” says the john taking a step forward. 

Raylan instinctively takes a step back, his back hitting the wall.  The man is kind of classy looking, probably mid thirties in a nice suit.  Definitely not someone who got out of jail that morning or who’s running drugs and guns for the Crowders- like most of the bar patrons.

“You don’t need to be frightened,” he says in a soft soothing voice.

“I’m not,” counters Raylan, though it’s mostly a lie.

The man sits back down on the bed, patting the empty space beside him.  “Why don’t you join me over here then.”

Raylan looks over his shoulder for the door and thinks he still has the option of letting Clyde shoot him rather than willingly submitting himself to this torture again.  At least with Dickie, he was tied up or drugged or threatened at gun point.  His legs carry him over to the bed instead, sitting there, rigid and silent.  The john reaches over and lovingly strokes his thigh. 

“What’s your name?” he asks.

Raylan swallows the giant lump sitting heavy at the back of his throat.  “Ray… Raylan,” he says in a broken whisper as he actually has to think about the answer.

Hands caressing their way up Raylan’s shoulders, the john nuzzles his nose against Raylan’s neck, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin there.  “You’re beautiful,” he breathes, forcing the tips of Raylan’s ears to blush red.  He’s gentle as he strips Raylan and careful when he puts Raylan on his knees between his legs, manipulating him like he’s mouldable clay.  There’s no hair pulling or grabbing his jaw so hard it leaves bruises on Raylan’s face.  He doesn’t even make Raylan swallow after Raylan gives him a blowjob that he has to pretty much instructs Raylan through. 

He doesn’t restrain Raylan when he tells him to lay face down on the bed, uses lots of lube and takes the time to stretch Raylan and let him adjust to his thick cock once he’s entered Raylan.  The fucking is slow and tender, and Raylan doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse in the end.  The guy is even considerate enough to make sure Raylan gets off too, even though Raylan would rather not, but friction and biology betray him.

When it’s all over, the john leaves Raylan, running his fingers through Raylan’s hair and giving him a tender kiss on the shoulder before heading up to pay his bill.  It wasn’t violent.  There wasn’t much pain.  Raylan still feels broken and hollow regardless.  No one comes down to get him or to take their turn, so he just lies there stunned until the general noise of the bar upstairs dies down.

Sheila comes down then and knocks on the door frame- actually knocks, before entering.  “Raylan, sugar?  You alright?” she asks sweetly. 

“Yeah,” lies Raylan, surprised he even finds his voice.  He clenches his pillow tighter, letting it absorb the tears he wasn’t aware were falling.  Behind him he can feel the bed dip as Sheila lies down next to him, wrapping her arms around him.  He turns into her embrace and silently cries into her shoulder.  She just holds him until he falls asleep.

Raylan’s first customer goes by the name Steve Blight, a businessman out of Lexington who’s satisfied enough with his first visit, he wants semi monthly appointments. The next frequent client Raylan gets is the son of a business partner of Bo’s, who's enjoyment is based solely on the amount of pain he can coax out of Raylan. He pays double if he can get Raylan to cry but knows if Raylan’s faking it. With everything Raylan’s endured in his miserable life so far, his pain tolerance is rather developed. It makes the game all the better for Dragon.

His next repeat customer is Sally Jones, who bites the hell out of his chest and claws his back up every time. Turns out, the rule of not getting rough with the girls, doesn't apply to anything anyone sees fit to do to Raylan. It makes Sheila's suggestion to go and turn the charm on with the group of drunk girls from the big city in for a Bachelorette party and the thrill to go slumming in the hollers, seem like an enticing idea. He gives a hasty blow job to two of the future bridesmaids in the bathroom and has sex with the future bride downstairs. He doesn't hold out much hope for that marriage lasting.  But that’s not any of his business.

Raylan rarely makes his quota, but Sheila argues on his behalf that there’s less of a market for what Raylan’s selling then the girls.  On the days she can’t convince Bo to forgive Raylan’s short earnings she covers the difference with her tips and tells Raylan to get really good at serving drinks to make extra tip money until she can figure out some other way to boost Raylan’s income.

Sheila teaches Raylan how to cover up a blackeye, after he gets a john that’s rough in ways Bo will apparently not tolerate when it comes to Raylan.  He sits through the make-up lesson watching through the trailer window with a little perverse satisfaction as Clyde and Jasper beat the shit out of the guy who messed his face up. 

“Still the handsomest kid in the joint, Sugar,” says Sheila as she finishes and hands Raylan a mirror. 

His eye is still puffy, and lips are cracked and bloody, but the noticeable black bruise is hidden. 

Bo’s thugs may be dumb but they’re surprisingly good at tracking people down. 

Raylan’s willing to admit it was a half-baked plan to start with, but what does it say about him if he didn’t try?  He slips out when the bar is packed and takes off into the woods.  He doesn’t have any money so he can’t buy a ride and odds are anyone willing to pick him up for free is just going to deposit him somewhere Bo can get him.

It’s foolhardy to try and traverse the woods in the dark but he’s hoping come light of day Bo will figure he’s already out of town and he can take his time walking out. Fumbling along for about an hour, he uses only the moonlight to guide him.  Finding an outcrop of rocks, he bunkers in for the night. 

Raylan’s awoken the next morning by the chirping birds and a swift kick to the hip that sends him tumbling out of his little nest.  Rough hands grab him and haul him to his feet.  Someone’s quick with the rope, binding his hands behind his back while the one holding him up gets a few good punches in until Raylan’s doubled over spitting out blood.

“Got somethin’ special for you,” spits Jeb before hitting Raylan so hard he blacks out.

Raylan wishes they kept the receipt, but he doubts chaining him to the wall of an abandoned mine is returnable.  He wakes up alone with nothing but a dimming lantern as company.  He tests the strength of the chains as a means of distraction from thinking about the numerous outcomes that could befall him.

Dying in a mine was a common fear among the men he worked with.  A fear he shared after a near miss that had him and Boyd barely making it out of a collapsing shaft.  He supposes that fear was more based on being buried alive but being chained up with no food or water is pretty much the same thing. 

Bo’s boys could always come back and finish the job, but Raylan’s not delusional enough to think they’ll show him any mercy. 

He’s pretty sure the light flickers out at the end of the first day, when his stomach is starting to rumble, and his thirst is starting to get painful.  The dark is worse.  It’s colder and quieter.  Raylan’s painfully aware of every breath he takes and that the next one could be his last. 

The tears start falling.  Not because Raylan’s afraid of the end; he’s known that’s been coming ever since his father put up the family tombstones, one for each of them.  They don’t even fall at the thought of how depressing his life has been.  They fall at the unfairness that the only thing he wanted in this miserable life was to taste the sweet air of somewhere decidedly not Harlan.  Something so simple, yet this life couldn’t see fit to grant him.

He cries.

He cries until there’s nothing left, then hangs his head and waits for death.  Maybe the next life will be better.

Bo’s men come back for him.  Raylan’s so dehydrated, he’s in and out of it as they unchain him and carry him back to their truck and throw him into the open box.  Someone shoves a bottle of warm stale water in his mouth and pours it back until he pukes. 

He’s still groggy and uncoordinated when they get back to Audrey’s and it’s Sheila that spends the next week nursing him back to health by way of spoon feeding him chicken noodle soup.  She doesn’t lecture him about trying to escape but it’s written all over her face.

The bar isn’t open yet and Raylan has everything cleaned up and stocked for tonight so he’s sitting in one of the booths eating a sandwich when Boyd saunters in and sits across from him.  He slides a black leather-bound book across the table like he’s facilitating a drug deal with Raylan.

Raylan looks down at the book and then at Boyd questioningly.  “What’s this?”

“It looks to me as if it might be a book,” says Boyd.  “An amazing invention that contains the written word strung together in infinite combinations.”

Annoyed, Raylan asks, “I can see that, Boyd.  Why are you giving it to me?”  The cover is blank on this rebound book.  He pokes at the corner of it a little.  It’s probably a copy of the karma sutra.  Boyd’s funny like that, riding the edge of actual humor and exploitation of dark situations for his own amusement.  Though, Raylan’s never known Boyd to be especially cruel to him.

“I thought you’d like it.  And I was feeling generous,” says Boyd, his face expressionless.

Raylan turns the book around so he can read the title along the spine.  A Tale of Two Cities.  He’s never read it but recognizes it from the summer reading list he was never able to get to before being pulled out of school.  He misses being able to escape with a good book. If he can’t physically escape Harlan, his mind could for a bit in a work of fiction.  Nothing in life is free, so he asks, “Why are you being nice to me, Boyd?  What’s in it for you?”

“Why does my generosity have to come with strings attached?  Is the very definition of the word not to give to others without seeking reciprocity?”

“Nobody does anything for free in this life,” counters Raylan.  If Boyd wants something, Raylan’ll pay it, but he wants to know what the bill is before he takes the book.

“I found this particular book in my possession and since I have no designs on making use of it, I thought who do I know, that could use such an item. I do recall you used to enjoy reading. But if it doesn't appeal to you, I'm sure I can give it to the boys.” 

 “Never pictured any of them as readers.” Raylan’s pretty sure he saw Jeb using his toes to count the other day. "Are there any pages in there to color?"

Boyd shakes his head.  “They can use it for target practice or wiping their asses.” Boyd reaches out to pull the book back, and slides out of the booth to leave.

“Wait,” shouts Raylan. It kills him a little to say it, but he does say, “I would appreciate the book, Boyd.” Somehow it feels just as dirty as any of the shit he's had to say to any of his customers.

Boyd brings a new book by every couple of weeks. Mostly the classics, sometimes how-to books. Should the need arrive, Raylan can now make his own canoe and grow his own tomatoes. And one questionable vampire/werewolf erotica fiction that he's not too keen on asking how such a book came to be in Boyd's possession. He keeps the books in Sheila's trailer. Mostly because that's where he spends his mornings, and Jeb literally used Moby Dick to wipe his ass when he found it tossing Raylan's prison cell.

When pressed about his continuous generosity, Boyd simply says, “Because we used to dig coal together.”

Raylan finds out what happens when he doesn’t meet his quota through no direct fault of his own.  Business is down all around and very few girls get any work for the night.  The bar is dead and the town in general is just quiet.  The difference between Raylan and the girls, is the girls have tips and savings for just such a dry spell that they can cover out of pocket what they didn’t bring in. 

He should have seen it coming.  Definitely should have expected it when he came in carrying a couple cases of beer and the room goes silent and Bo stops counting his minuscule stack of cash.

“This feels a little light,” sneers Bo waving a single solidary hundred in the air.

Raylan tenses as Bo’s men slowly start to move to flank him.  “Not my fault no one came in last night,” he says forcing himself to put the cases down and start filling the fridge.  Whether he wants to admit it or not, he’s been afraid ever since Mags strung him up in the barn and peeled his flesh off with a leather belt.  He’s been low key terrified ever since it became acceptable to everyone else that he gets violated on a regular basis.  He’s done being afraid.  Maybe if he pretends he isn’t, for long enough, it’ll stick.

“I don’t care if you have to jerk off every sheep in this county to earn the money, you will have every bloody red penny I’m owed at the end of every week.  Now, you were warned, but the good news is my boys are willing to cover the difference.  The bad news, you ain’t going to enjoy it as much,” says Bo before his men grab Raylan, twisting his arms behind his back.

Raylan reefs against them, digging his heels in and doing everything possible to be difficult but they each have a hundred pounds on him.  His heart starts to pound as they drag him not downstairs, but out the door, back past the parking lot to a storage shed.  Screaming, apparently deters customers.

For twenty-four hours Raylan endures all manner of hell.  Some of the guys just use him as a literal punching bag.  Other’s abuse every hole he has in new imaginative ways.  There are whole stretches of time in which Raylan believes he’s died and gone to hell but then the shed door opens, and Clyde drags him out, dripping blood, spittle, piss and semen. 

Clyde drops him on the bar floor, mostly because Raylan doesn’t have the strength to stand.  Raylan can barely keep track of where he is and what’s going on.  Sheila saying, “For christ’s sake Bo, was that really necessary,” rings clearly in Raylan’s ears, even if he can’t focus enough for the people standing in the bar to take shape.

“Boy has to learn, and the others need to be reminded,” answers Bo, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

“How’s he supposed to work now?” demands Sheila.

Raylan starts to laugh.  It sounds more like a gurgle that’s bubbling up and makes his ribs and chest ache and burn.  He’s beaten and broken and still the concern is how best he can serve someone.

“Then I suggest you get him cleaned up and put your plan in motion or we’re going to be right back here again next week,” warns Bo, leaving with his entourage in tow.

“Jesus, Sugar,” says Sheila rushing over to Raylan’s side.  She hesitates before putting her hands on him, looking for any place she can touch without causing him more pain. There isn’t.  Raylan hisses as she pulls his arm over her shoulder to help get him to his feet. 

Slowly he limps and shuffles beside her, wrapping his free arm around his midsection to try and ease his cracked ribs.  They make it to the door but Clyde who had been standing outside puts his hand across the door.

“Bo keeps ‘im downstairs,” says Clyde in a deep rumble, refusing to let them pass.

“He ain’t going down there like this.  It’s cold and he’ll catch his death.  He’s coming to my trailer.  If Bo needs him, he can find him there,” argues Sheila, pushing past Clyde.  Clyde’s not stupid enough to put his hands on Bo’s girl.

 When Raylan comes to the next day, he’s tucked into Sheila’s bed, cuts cleaned and bandaged, and his ribs wrapped.  There’s even a bottle of water and some pain pills sitting on the nightstand for him.  Everything hurts and it’s a struggle just to reach out for the pills.  Sheila isn’t around, which is fine because it means Raylan can just lay there, snuggled into warm blankets and ride the high of a fist full of pills.

Raylan wakes up again some time after dark.  The trailer door bangs open, and Sheila turns the kitchen lights on.  He starts to call her name but stops as he hears her giggling.  She’s obviously not alone.

The bed is still mostly in the shadows, and as she reaches up to pull the folding partition closed separating the kitchen from the bedroom, she stops abruptly, noticing Raylan’s staring back at her.  She looks over her shoulder and pulls the partition closed halfway, stepping on the bedroom side.  “Just go back to sleep, sweetheart,” she soothes.  She pops open the pill bottle and dumps a few in her hand, holding them out for Raylan to take.

Raylan pops the pills in his mouth and takes of swig from the water bottle she hands him next.  “I have to take a leak,” he says, eyeing the bathroom.  It’s ten feet away but given how sore he is it might as well be ten thousand miles.  If she doesn’t like muddy boots in her trailer, she’s going to hate it if he pees the bed.

Sheila looks like she’s mulling it over before sighing and saying, “Alright.”  She turns to whoever she’s left standing in the kitchen area and says, “Can you give me a hand?”

“He’s a friend,” says Sheila as the silhouette of a cowboy steps from the lit kitchen and into the dark bedroom.  With Sheila under one arm and her friend under the other, they get Raylan over to the bathroom.

It’s embarrassing as hell, but the cowboy has to hold Raylan up while he pisses.  The cowboy never says a word and keeps his hands in all the appropriate places.  When Raylan’s done, the cowboy gets him back to bed and Sheila checks his temperature using the back of her hand.  “You’re going to be alright, Sugar,” she promises before they both back out of the bedroom, leaving Raylan alone.  Raylan falls asleep to Sheila giggling and sounding just all around happy.

Day four, Raylan painfully edges himself to the end of the bed and sits up- all on his own.  He hasn’t worked in a week now and he’s not having a repeat of what happened when he doesn’t meet his quota.  He thought Mags’s punishments were bad, turns out he was just too stupid and limited in his experience to know better.

“Are you sure you should be up?” asks Sheila, returning to her trailer. 

“Have to get back to work,” he grits out through clenched teeth as he puts some weight on his feet.  “Should give you back your place.”  Her and her late-night caller had slept at the table that folds down into a bed the first night and Sheila slept there the second night on her own.  The last two nights, she’s taken to sleeping next to him in the bed, careful to not bump up against him and reawaken any of is injuries.  He has no idea where she’s been working, with Raylan tying up her bed this whole time.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she says, starting to fix them breakfast. 

Raylan doesn’t know if she means the forced occupation of her living space or his scarcity at the bar these last few days.  “Kinda have to,” he says rubbing his aching ribs.

“No, you don’t.  I have a slush fund to cover when the girls are laid up and I can cover you for a few more days.”

Raylan wants to ask where this help was last week before he became the Crowder crew party favor, but he’s never been one to ask for charity before.  It isn’t Sheila’s job to save him.

She presses her hip against the counter, spatula in hand as she asks, “Who do you think you’re going to entice looking the way you do right now?”

“I can work the bar,” protest Raylan.  He doubts he can lift any of the cases and he’s not stupid enough to think his tips don’t come from the women he flirts with as he slings drinks.  It’s just he technically doesn’t get paid so he can’t pay Sheila back and he’s uninclined to owe people.

“You’ll work the bar,” she mocks.  “This ain’t vegas.  I know what you pull in and it’s a far cry from keeping you afloat if that’s all you have coming in.  Besides I run the house and I’m responsible for the girls.”

“I’m not a girl,” points out Raylan.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees.  “Which is why I may have another avenue for you.”

Chapter Text

Sheila’s alternative job specs are two-fold.  The first job to supplement Harlan’s lack of need for a male prostitute, is for Raylan to work the midnight poker games.  He pours the drinks and keeps track of the cards, to help Bo cheat any of the big fish he brings into play.  When it’s just crew and a couple local rowdies playing, Raylan gets to play bouncer when things get too carried away and enforcer when the deadbeats don’t settle their accounts at the end of the night with a bat kept under the bar next to the shot gun.  Raylan has no taste for beating people but just imagines it’s Dickie Bennett he’s swinging the bat at.

The second prong of the plan isn’t that much of a departure from his original purpose.  Sheila doesn’t explicitly say it, but the cowboy gives her a list of names Bo might be interested in, who might be more amendable to Bo’s requests should they become blackmailed with compromising photos of them in intimate company with a young gentleman. 

Raylan’s never been one for dressing up and beyond his smile, has next to no flirting game, but it never seems to take much to get people to do what they’re inclined to do anyways.  At least none of the marks get rough with him.  And being a high-priced hooker some nights, means he gets chauffeured out to Lexington to hangout in expensive hotels. 

The jobs aren’t plentiful enough that he doesn’t have to go back to peddling his ass at Audrey’s post haste and in conjunction, but it does provide him a little breathing room.

Raylan’s mopping up the remnants of the latest afternoon fist fight, when Boyd saunters in, still covered in coal dust.  He orders a drink and nurses it slowly at the bar until Raylan’s done mopping.

“Need another one?” asks Raylan getting back behind the bar.

Boyd shakes his head.  “What I need is some space to think.”

Raylan shrugs, throwing the bar cloth over his shoulder and moving to head to the other end of the bar.

“You miss understand,” says Boyd, reaching out to grab Raylan’s wrist to keep him from leaving.  “I’m not looking for the absence of company but a new location to ponder life’s mysteries.  What is it that gives you the urge to leave these familiar hollers, Raylan?”

Raylan stops, leaning in close.  “I suppose it might have something to do with the indentured servitude I find myself in.”

“I mean before, when we were younger.  You were always planning on leaving here.”

“This place eats you alive,” he says thoughtfully.  “Guess I never had an interest in being swallowed up.”

Boyd places a twenty on the counter.  “Raylan, I would like you to accompany me somewhere.”

Raylan rolls his eyes and fixes himself with an obnoxious smile.  He always knew a bill for Boyd’s kindness was coming; it just got lost in the mail for a bit.  “My place is downstairs.”

“I was thinking more like the batting cages.”

The fake smile falls off of Raylan’s face turning him sour.  The idea stings far more than it should.  He’s not sure if the cruelty lies in the fact that Boyd knows he can’t just leave or that he knows baseball was the one place where Raylan used to feel free and can’t escape to it anymore.  “I have to work, Boyd.  And you’re wasting my valuable time.”

“I’m sure your time is valuable.”  He slides a hundred across the bar.  “Grab your coat,” he adds heading towards the door, with his truck keys in hand.

Raylan doesn’t have a coat, just a long sleeve plaid shirt he uses when the weather is cold outside.  Pulling it on, he makes to follow Boyd out the door.  He imagines that’s as far as this little field trip is going to get.

Clyde has other ideas about Raylan going anywhere and stops both he and Boyd about halfway through the parking lot. “Bo says he don’t leave nowhere.” 

It’s pretty much what Raylan expected.  Raylan shifts his weight, making to turn around and head back inside but Boyd grabs a hold of his sleeve.

Boyd doesn’t even blink.  “Well Daddy isn’t here this week and I paid for his time, so I guess that makes him mine for the next little while.”  He pushes past Clyde, with Raylan following hesitantly behind.  Being the son of the head honcho clearly has its benefits.

It’s not a trick.  Boyd really takes him to the batting cages and pays for him to have a go.  Standing just outside the cage, Boyd leans against the chain link fence looking disinterested in the whole affair, but he never takes his eyes off Raylan.

The first couple balls get past Raylan.  He’s still sore and healing and it’s been a while since he swung a bat for its intended purpose.  The first crack as the ball connects, brings it all back- the smell of fresh cut grass, the breeze the bat creates as it leaves his shoulder, the roar of the crowd in the stands.  For a moment, he isn’t some used, beaten up piece of flesh but an actual person again. 

Boyd lets him hit until his shoulder aches in the best way possible.  He never asks Raylan for anything and makes no move to touch him.

Sheila's cowboy comes on the regular, for midnight rendezvouses. Raylan knows because he usually hangs out in Sheila's trailer in the mornings for breakfast and conversation, before he starts working in the bar and passes the mystery man on his way out. Sheila's rather smitten with him despite her warnings about forming attachments with the clients.  She has a particular smile when she talks about the cowboy, one no one else seems worthy of.

Raylan isn’t entirely convinced he’s a client or if Bo knows how often the cowboy comes around.  The mystery man never sets foot in the bar and only shows when the lights go out on the property.  Raylan does know he makes Sheila smile in a way nobody else does, so the cowboy is alright in his book.

The next time Boyd takes Raylan to the batting cages there’s a party taking place.  It’s kids Raylan and Boyd went to school with.  Most ignore Raylan or look at him like he’s something dirty.  He can hear the whispers, that he’s the kid that dropped out of school to be a professional harlot.  He doesn’t bother to correct them.  It doesn’t matter to him what they think of him and it’s not like any of them can rescue him from the Crowders’ clutches. 

The cages are all full and Boyd seems content socializing with the party crowd, moving around the group with ease and striking up conversation, mostly with the young women in attendance.  Boyd’s spent more time with these people on account of Raylan dropping out when he was barely fifteen.  Raylan just bunkers down next to the skee ball machine by the concession.  It’s not as fun as their usual night, but it isn’t a night working at Audrey’s and that’s what matters most.  It is kind of interesting to watch Boyd in his natural habitat.

“Well if it ain’t Harlan’s prodigal son,” comes a familiar voice.  “Figured when you crossed the state line, you’d never come back.”

Raylan looks over the counter of the concession. “Is that what they say about me, Ava Randolph?”

“No,” she says, taking her paper hat off and stepping out from the concession.  “They say a lot worse about you.  But I bet good money they were wrong, because I knew you were always going to be the one to get out of here to do something great.”

Raylan leans back against the wall.  “Sorry to disappoint Ava, but they’re right.  And I never made it out of here.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing being stuck here,” she says sitting next to him, so close he can feel her chest expand with every breath.

He just snorts because there isn’t enough time left in eternity to list why being stuck in Harlan is bad- even for someone not him.  Ava probably knows why too, but like most of the people in the county, the struggle to stay afloat keeps her from dreaming that there could be better.  It’s the same thing that keeps anyone from getting the notion of rescuing him.  They look at him like there but for the grace of god go I, and that their own shitty situations could be worse. 

“You working here now?” he asks because most socially acceptable topics are off the table for him.

Ava shrugs.  “It pays the bills.  Hoping to save up enough to go to hairdressing school in Lexington then maybe open my own shop.  And then who knows.”

“Hairdresser to the stars.”

“Don’t mock me,” she says giving him a playful punch in the shoulder.

“Oh, I’m not making fun.  You could do it Ava, if you want to.” 

Ava leans over and kisses Raylan on the cheek.  It catches him off guard but when he turns to look her in the eye, she’s still leaning in, so close with full lips and devotion in her eyes.  Raylan moves in, meeting her halfway.  When he pulls back, he’s a little breathless, slightly flushed and Ava just gives him a smile that drives all thought out of his head.

She gets up and puts the break sign on the counter, then takes Raylan by the hand pulling him along without any resistance.  They end up in the staff break room.  A tiny room with a table and a couch.  Most importantly, it’s private.  It’s the first time Raylan’s ever had sex because he wants to.  He puts every hard-earned lesson to use, making her moan and pant his name in the most pleasurable ways possible. 

After, he lies there, holding her in his arms as they stare at the water-stained ceiling.  Ava prattles on about the future and Raylan’s content to just listen to her voice and optimism in it.  He hasn’t felt hope like that since he got the job at the mine and knew with certainty the day, he would have enough money to leave Harlan.

Hooking up with Ava becomes a regular thing when Boyd brings him to the batting cages, regardless, if it’s just the three of them there or a whole crowd.  Boyd just spends his time drinking beer and hitting balls, when Raylan disappears in the back with Ava.

The small dingy break room is their sanctuary.  For all that it’s horrible, it’s perfect.  Neither demands more than the other is willing to give.  When Ava looks at him, he’s all she sees.  Raylan treats her the way he wishes any single person in his life would have treated him.  

Bo catches wind that Boyd is escorting Raylan off the grounds of Audrey’s and feels a certain way about it.  That way- is putting a chain around Raylan’s ankle and tying him to the bar like a junk yard dog.  Raylan’s not sure it’s the deterrent Bo thinks it is.  It complicates Sheila’s appointment schedule, not being able to send Raylan on any blackmail appointments, cuts into his time with regular customers when she has to track down Clyde, who has the key, to release Raylan so he can work downstairs.  But it doesn’t really change how Raylan goes about things during his day.

Boyd can’t take him anywhere either.  But they had only been going to the batting cages once a month, if that, and Raylan doubts Bo has the attention span to keep this up much longer than that.  Perhaps the point is to make Raylan such a pain in the ass, other people distance themselves from him so as not to be inconvenienced.

The bar is closed except for Bo’s boys having their poker game and Raylan’s cleaning up as he keeps them in drinks.  Things are getting tense at the table as the pot grows larger.  Raylan personally loves being a thorn in Clyde and Jeb’s sides and uses every opportunity to be as difficult as possible, stopping just shy of earning himself a pounding.  He waits for the inevitable silence at the table as everyone sizes everyone else up and yells, “I need to take a leak, Clyde.”

Clyde’s shoulders tense, but he just waves Raylan off.

“Today, Clyde!” He kicks out his leg so the chain rattles.  “Health department isn’t going to take to kindly to me pissing in the sink here.”  He doubts the health department has ever set foot in Harlan let alone Audrey’s, but Clyde isn’t especially bright and is just as afraid of Bo as anyone else.

“Piss in a bottle,” Clyde snarls over his shoulder.

Raylan rolls his eyes until they land on the case of beer sitting at the top of the ice cooler.  “Sure thing,” he says to himself. 

He smiles as Jeb comes over to collect the next round of beer and waits in anticipation as the bottles get handed out.  It takes a couple of sips before the complaints of the beer turning get loud.  Raylan just waits until they turn their bitterness at him before making a show of doing up his fly.  It takes them a moment to connect the dots before the whole table is spitting out their drinks or going outside to throw up.

Raylan’s never claimed to be especially bright, but he will claim that the beating he takes that night over his little stunt is one hundred percent worth it.

Sheila pleads an excellent case to get Raylan off his leash by the end of the week after that.

“You ever think about regret, Raylan?” asks Boyd, watching Raylan swing.  Raylan’s focused and serious but there’s a little glint in the corner of his eye that says Raylan’s enjoying himself.  It makes Boyd feel bad about what he intends to do. 

Raylan grunts as he takes another swing, watching as the ball sails through the air before crashing into the end of the cage.  “Don’t have a lot of time to think about regret.  So, I reckon I don’t think about it.”

Boyd finishes his beer, leaving the last bottle for Raylan.  Grabbing a bat, Boyd steps into the next cage, hanging his coat on the side before stepping over the plate.  “You don’t regret being Arlo’s son?” he asks without judgment or humor before taking his first swing.

“I never chose that for myself.  No point in regretting something fate decided.”

“I have an opportunity to leave Harlan.  I’ve grown weary at the prospect of mining for the rest of my life.  But the cure for this might be just as deadly as the poison itself.  You were always dead set on leaving, long before any of this befell you.  How did you know leaving was your answer?”

The next ball whips past Raylan’s head and smashes against the back stop without him swinging.  He and Boyd were best friends for his brief stint in the mine.  After Arlo sold him, Boyd’s been the only one besides Sheila who’s been remotely kind to him.  Raylan doesn’t have so many friends he can afford to lose them.  Whatever he says here, is going to shape whether Boyd stays or goes.

  Raylan’s quiet for a moment.  “I just knew I never wanted to become what this place was going to make me,” he says softly like he’s confessing a sin.  He gets in one last hit before hanging his bat up.  The words burn but he gets them out anyways.  “If you have a way out, you should take it.”

Boyd nods, like it helped him make his decision. 

Softly, Raylan adds, “And I regret not hitting Dickie Bennett harder when I bashed in his knee.”

Chapter Text

Raylan doesn’t know why he thought his twentieth birthday would be different than any other.  But somehow it just seems sadder.  Boyd went and joined the army.  With him, went trips to the batting cages and new books to read.  Boyd was one of the only ones that treated him like a person, not just a whore.

His leaving hurts, but the worst part is Raylan had to hear about it from Jeb and Clyde, that Boyd couldn’t be bothered to say it to his face.  Though he supposes in his own way, Boyd did tell him. Raylan guesses he just placed more value on their friendship than Boyd did.

Sheila summons him to her trailer during his shift at the bar.  It can’t be good- it’s not Bo mad for not making his quota terrifying, but he’s uneasy about it.  He knocks on her door, waiting for her summons before entering.  “You asked for me?” he asks hesitantly. 

“Come in and shut the door.”

He complies.  It’s dark in the trailer.  The only way he can move through it, is because of how often he’s there.  There’s a spark and then another and suddenly a candle is giving off a soft glow, enough that he can make out Sheila’s face at the kitchen table. 

“Happy Birthday, Sugar,” she says, sliding a blue frosted chocolate cupcake towards him with the lit candle sticking out of the middle.

Raylan’s a little speechless.  His momma’s the last person to ever make a cake for him; probably the last person to ever remember it was his birthday.  “How’d you know?”

“Boyd mentioned it before he left.  He also left this for you,” she says, sliding a box poorly wrapped in bright yellow paper with a red bow on it, across the table to him.

Raylan sits down, finger picking at the liberal wads of tape securing the wrapping paper.  It’s not a box underneath, it’s a book.  It’s an SAT prep book.  Raylan snorts flipping the cover over.  Inside is Boyd’s hasty scroll reading, ‘For the smartest hooker in Harlan.’

Sheila nods to the still burning candle.  “You gonna make a wish?”

“I think I’m just going to let it burn,” says Raylan staring at the flame.  In his experience wishes never come true.

Raylan catches his first arrest and spends the weekend in jail- just because local law enforcement feels like sticking it to Bo, but doesn’t really have any evidence to hold anyone working at Audrey’s for anything other than suspected crimes.  The actual shoot out that brought the cops is pretty cut and dry and only involved two disgruntled customers settling an argument between themselves.  It’s Harlan’s equivalent to catching Capone on tax evasion, except Bo’s slipperier than that and nothing untold is discovered.

Raylan’s a little disappointed the whole thing feels like just another day for him except he doesn’t have to fuck any strangers.  He’s still stuck somewhere he doesn’t want to be, being told what to do by people he doesn’t care for.

It is made very clear, that Bo’s reach is far and wide and discretion and closed lips are the key to a long life.  Raylan doesn’t even have to call a lawyer or take a public defender; Bo has a guy already waiting to handle the case for all his employees. 

Raylan treats it like a spa weekend and refers to it as such when Jasper is waiting at the police station door to take him back home.

Raylan’s yanked out of Sheila’s trailer by the scruff of his neck and tossed on the ground.  Bo’s nephew Johnny, kicks him in the back of the leg as he tries to get up, grabbing a fist full of hair to keep Raylan on his knees.

“You’ve done it this time,” warns Bo, pressing the cold barrel of a gun against Raylan’s temple.

Raylan’s breath hitches.  He keeps his hands held out at his side because the boys are trigger twitchy to start with and he only has a vague notion as to what this is about.

 “He was protecting me!” screams Sheila, flying out of her trailer, arm pressed around her chest in a desperate attempt to keep her torn dress up.  Her hair is still a mess of tangles, and her split lip looks even angrier in the natural light.

Bo doesn’t spare her a glance, just holds his stance, firm in his decision.  “Attacking the customers is bad for business.”

It’s then Raylan notices the john, that took to working over Sheila because he thought he deserved a free blow job for every tenth one purchased, is standing in Bo’s pack of thugs with a smug smile on his face as Raylan stares down a gun.

Sheila gets in Bo’s face, standing next to Raylan.  “He didn’t follow the rules,” says Sheila pulling her hair back to display the cut above her eye and the dark bruising setting in. “Raylan was just keepin’ him from doing worse.”

Bo does glance at her this time, sneering at her appearance.  She isn’t going to be working for awhile with a face like that.  Not for top dollar anyways.  It certainly is a turn off for him.  He looks hard at the john, fury burning in his eyes.  There’s disrespect for the rules and then there’s disrespect to Bo’s personal girl.  “You git rough with Sheila there?”

“The bitch wouldn’t…” protests the john.

Raylan flinches hard as the gun shot echoes through the holler.  He stays there, too afraid to breathe, that it might ignite the horrible pain that hasn’t registered yet.  Except it’s the john that falls over, eyes staring blankly at nothing as blood runs out of the sizable hole in his head.  Raylan’s lungs shudder back into rhythm as it permeates his brain that the bullet didn’t hit him.

Sheila gasps, covering her mouth with her hands.

Bo coldcocks Raylan with his handgun, the metal still warm from the last shot fired.  Laying there, sprawled on the ground, Raylan rubs his hand against his aching face.  His ears are ringing and his jaw hurts so bad he thinks it might be broken.

“You don’t rough up the girls,” announces Bo, then looks at Raylan and adds, “you don’t be trouble.”  They head back into the bar after that, leaving Sheila and Raylan out there.

“Come on, Sugar, let’s get you some ice for that,” she says, bending over to try and help Raylan to his feet.  What a pair they make: battered, bruised and discarded.

Bo didn’t break his jaw, but he messes it up bad enough that Raylan really struggles to give head all week.  As such his earnings take a serious hit.  Sheila isn’t fairing much better and doesn’t have any extra to cover Raylan’s quota this time.

Raylan doesn’t earn twenty-four hours of hell; he’s sentenced just to twelve -with Snake.  Snake makes the twelve hours feel like seventy-two, riding Raylan extra hard to make up for the reduced time and probably exercise some internal homophobia.

In the end, it’s Clyde that’s tasked with dragging Raylan to the free clinic the next holler over.  Clyde sits with him in the waiting room, gun concealed under his jacket poking Raylan in the side as they wait to see the doctor.  Snake got overzealous and decided to literally try for a pound of flesh, carving a chunk out of Raylan’s thigh that hasn’t stopped bleeding.  On the list of things Bo thinks is bad for business, bleeding on the clients is among them.

The nurse calls Raylan to come back to an exam room and Clyde makes to go with him, but the nurse insists he wait in the waiting room for Raylan.  Raylan can feel Clyde’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he limps away.  The threat is clear even if Clyde isn’t jabbing the gun in his back- one word of truth, and Raylan doesn’t leave the clinic alive.

It’s a young doctor that comes in the exam room, probably just out of med school and doesn’t have enough seniority or experience to work some place better.  Raylan hesitates when instructed to remove his pants and put on the gown.  He’s already pale and shaky and if he doesn’t get his leg sewed up, he’s going to be in real trouble.  He bites his lip and pulls down his pants.  He can see it in the doctor’s face, the moment he realizes this isn’t an accident as stated in the admission form.

Raylan’s covered in bruises in various stages of healing and a landscape of cuts, mostly fresh from his time with Snake.  It only gets worse when he takes his shirt off and can’t get the gown on fast enough to keep the doctor from seeing most of his marred skin there.  He sits there, on the exam table, leg stretched out so the doctor can look at the offending wound, feeling incredibly small and used.

Gloved hands gently probe the exposed layer of muscle before he injects a numbing agent to dull the area.  “How did this happen?” the doctor asks, preparing to put in the sutures. 

Raylan refuses to make eye contact.  “Like I told the nurse at admissions, we were fishing, and I was trying to clean one of them for dinner and I slipped, de-scaled my leg instead.

“Mmmm hmmm,” hums the doctor, not sounding convinced.  He finishes sewing the wound closed, giving Raylan a prescription for pain meds, a sheet with care instructions and an appointment to come back and get the stitches taken out.  “Say the word, and the police can be here to take a statement and get you to a shelter.  You don’t have to let him do this to you again,” he says just before Raylan reaches the door.

Raylan pauses.  The word is dancing on the tip of his tongue.  Closing his eyes, his shoulder sag.  Clyde’s more likely to shoot up the clinic than let the police take him.  Even if they get him from Clyde, Bo is the real danger to his health and there is nowhere that will be safe from Bo.  Bo owns people in the police department.  “It was just a fishing accident,” he says sullenly, hobbling out the door to have Clyde take him back.

Sheila and the cowboy start fighting on the regular after he finds out some john beat her.  He still comes around often but they’re both miserable in the mornings. 

Raylan’s sore in everyway possible and pissy that Jeb took his prescription.  He even has to take his own stitches out. 

He wants to tell the cowboy that the john that beat Sheila is currently rotting in the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft just so he feels better, and they stop fighting.  But rule number one is he keeps his mouth shut unless there’s a dick in it, and enlightening the cowboy to the more unseemly things that happen at Audrey’s just seems like a sure fire way to make things worse.

Everyone’s just bitchy and sullen all the way around.

Raylan’s in her trailer for his twenty-first birthday cupcake when he notices the cowboy left his hat behind this time.  He picks it up and tries it on, checking out his reflection in the mirror mounted on the outside of the bathroom door.  It fits.

“It looks good on you, cowboy,” she says, brushing a stray lock of Raylan’s hair out of his eyes and under the hat.

Raylan can’t argue against that.  Sheila smiles at him, big and bright and Raylan’s missed that smile.  It’s been a while.

“He loves me, you know?” she says nodding at the hat.

Raylan doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know the first thing about real love.  But if it makes her happy, it can’t be bad.  He just shrugs one shoulder and checks out what tipping the hat forward a little looks like.

“He’s going to take me away from here,” she continues.

Raylan enjoys his brief escapes to fancy hotel rooms even if it is for work.  She deserves some time in a place with soft sheets and a comfortable mattress.

“I’m leaving Audrey’s, one day.”

Oh.  Raylan’s stomach drops.  She isn’t talking about a weekend away; she’s talking about leaving and never coming back.

“Don’t tell no one.  If Bo finds out…” she doesn’t need to finish that thought.  They both know what happens to people that leave Bo. 

Raylan takes off the hat, feeling betrayed by it.  “I’d never say a word,” he says, because he can’t trust himself to say anything else.  He wants to beg her to stay, to never leave him because then he truly would be alone.  He’s never heard of anyone successfully escaping Bo; selfishly he clings to the idea that that will remain true- that she’ll stay, and they’ll share breakfast every morning like always.  And he’ll read his books while she rattles on about the gossip amongst the girls and applies a bottle of hair spray to her golden locks.  But he knows that smile that greets him every morning is only put there because of that cowboy, that’s now threatening to take her away.

“I know you won’t,” she says, picking the hat up and putting it back on him with a kiss on the cheek.  “It looks good on you.”

Raylan leaves the hat on the kitchen table when he leaves that night, figures the cowboy is going to need it if he truly is going to ride off into the sunset with Sheila.  Things carry on like normal after that, except every morning Raylan holds his breath when he knocks on Sheila’s door. 

Four months go by and Raylan figures Sheila either changed her mind, or the cowboy forgot all about it.  Sheila’s never mentioned it since.  Raylan’s not going to bring it up and give the idea legs again.

Raylan’s snuck some cinnamon buns out from the bar.  They’re still warm and gooey and honestly, Andy’s too high to even remember he brought them in the first place.  He bangs on Sheila’s trailer door, excited to share his ill-gotten gains.  There’s no answer.  He knocks louder in case she’s overslept. Still nothing.

Raylan opens the door with vigor, some joke about sleeping beauty on the tip of his tongue.  The trailer is empty and not just of Sheila.  Her clothes are gone and her valuable personal items.  Sitting on the table is the cowboy’s hat and a note. 

‘Sorry Raylan, I didn’t have the strength to break your heart in person.  You’re going to be alright.  Look out for my girls for me.  Keep the hat.  It looks good on you.  All my love- Sheila.’

Raylan crumples the note, stuffing it in his pocket to toss in the dumpster later.  If the cowboy can’t get her out and Bo drags her back here, he doesn’t want any evidence that leaving was premeditated.  He takes the hat, puts it on and heads into the bar to start his day.

Chapter Text

Bo’s angry- understandably.  His favorite whore is gone and there isn’t anyone to manage the other girls, at least not as smoothly as Sheila managed.  Carson, who’s been managing the bar tries his hand at it but some how the skills for selling beer don’t translate to running a brothel for him.  It gives the girls free reign but they like money, so they get good at running themselves. 

Bo takes his frustrations out on everyone.  He grills the girls as to Sheila’s whereabouts and practically waterboards Raylan.  He has nothing to tell, Sheila never said anything more than she was leaving with her man.  He wouldn’t say anything even if he did know.

Bo’s men are even more attentive about everyone’s comings and goings.  He puts Raylan back on the chain at the bar.  In a surprising move, Raylan gets Sheila’s trailer.  Carson’s uncomfortable with Raylan having to whore in the basement and Bo has more important things to keep locked up in the bar.  Raylan’s locked in the trailer at night and not released until someone rises from their drunken stupor the next morning.

It suits Raylan just fine, his stuff’s in Sheila’s trailer anyways.

It feels like walking over her grave, being in her space and her not being there.  All her generic things are there, sitting untouched like a shrine.  Raylan grabs a garbage bag to toss the things he can’t use or won’t use, but as he goes to clean her beauty products out of the bathroom, he finds he can’t do it. 

He doesn’t have a photo of Sheila, just memories, which are tied up in the smell of her hairspray, the jingle of her gaudy jewelry, the shitty way she folded her towels.  All the things left behind aren’t important to her- like Raylan, but without her here, they’re important to Raylan.

He keeps the stuff as a reminder, of what it felt like to have someone be his friend on the good days, and to remind him that he’s disposable on his bad days.

About five months after Sheila leaves, Raylan comes back to his trailer to find Amber hanging around his door.  The extent of their interaction together is her getting drinks from Raylan to help lubricate potential customers at the bar and occasionally getting him to help carry a john that’s gotten sloppy drunk either from the bar to her trailer or her trailer to the parking lot.  Other than that, she usually doesn’t waste time talking to him.  Not even a smile if there isn’t something in it for her.  Her and Sheila, however often got together to paint their nails and gossip about performance of the previous nights guys and who tips the best. 

There are no clients yet, so Raylan figures she’s come to commiserate over the Sheila sized hole in their days.  Not that Raylan has any interest in gossiping and doing nails.  Nor do they share the same client list.  “Amber,” he says, tipping his hat, because no matter what, his momma raised him to be a gentleman.

“Raylan,” she replies looking rather twitchy.

“You need something?” he asks, when she’s not forthcoming.

She picks at a scab in the crook of her left arm, making the spot red and puffy.  “You have any oxy?”

“Nope,” he replies looking incredulously at her.  It’s rampant around Audrey’s but something he’s managed to stay clear of.  A fact, that is well known among the workers. 

“Oh,” she says, disappointed.

Raylan reaches over her shoulder to grab the door handle to his trailer, trying to spur her on her way.  She steps to the side, looking all around the yard.  “You sure you ain’t got any in there?”  There’s a hesitancy in her voice, like she’s afraid to get caught, which is weird since Bo doesn’t give two shits if the girls are on any thing or not.  He prefers it, because it makes them more agreeable while high and more desperate to work for him when they’re not.

“Pretty sure, Amber,” he says slowly.

She rubs at her arm.  “You don’t want to go in there and check?”

Raylan looks around but there isn’t anybody around, so she’s not avoiding one of Bo’s guys or trying to get away from a client that showed up or stayed uninvited.  But there’s obviously something going on.  Sheila wasn’t a big user of drugs; her medication of choice was Wild Turkey on the rocks.  Maybe she was dealing to the girls on behalf of Bo and her stash is hiding somewhere Raylan hasn’t found yet.  “You need to come in here, Amber?”

She nods emphatically, practically pushing him out of the way to get inside.

“Well, alright then,” he mutters to himself before following her in. 

He’s barely got the door shut and Amber’s shoving an envelope in his face.  He has to take a step back to even focus on what she’s shoving at him. 

“I got this in my mail this week,” she says frantically, pacing the small confines of the trailer.

It’s already been opened so Raylan pulls out what’s inside.  It’s a pretty picture of some place tropical, like one of those scenes they put on travel advertisements.

“She said give this to Raylan,” says Amber, pulling a bright pink sticky note from her pocket.  “So, I’m giving it to you.”

Raylan frowns.  His finger runs over the thick edge of the picture, and he realizes it’s not a photo but a postcard.  Turning it over there isn’t an address either for Audrey’s or to return it.  Raylan’s name isn’t even on the card just the swirly neat scrawl Sheila writes in with the words, ‘wish you were here.’

“So now I gave it to you.  And I have no part in this,” stresses Amber before bolting out the door.

A half smile forms on his lips.  At least she’s somewhere safe and enjoying life with her cowboy.  He wonders if Sheila was able to get away because it’s possible or because despite everything, Bo was genuinely sweet on her?  He’s happy for her, really and truly.  But he’s a bit bitter at how he’s still shackled in Harlan as everyone else finds a way out.

He tapes the picture to the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.  Then sets about packing up the hairspray, gawdy jewelry and everything else left behind that he can’t use and puts it in a box outside for the girls to take.

Raylan's restocking the cooler when Bowman Crowder comes in, dust covered from working at the mine with a frightened woman- a girl really, in his grip. He's only half paying attention as Bowman pulls Bo into the corner, talking conspiratorially and side eyeing the girl. Raylan recognizes the look on the girl- the in over your head, drowning, will take any lifeline available even if it is an anchor to a sinking ship, look. He's worn it himself a few times. She looks like a drown cat that's missed a few meals and is looking for a home.

Raylan's not far off because Bo hollers his name to get his attention. "Take Crystal here to the green trailer and get her settled. She starts tonight."

"It's Christy," she corrects in a meek voice, eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

"I'm sure it is sweetie," replies Bo giving her a firm slap on the ass.

What the hell does Raylan know about how to get a new girl settled in? "I haven't switched the kegs yet," protests Raylan because he isn't one to give a pep talk to anyone, nor a shining example on how to survive this life. And he's in no mood to catch hell when they run out of tap beer.

"You say that like you have a choice in the matter," says Bo, striding over to the counter, his dark eyes unnervingly fixed on Raylan.

Raylan swallows hard but holds his ground. His head snaps to the side as Bo cuffs him hard across the face. Raylan can taste the blood in his mouth where his cheek gets cut up on his teeth.

"I don't recall asking."

Raylan has a fantasy about picking up the wayward corkscrew on the counter and slamming it in Bo's jugular. Instead, he says, "My mistake," and braces himself for another hit as Bo raises his hand again.

Bo doesn't strike and Raylan takes that as his dismissal. "This way," he says heading out the back. The girl follows, arms folded across her stomach and five steps behind.

The trailer is vacant because it's pretty run down, even compared to every other piece of shit out there. Raylan distantly recalls someone saying the roof in the bathroom leaks when it rains.

Turns out Christy- not Crystal, is a teenage runaway out of Nebraska with absolutely nowhere to go and no one to turn to, who managed to hitchhike with truckers until one dropped her off at a bar favored by the miners. She befell Bowman there, who promised her a job and a place to sleep. While Christy isn't entirely unfamiliar with the job requirements, she is youthfully inexperienced and unprepared for exactly what she's trapped herself into.  

Raylan tries to remember what advice Sheila gave him when Bo bought him, but for all they are the same, his and Christy's roles are vastly different. He wants to tell her to keep running- to run and never stop. Instead, he tells her how the shifts work, a few of the guys to stay away from and to buddy up with one of the other girls.

Thanks to Sheila's ingenuity, Bo's found a system to traffic his more unique acquisitions. Whores are a dime a dozen, but, like male prostitutes, underage is a bit harder to find in this setting. It isn't long until Christy is riding out to Lexington with Raylan for more profitable rendezvouses. It never ceases to amaze Raylan the number of people in power that have predilections towards things they need to hide.

Raylan's being farmed out to some drug supplier as incentive to get into dealings with Bo, but Christy is being used to appease some lawman who Bo needs to look the other way while he moves product from time to time.

Raylan's done early because apparently the supplier has been partaking in their own supply and was barely able to get it up for his blow job let alone taking Raylan all afternoon. Suits Raylan fine but since the guy passed out on the hotel bed instead of leaving, he opts to wait in the car instead.

He knows Christy's room is two doors down because they got off the elevator together. So, when he hears the pained screams for help, he knows who and what's going on. Clyde's waiting in the car, but the time it will take to go down and get him will be too long. He reaches out to test the door handle, hoping fate will intervene. The handle turns and Raylan's committed to going in now.

The cop who’s too busy choking Christy out, not taking too kindly to Bo attempting to extort him, doesn't hear Raylan enter.

Christy's eyes go wide as Raylan smashes a lamp against the cop's head. "Get back to the car!" he yells. Now that Raylan has the guy's attention, he's let Christy's go in favor of shit kicking Raylan. Raylan grew up in a rough house, but the guy has a hundred pounds on him and training. He also has backup in the form of his cop partner who overheard the commotion from a room over.

One hit from the second guy's baton and Raylan's on the ground under a hailstorm of fists and steel toe boot kicks. He puts his hands by his ears, using his arms to block some of the onslaught. In the end Clyde and Christy watch from the car as Raylan, beaten to a pulp, gets hauled away in handcuffs to be booked at the police station despite the paramedics’ strong urge for medical treatment. 

Raylan ends up doing ten months because the judge is a jerk and apparently law enforcement sticks together when accusations of solicitation and under aged girls are thrown around. It's the only thing that keeps the union lawyer from pursuing prostitution charges against Raylan on top of his assault conviction.

Bo has enough guys that he can successfully trade Raylan on the inside just as easily as he sells him on the outside. They're less concerned about his well being in prison if that's even possible. But the thinly held rule of not damaging the merchandise because pretty sells isn't a consideration around here. They don't care what Raylan looks like.

Beside being handled even rougher, Raylan shares a cell so he never has a moment alone and Bo's guy that runs things on the inside has Raylan working every possible second, he can't even make use of the library. Quickly Raylan learns just how hard to push to land himself in solitary and employs the strategy as often as feasible, precariously balancing on the edge of keeping himself from being eaten alive in prison and earning extra time on his sentence.  He's almost relieved, when he's released, at the thought of going back to Audrey’s.  He supposes it’s the same thing as his momma always going back to Arlo, even after she ran to Limehouse for protection. 

That thought quickly vanishes when it's Snake that shows up to pick him up on release day. He watches Raylan walk out of prison with that shark smile of his and places his hand on Raylan's thigh when he gets in the vehicle in some mock imitation of love.  Raylan prefers not to have the pretense that this is going to be anything but violent and animalistic. 

It's the longest three days of Raylan's life getting back to Harlan, being stuck in the car with Snake all day, and trapped underneath him all night while he administers every single one of his sadistic urges.  It’s Raylan’s punishment for wasting Bo’s time the last ten months being locked up.

The only good news, Christy the teenage runaway, fled and is rumored to be somewhere in Florida.

'Good,' Raylan thinks, as Snake tells him when he’s mercilessly pounding into Raylan from behind. She wasn't made for this life anyways.

Raylan becomes the unofficial guardian of the girls after that. Between Sheila leaving and hearing what he did for Christy, they figure he can fill the role.

He can't protect himself; he doesn't know how he's going to keep them any safer.

Chapter Text

A marshal shows up to Audrey’s under the flag of searching for two men responsible for robbing a bank.  Bo’s boys know who robbed the bank because it’s two of them and they’re not interested in leaving peacefully with the marshal who was ballsy enough to come alone on a hunch.  The marshal shoots one in the leg, kills the two who robbed the bank and knocks the fourth one out all the while only earning himself a scratch above the eye and slight limp from landing awkwardly on his hip during the altercation.  Audrey’s gets pretty banged up in the process. 

The marshal is standing there, breathing heavy from the effort and partly in relief that he’s still standing when the back door to the bar opens.  Immediately he raises his gun and points it in the direction of the noise.

View obscured from the boxes piled high in his arms, Raylan makes it all of five steps behind the bar before he hears, “US Marshal, don’t move!”  Raylan freezes, out of shock more than anything.  Slowly, he peers around his armload to see the destruction laying around the bar that was overshadowed by the freezer door being closed behind him as he gathered inventory.

Marshal Mullen lets out a breath as he locks eyes with Raylan, who’s rail thin, sporting a cowboy hat and jeans that hang too loose on his thin frame. The hat doesn’t quite shadow the fading black bruise or the desperate vulnerability in Raylan’s eyes, the eyes of a desperate child.  Art’s already killed two people, he’s not interested in adding a third.  His stance is still tense, not sure if Raylan is youthfully stupid enough to go for the shotgun Art knows is under the bar.  He really has no interest in shooting this child. 

“Behind you,” warns Raylan as one of the men on the ground rallies enough to lift his gun at Art’s back.  Art turns and drops him for good this time.  “Thanks kid.”

Raylan nods, making a face at the endearment but still doesn’t move from his spot.  The boxes of beer are starting to get heavy.

Art calls into his radio for back up and soon the sound of sirens is crying out in the distance.  “I’m going to need you to step out from behind the bar, son and get on your belly with your hands behind your back.”

Raylan puts down the crates slowly and takes a few steps around the bar.  Art’s trying to figure out what the jingling sound is when Raylan clears the bar, showing off the chain secured around his foot that isn’t long enough for him to come to the middle of the room.  “Not sure I can comply, Marshal.  But it ain’t cause I don’t wanna.”

“We’ll shit, son,” says Art lowering his gun.  That haunted look, the bruises in various stages of healing and Art has some pretty awful ideas about what’s been going on in the hillbilly drinking hole. 

Raylan gets hauled in with everyone else on the property and stuck in an interrogation room.  There’s no way to know for sure Raylan isn’t a willing participant of the Crowder operations and the whole captive at the bar isn’t a clever ploy.  Still, there’s something in Art’s gut that tells him this boy is just a lost soul that got swept up in something far bigger and stronger than himself.  He stands in the observation room and watches one of the other deputies conduct the interview.

Raylan’s sitting there, defensiveness in his body language, arms crossed, glaring at the marshal.  “I don’t know nothing about nothing,” he says before the questioning even begins.  He’s stone lipped after that.

After three hours and not another word out of him, and ID finally coming back on him as one Raylan Givens, Harlen born and bred, twenty-two years old looking more like he’s sixteen and in need of a hug and someone to tell him it’s all going to be alright, Art decides to try another approach.  He hits the vending machine up and walks in with an armful of candy bars and couple of sodas.  “You hungry?” he asks, dismissing his fellow marshal.  “You look like you could eat.”

Raylan watches wearily as the other marshal leaves.  “You gonna be the good cop or the bad cop?” he asks. 

“Just thinking you might be hungry,” he says as he takes the vacant seat.  “Is there a parent we can call for you?”

Raylan snorts.  “I’m twenty-two, don’t need a parent.  Mother’s dead and don’t know where my father is.”

Art already knows all of this.  He even knows Arlo Givens is in lock up on a disorderly conduct and assault charge.  “They aren’t poisoned,” he says when he notices Raylan eyeing the candy up hungerly but not making a move for it.

Raylan looks like he doesn’t entirely believe Art, but grabs a snickers and a Dr Pepper anyways.  He bites into the chocolate bar, hating how good it tastes or how much he needs it. 

“You know anything about the robbery those two pulled?” Art asks.

“Like I told your partner.  I don’t know anything about anything.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.  I have it on good authority you were a pretty bright student in school.  A little mischievous, but bright.  Even had a possible baseball career in your future until you dropped out at fifteen.  You don’t want to go down as part of this, Raylan.  You’re an adult and will be tried as one if you’re connected to it.  But you could testify, earn yourself a deal.  You could testify about anything,” he says nodding towards the foot that had the shackle around it at the bar.  “We have the ability to protect you.”

Raylan rolls his eyes.  Bo Crowder has people everywhere.  Raylan’s not safe anywhere, not at Audrey’s, not in prison and certainly not in police custody.  “I’m just a bar back.  All I know is the beer delivery schedule.  Nothing about banks or robberies and the like.”

“Alright, how about being chained up like a dog.  You know anything about that?”

Raylan tilts his head, leaning back in his chair slightly amused.  “It’s one of my kinks.  Didn’t think that was against the law.”

“And the bruises?”

“I like it rough.  Also, not illegal as far as I know.”

The kid is smart mouthed and infuriating but Art can’t shake that desperate look in his eyes the moment he saw Art pointing his gun at him at Audrey’s.  “It doesn’t matter if you received them turning tricks, son.  If you’re being abused by anyone, I promise we can help.”  It’s no secret Audrey’s is a whore house as much as it is a bar.  Discretion is part of its valor and as long as it stays that way, law enforcement tends to pretend not to notice until they need to.  It’s not a stretch for Art to assume Raylan’s position in Bo Crowder’s organization given Raylan hasn’t been shown to be connected to any of Bo’s other operations.

Nobody’s ever been able to help Raylan before, he doubts this marshal will be any different.  His interest lies in bringing down the Crowder family and after that lofty goal, he’ll toss Raylan away like so many others and then who will protect Raylan from whoever remains to do Bo’s bidding? 

“I’m many things, Marshal.  A cheap hooker ain’t one of them.”  Raylan doesn’t see any of the money, but he knows he isn’t cheap.

“Mmmm humm,” hums Art, like he isn’t buying Raylan’s particular brand of bullshit.

In the end Raylan’s released.  He can feel Art’s eyes on him as he walks through the lobby and out to the waiting car.

Raylan's watching Amber, with half interest, flirt with Kellan Hickey. Kellan doesn't much care who's underneath him, he just has a thing for anal and if Amber finds someone better tonight and doesn't take him, he's going to be Raylan's problem. It's not that Kellan is especially rough, he isn't exactly gentle either, he does like to leave bruises. Raylan's had Kellan’s handprints pressed into his hips in all shades of black and blue. Last night's John certainly did already. Raylan's pissing blood from the kidney punches the guy thought would communicate what he wanted Raylan to do. He needs a light night, just a couple of blow jobs. He just needs to rest a moment- or preferably a lifetime. 

This crowd doesn't look like the easy type, and god does he hate having to flirt to try and find work. He's gotten to the point where he can make himself do a lot of things, but he can't stomach putting on a fake smile and actively searching for someone to fuck him. At least with appointments he can tell himself he has no choice in the matter when he's lying there after, feeling hollow and gutted. If he has to seek out customers, it just feels like complacency in being a sexual toy. He supposes regardless the situation he always has a choice; a broken shard of a mirror against his wrist is a choice too. He's just never been strong enough to make that choice.  He wants to see how this story ends.

Then he glances at the door and his breath hitches in his lungs. It's the closest he's ever been to an angel- Ava, standing there with her golden hair and a shimmery silver dress on. Raylan aches to feel that safety and love he felt crammed on that damn couch at the rec center listening to Ava talk about better things as he held her.

Her gaze drifts through the crowd, managing to find Raylan at the bar.  That soft, sweet smile of hers curls her pretty pink lips. 

Raylan can feel a smile coming on himself, but then Bowman steps in, putting his arm around Ava’s waist like she’s a prize he just won and directs her to the table in the corner.  Raylan’s smile never makes a formal appearance.  He does watch Ava most of the night, laughing and sharing a drink with Bowman who shows her off like the pretty little diamond she is.

Raylan watches as she gets up from the table, playfully pawing away Bowman’s hand as he reaches for her to stay.  He commits ever sashay of her hips to memory as she comes to the bar, places her manicured nails on the counter and says, “Raylan,” with a big ole smile.

“Ava,” he greets, low and cautious, leaning against the bar with his hat dipped low.  “What brings you here?”  They never formally ended things.  They technically never had an official relationship, but Raylan was all in, heart and soul, to whatever it was they had.  The end came not because he wanted it to, it came because Bo tightened Raylan’s leash and Boyd ran off to join the army.

“Well, I’m here to get a drink,” she says in her bright cheery voice before looking back at the table with Bowman and his friends.  “For me and my fiancé.”  She holds her left hand out proudly to show off the ring.

It’s like a gut punch.  Raylan purses his lips as he looks away.  The diamond is too bright and too shiny for his world.  “You’re going to marry Bowman Crowder?” he asks bitterly.  He never imagined marrying Ava himself, but it stings just a little, that someone else could make her smile like that- that she could be happy here of all places and with a Crowder no less.

She taps her engagement ring.  “That seems to be the plan.”

“I thought the plan was beauty school and then off to Hollywood to work with the stars?”  Ava can do better than a Crowder.  That better isn’t him by any stretch; he is aware enough to know that much.

“It was hair dressing school in Lexington,” she corrects.  “Anything else was tied up in the promise of another life.”  There’s accusation in her voice, like Raylan is the only person to ever have wronged her. 

“I never promised you any kind of life.”  He couldn’t.  He can’t even make a damn life for himself, so wrapped up in chains and tethers of Harlan.

“You never came back, Raylan.  You just left me working at that rec center waiting for you to show up for batting practice again.  So, what choice do I have than to marry someone like Bowman?”

He wants to scream that she had dreams, a plan, a damn way out of this place and nothing holding her back but her own damn self.  She certainly didn’t need him to accomplish it.  And why the fuck did she ever think he could giver her her dreams when he couldn’t reach for his own?  Instead, he says, “I've never had much choice in where I go, Ava.”

“Me neither, Raylan,” she says regretfully.  “I need two whiskies straight up.”

Raylan pours the drinks and watches her head back to Bowman, sit on his lap and laugh at his jokes.  She looks like she’s in love.  The low, dirty, bitter part of Raylan hopes it’s all just a show she’s putting on to make him jealous.

“We gonna do this, cowboy?” says Kellan, sauntering up to the bar, throwing back a shot and slamming the glass down on the counter.

“Fuck me,” mumbles Raylan in disappointment as his head dips down.  Looks like Amber found someone better.

“That’s the idea,” says Kellan with a huge grin.

Ava starts hanging around the bar not long after her nuptials.  At first Raylan thinks it’s because Bowman is usually there after work.  Soon he notices she’s there even when he’s not.  She spends most of her time chatting up Raylan when he isn’t out in his trailer.  She never says anything about what he does.  It’s the elephant in the room they somehow manage to avoid.

He doesn’t mind having someone to share a kind word with.  The girls love to talk but it’s usually shop; Raylan has to live it- he’d rather not talk about it too.  Ava’s kindness becomes the best part of his day.  It fills a void left by Boyd and Sheila.

It’s not lost on him when she starts coming in looking sad and wearing too much make up.  Raylan has enough experience with covering up bruising to know when someone else is doing it too when he sees it.  He isn’t so jealous of Bowman and Ava anymore.  It’s turned into sorrow for Ava and anger for Bowman for breaking such an angel in the manner in which Bowman’s daddy broke Raylan.

Raylan's distributing drinks to cover for Ashley who left her orders at the bar to go give a customer a hand job in the storage closet.  He’s pretty sure the guy is an unofficial boyfriend; the guy certainly brings her gifts like he’s courting her. Making his way from table to table, not particularly paying attention to anything other than the clock and his own looming appointment to a frequent flyer he'd rather avoid, he slides the shots across what turns out to be Boyd's table.

"Hello, Raylan," says Boyd in his usual casual manner like he went camping for a weekend and not off to fight in the army for the last couple of years. 

Raylan almost drops the whole tray. "Holy shit, Boyd." A genuine smile comes to his face. "When did you get back?"

Boyd gestures for Raylan to sit down. "I've been back for a few months now. Got my old job at the mine back."

That gives Raylan pause. "Does your father know you're back?"

"He knew the day I returned."

Raylan makes a face like he's sucking on a lemon. Boyd's been back months, long enough to get his old job back and everyone knew but said nothing to him- Boyd said nothing to him. "Why'd you come back, Boyd?" asks Raylan, though he doesn't just mean Harlan.

"I had some regrets."

Raylan's stomach drops as he sees his client for tonight walk in over Boyd's shoulder. "You should have stayed gone, Boyd," he says getting up to meet his date with the executioner. 

“Nice to see you too, Raylan,” calls Boyd after him.

Chapter Text

Boyd comes back, but he comes back different- a little angrier, a lot bitter.

He shows up once a week, book in hand.  It’s mostly on Sunday afternoons when the church goers are still tied up in godly affairs and the bar is pretty dead.  He sits and reads the newspaper while Raylan reads a chapter in whatever book Boyd’s brought for him.  When Boyd’s done whatever section has his attention this week, he starts spouting off on all the new theories he has about the world.

It’s mostly racist shit that Raylan has no time for.  Boyd spews on but Raylan just buries his nose in the book until the books Boyd starts bringing reflect Boyd’s new world views.  Raylan starts leaving the books untouched at the table and volunteering to clean the cooler when Boyd drops by.

Ava and Boyd are both back in his life but instead of being a joyous reunion, it’s rather bitter.  Harlan has a way of ruining people.

Art lets out a long sigh as he crosses the threshold to Audrey’s.  It’s been two years, but his last visit is still fresh in his mind.  He figures this is his opportunity, since locals grabbed Bo and a few of his heavy hitters on some chickenshit charge that will hold them for a few days only, unless someone can dig up something better- more concrete.

He’s not sure if he’s surprised or disappointed to see a familiar face scrubbing blood off the wall.  “You still alive, kid?” he says removing his sunglasses.  Raylan doesn’t look any better than last time Art had Raylan’s acquaintance, but part of him is relieved the kid isn’t cold on a slab somewhere or pushing daisies.

“What can I get you, Marshal?” asks Raylan, tiredly as he drops the scrub brush back in the bucket of soapy water.  Fist fights are entertaining to watch at night when those fists aren’t looking to meet Raylan, but clean up in the morning is a bitch.

“I’m on the clock, so I guess a water will have to suffice.”

Raylan heads back to the bar and Art pulls up a chair, setting it against the wall.  He fills a mostly clean glass and shoos the fruit flies off a slice of lemon before dropping it in.  Sliding it across the table, Art pulls out a five-dollar bill.  “Water’s free around here,” says Raylan.

“Consider it a tip.”

Raylan looks skeptically at the money.  He takes it and walks dutifully to the tip jar and drops it in.  He’s not sure what kind of test this is, but it feels like some kind of trap.

“I see you lost your accessory,” mentions Art, at the lack of chain around Raylan’s ankle.

“It doesn’t go with this shirt,” replies Raylan.  “Is there something you’re looking for Marshal?  Because people don’t come here for the water.”  Jeb’s somewhere out back, no doubt with Amber ‘fixing her stove,’ so the only other person here is Raylan. 

“Just thought I would come in for a friendly chat.  Some drug dealers have been hit recently and since they’re rivals to Bo Crowder’s business…”

“Alleged drug deals,” corrects Raylan.  He knows his role in this rodeo. 

Art smiles.  “Alleged rivals to Bo Crowder’s alleged business.  I wanted to ask if he had seen anything suspicious or had any insight that could help us apprehend these dangerous individuals.”

“Bo ain’t here,” says Raylan though he’s pretty sure Art already knew that before he walked into the bar.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”  Raylan shakes his head.  “What about his associates? Might they be free?”

Raylan makes a show of looking around the empty bar.  “Doesn’t look like it.”

“What about you?  You see anything that could help us in our investigation?”

“Like I said before, I don’t see anything.”

“Maybe you should get some glasses,” suggests Art.

Raylan dips his head, giving a huff in an attempt to abort his chuckle.  “Look, unless you’re going to give me a shining set of bracelets yourself, we have nothing to talk about.”

Art nods to himself.  He drinks the entire glass of tepid water and slides his glass towards Raylan before getting up.  “You don’t have to keep living your life like this.  My offer for witness protection still stands.”

Raylan thinks of the cowboy and how he got Sheila out.  Art’s no cowboy but maybe he could be a lifeline all the same.  Then he remembers being strung up in Mag’s barn, chained up in a mine shaft, being passed around in prison- the furthest possible place he could get from Bo and yet Bo still had his hooks in Raylan.  He remembers all the times his mother ran from Arlo, leaving Raylan behind, only to come crawling back weeks later.  He remembers his father selling him to Mags and knows he’s only as good as his usefulness to people and then is passed on to the next person.  Bo won’t let go easily and once Art thinks he has Bo, he’ll toss Raylan too.  “If you have to come here begging me to take down Bo Crowder, we both know you can’t protect anyone from him.  Good day, Marshal.”  Raylan goes back to cleaning up last nights blood stains as Art heads out the door.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding me, Raylan,” says Boyd, nice and casual as he leans against the cooler door.  He stands there, with his right arm folded behind his back, watching Raylan wrestle with the kegs and unopened cases of booze. 

Raylan is avoiding him, but Boyd was kind when no one else was, and still is to him even if his charity doesn’t extend to others in idea or practice.  He can’t say so because he doesn’t want to be uncharitable about their friendship thus far.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  Just doing work that needs to be done is all.”

“I’m sure cousin Johnny is much appreciative of it, but we both know you’re not paid to be a bar hand.”

“I’m not paid at all,” corrects Raylan bitterly. 

“Well now that does have the sweet ring of truth to it.  But you know what they say, Raylan.  Suffering is good for the soul.”

“Yeah?  How’s your soul Boyd?  Tell me how it is you suffer.”

Boyd looks serious, if not slightly haunted.  “We all suffer in our own ways.”

“I’ll trade you, Boyd.”

Boyd looks contemplative for a moment before his dark eyes start to burn with that onyx flame that’s destroyed so many.  “I was not blessed with the talents I hear you possess.”

Raylan flips Boyd off.  It was a cheap shot and they both know it.  Boyd may not bite often, but when he does, he goes down to the bone.

Boyd looks pensive as he says, “Forgive me, Raylan.  Allow me to make up for my trespass?”  He brings his arm out from behind his back and tosses a baseball in the air, catching it and repeating the toss.

Raylan side eyes the baseball.  God, he wants to say no, to tell Boyd where to shove his new attitude, but longs for the smell of old leather gloves and fresh cut grass.  It’s been years.  “Batting cages?”

“Even better,” promises Boyd.  He leaves a stack of cash and hastily writes, ‘For Raylan’s time,’ on a napkin and leaves it on the bar.

It is even better than the batting cages- it’s the actual baseball field where Raylan played his last game and a whole crate of baseballs.  The field is empty, except for the two of them and the gentle breeze that’s just passing through.  The stands and field itself have fallen into disrepair, replaced with a new field at the other end of town since the high school closed due to a redrafting of catchment lines.  The weeds are working hard to reclaim the land and the grass is yellowish and crunches under Raylan’s feet.  There isn’t even an echo of the crowds of old, just the haunted rustle of leaves and garbage that time forgot.

Boyd settles himself in the stands on a bench that isn’t rotted through yet.  He leans back, folding his hands behind his head like a self-appointed king of the field and watches Raylan go to work on the crate of balls.  Jim Bean has replaced the usual round of beers, a more sophisticated spirit for more complex problems. 

Grabbing a ball, Raylan tosses it in the air, waiting for that perfect moment it lines up to take a swing.  He shudders with satisfaction as he watches them sail through the air, often clearing the back fence.  Just for a moment, he pretends it’s his big-league debut of what will be the start of a long career far far away from the hills and hollers of his heritage.

“I’m thinking of a career change.  I’ve grown weary of working for the man.  My purpose on this earth was not to mine coal,” says Boyd conversationally. 

Raylan glances at him but grabs his next ball.  The bat cracks against it, sending it to its final resting place in the bushes at the edge of the field.  “And what do you think that purpose is?”

“God will reveal,” says Boyd, like it’s obvious. 

Raylan doesn’t know much about god, but he knows god doesn’t pay the rent.  Though from what he’s overheard from Bo’s hired guns, Boyd’s living out of an abandoned church, so he probably doesn’t have to concern himself with rent.  “If you say so.”

“I do, Raylan.  The government has long been pillaging the hard-working people of this country.  I am no longer interested in submitting to their false idolatry.  If my blood earns that dollar, it should be entitled to keep it.”

Raylan frowns, but keeps swinging.  “You’re mad you have to pay taxes?”

“I’m despondent about a great many things.  But yes, Uncle Sam having his hand in my pocket is one of them.  I have searched my soul and believe it is time they had a dose of their own medicine.”

Raylan doesn’t know what Boyd’s getting at, but it sounds illegal.  Like father like son.  “Doesn’t sound like you’re thinking about it, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”  The last ball floats in the air coming down gently until it catches the middle of Raylan’s bat and shoots off into the sunset like the rocket that astronaut that came to their high school one year used.

He drops his bat in the crate and goes to sit down next to Boyd in the bleachers.  Boyd passes him the bottle of Jim Bean and Raylan takes a long drink.

“I do enjoy your insightful advice, Raylan,” Boyd says.

Raylan has no idea what Boyd is talking about.  Unlike him, Boyd’s life has been his own, including every decision he’s made.  “Can’t say I’ve ever given you advice, Boyd.  Insightful or otherwise.”

“Oh, but you have, Raylan,” he says, sagely before taking the bottle back to have another sip. 

Raylan’s not sure he wants the credit or responsibility for anything Boyd decides to do.

Bo posts a newspaper clipping about a woman and her boyfriend brutally murdered in Florida in his office, it's on display so the girls see it when he calls a meeting. There's a Polaroid tacked next to it of the woman, only it's not a nice picture picked out by a loved one for the press, it's a still from the crime scene before it was dubbed a crime scene. She's a little older, but Raylan recognizes the eyes, even if they're not filled with life- Christy the teenage runaway; husband, collateral damage to the whole thing.  The picture is displayed proudly like some morbid shrine to what happens if you run.

Raylan wonders if she had any idea if Bo was coming for her. Was she just living her life, completely surprised when the past reached up from the depths of hell to take her? Or was this the looming threat that had her waking in a cold sweat every night, an impending date to answer the question of when, not if? He doesn't know which scenario he likes more- blissfully oblivious with sheer shock and terror at the end, or fear as a constant companion but living every moment of freedom to its fullest because it was all just borrowed time.

Regardless, it gets the message across without Bo having to say a word. He'll find you, even if it takes years. Raylan just hopes it's never Sheila's picture on that wall.  It does negate any notion he has of riding off into the sunset.

Chapter Text

The law, particularly the marshals, have an enthusiasm for trying to nail Bo. They bust down Audrey’s door about once a month and while they may not catch Bo in any violation, they get one of his men for something.  Raylan admires the audacity Art has, to be so in Bo’s face.  The year long war is costing both sides a lot.  Raylan's getting really good at assuming the position.

It's usually Marshal Mullen leading the charge. Bo's gotten stricter about the rules as a result. The current theory being Audrey's has a rat problem. Who ever it is, none of Bo's coerced lawmen know, but they can usually give a heads up when the marshals are coming.

Raylan doesn't much care, getting hauled in by Mullen for questioning is a free ride to Lexington and a day off from sucking dick.  If he times it right, he can score a free meal out of Art, who isn't a complete dick, like most lawmen, rather a soft touch if Raylan can lay on youthful misguidance extra thick.  The marshal’s office gets the best sandwiches there. 

Raylan's sprawled out in the back of Art's car, feet on the seat and hat over his face, like he's taking a nap. It pisses Art's partner off to no end, but Art always has an amused smile on his face, when Raylan attempts to appear as anything other than the used up broken kid he is.

Raylan's resolve to be an annoying shit falters when the car pulls off the highway on to an old gravel parking lot of a run-down diner. It's not their usual routine and Raylan's immediately on alert. He sits up, holding his hat in his cuffed hands. There isn't really anything else for miles and he isn't going to get far if he has to run, cuffed as he is. It's not going to be Raylan's first forced fuck in a truck stop bathroom, but he never figured Mullen the type. His partner- most definitely, but not Art.

Art parks the car.

"Waste of time," huffs his partner.

"You going to wait in the car?" asks Art.

"In this heat? I'll be at the counter," replies Art's partner. As he climbs out of the car he glares in the backseat. "You two enjoy."

There's something about the man's smile that makes Raylan want to throw up.  He’s rather disappointed with himself that he didn’t see it coming and frankly didn’t expect it.

Art watches Raylan for a moment in the rearview mirror. It makes Raylan feel small, like a fly caught in a spider's web as it decides if it should move in for the kill yet.  Art gets out of the car, fixing his navy marshals baseball cap in place before opening the back door.

Raylan can't seem to make himself move.

"You need a personal invitation?"

Raylan recognizes the tone. They're probably still going to Lexington for their interview so it's unlikely Art will get too rough. Raylan imagines there's a lot of paperwork attached to bringing in a beaten suspect. He also imagines that being in law enforcement has given Art some varied and new ideas on how to inflict pain, should that be his kink, that Raylan can't even begin to imagine. Bo's already going to be irritable about losing another day to this circus, so it's probably in Raylan's best interest if he can convince Art to not get too rough with him. That starts by following directions.

He gets out of the car and stands where Art directs him.  It takes a lot of effort to hide the shiver that’s running along his spine.

"I'm going to take the cuffs off and you're not going to run. You don't want me to have to chase you," warns Art.

Raylan swallows, then nods once, rubbing at his now cuff free wrists.

Art leads him inside by dragging him along by his shirt sleeve and deposits him in the booth the overly cheerful waitress leads them to. Grabbing his menu, Art immediately starts reading it, casual, like this is a lunch date.

Raylan just sits there awkwardly. He doesn't know how this goes. Does he crawl under the table and suck Art off while the man eats lunch or does he wait until Art orders, then drags him in the bathroom to bend Raylan over the sink?

"Order whatever you want," says Art, watching Raylan over the top of his menu. "It's on the marshals service."

Raylan looks skeptically at Art. Waiting isn't a game his John's play, nor Snake, who's all about making Raylan squirm. He doesn't know how to play this game. He's just so god damn tired. Of everything.

"Have you had a chance to decide?" asks the waitress, returning to the booth.

"I'll get a coffee and the club sandwich," replies Art, folding his menu closed and passing it to the waitress.

"And you, sweetheart?"

Raylan keeps his eyes glued on Art as he says, "I'll get the steak with mashed potatoes, cornbread and those little shrimp." It's the most expensive thing on the menu. If Art isn't going to make the first move and tell Raylan how he wants to use him, Raylan will just force the issue.

Art doesn't flinch.

"What to drink?" asks the waitress, writing down the order.  

"Whiskey, straight."

"He'll have the steak, potatoes, corn bread, little shrimp and a soda," corrects Art, directing his smile at Raylan. "Oh, and a slice of apple pie. Can't leave without dessert."

"Sure thing," the waitress says before skuttling off.

"Technically, you're in custody on your way to be interviewed. Can't be plying you with alcohol," Art explains.  “Lawyers and their pesky rules.”

"Technically," reiterates Raylan.

The food comes and Art still hasn't made a move. Raylan hates having to do anything on a full stomach, but it looks and smells so good. Bo pretty much feeds him enough to keep him alive and the bones in his hips from sticking out too bad. He digs in like he hasn't eaten all week.  There was a time, he wouldn’t have been able to keep anything down, knowing what is to come, but Raylan’s learned to stomach a lot.

Art gets through the first half of his sandwich before he asks, “What is it about this life that you enjoy so much, that you refuse to roll over on Bo Crowder? Do you enjoy doing tricks? Getting beaten by disgruntles johns?”  There’s a genuine curiosity in his voice that suggests he might believe Raylan if Raylan can truly enlighten him.

Raylan who keeps shoving food in his mouth like Art might take it away, shrugs one shoulder.  “It pays the bills.”  There is no truth that a marshal is going to understand and just walk away after.  Art’s just not from the same place Raylan is.  He can’t understand how this life sticks to him and pulls him back no matter what he tries to escape.  It’s like quicksand, no getting out but if you just relax it won’t pull you under as fast.

“You ever think you could be doing more with your life?”

They both know what Raylan is doing at Audrey’s.  It’s obvious in a way that anyone can see it but until money passes from someone’s hand to Raylan’s, it’s not worth the paperwork of officially charging him and labeling him a prostitute for the world.  “What more exactly is someone with my history going to be doing?  Didn’t graduate, so I guess president is out.  Criminal record, so I guess upstanding lawman like yourself is out.  I know, I can be the upscale prostitute of the rich and powerful.”

“You could testify against your employer.  Cut yourself a deal and erase your record,” says Art, and he hates sounding like a broken record.  His father always said you can take a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.  Art’s always believed the point is you should still provide the horse with the water.  “You seem like you could get your GED, so after that the world could be open to you.”  There are two types of criminals in Art’s book- those born to be criminals and those that get swept up in the current.  The first is a lost cause, as prone to crime as they are breathing.  The second can be redeemed if they can just get their life vest on.  Art’s pretty sure Raylan is the latter; slightly more stubborn than most, but still redeemable.

“People who testify against the Crowders end up dead, so the only thing waiting for me on the other side would be a pine box.”  Raylan’s miserable with a bone-weary ache that’s never going to lift.  Black, blue and yellow have become his natural skin tones, and his abusers have shaved down his soul so much with each and every violation, there’s only splinters of it left.  There’s probably peace under that tombstone his father erected in their yard, but Raylan keeps going- he has to see how it’s all going to end, because stories are fabled to have happy endings.  Least all the books he’s ever got his hands on did.

“You enjoy being a punching bag for Bo?”

“Better him than Mike Tyson.”  In his experience, it doesn’t much matter where he goes- Bo’s, Mags’s, jail, to Arlo’s, people enjoy punching down.  "You keep bringing me in, Bo's going to start thinking I'm the leak. You think you're helping but you're not.”  It needs to be said.  Bo’s gone through his guys a few times and come up with nothing.  Now he’s shaking down the girls.  Someone will take the fall for being the leak; the evidence will only have to be circumstantial.

Art lets out a long breath and slides his plate of fries closer to Raylan.  “You’re probably right.”  He knows the kid is right.  They’re hoping the added pressure and inconvenience pushes someone in Bo’s ranks to start spilling out of desperation.  It’s the part of the job he hates; opening the flood gates to further complicate the lives of those lost in the current.     

"Why are you being nice to me?"  The jury’s still not out on whether Art’s going to take him in the bathroom stall before they leave, but through all of their dealings so far, the marshal’s never raised a hand or a fist to Raylan or sweated him too hard in interrogation.  Hell, he feeds Raylan more than Bo and offers medical attention should Raylan want it, every time they do have a conversation in Lexington.  There’s some kind of bill coming due.  He just wants to know what kind of payment he’s going to have to endure.

Art's not sure how to answer that, or at least in away that Raylan's going to understand. He's not sure he understands it himself. Every time he looks at Raylan he sees Khody Baker, a girl who had the misfortune of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time after she chose the streets over her abusive, rapist, stepfather. Daddy issues and drugs, landed her in the company of Razor, a wannabe drug kingpin, who hit her just a little less than her stepfather and confused that as love. Art saw her end coming a mile away, but she wouldn't take the out and her info was too important to the boys upstairs to pull her out. Art held her hand while she bled out during a raid that went sideways. He watched as that desperate plea to save her faded from her face to that of cold death, knowing he could have done more for her, that a kind word or helping hand anywhere along her life might have steered her away from that warehouse that day. Art got in law enforcement for the justice, not ruining already ruined people.

"You saved my life that day in the bar when you warned me about that guy getting back up."

"I doubt it. Mason was a shit shot. He would have missed you by a country mile," says Raylan tossing a shrimp in his mouth.

Boyd and some of his new friends come into the bar. The atmosphere around them is electric and crackling; they're obviously celebrating something. They grab a table and Boyd holds up two fingers signaling for a round of drinks, believing undoubtedly Raylan will see his request.

Raylan idly wonders what it feels like to be excited about anything anymore. He doesn't feel much these days, except tired, but watching Boyd excited and cheerful- something Boyd hasn't been since coming back from the army, makes it look fun. Raylan places a few glasses on the serving tray and grabs a new unopened bottle of Jim Bean he's been hiding for the next time Boyd makes an appearance.

Nobody really pays him much attention as he places the glasses in front of everyone at the table. They're too busy reminiscing about ‘it going well’ and 'did you see their faces.' Raylan's used to being a ghost, it hurts just a little when Boyd doesn't even bother to make eye contact as Raylan fills his glass. He places the half full bottle in the center of the table for their inevitable next round and backs away slowly like he might ruin the party if they do notice an interloper.

Raylan's halfway back to the bar when someone grabs his hand, pulling him to a stop. He turns around and sure enough there is a hand entwined in his. His gaze slowly drifts up the arm of who turns out to be Boyd. They stand there for a moment, Boyd with wild enthusiasm in his eyes and Raylan staring at their hands, clasped together like they're going steady or something. He can't seem to get his brain off of how weird it is to have Boyd holding his hand like that, and how it isn't entirely unpleasant even if he doesn't understand it.

"You have to have a celebratory drink with me, Raylan," says Boyd shoving his glass into Raylan's free hand while still holding onto the bottle.

"I'm working," says Raylan, like it's stopped him before.

"Drink with me," insists Boyd. He lets go of Raylan's hand, but Raylan doesn't have time to morn the loss as Boyd uses it to practically force Raylan to raise the glass to his lips. "To a successful job," Boyd toasts, taking a hit off the bottle.

Raylan chokes down the drink in one go; Boyd not giving him much of a chance to put the glass down until it's empty. He barely has the glass away from his lips when Boyd is suddenly replacing its absence with his own lips. Raylan's too much in shock to do anything more than stand there. On reflex he opens his mouth when Boyd pushes at his lips with his tongue. It's over incredibly fast, Boyd cupping Raylan’s cheek after for a brief second with a big goofy grin on his face before turning and diving back in his seat like nothing happened.

Raylan just stands there shell-shocked. Of all the things he expected, it wasn't that. Raylan's never been attracted to Boyd and despite the life he lives, still doesn't have any sexual inclinations towards men, but the kiss wasn't horrible. If that's the price for everything Boyd's done for him, it isn't so hefty Raylan won't pay it again and again.

Chapter Text

Boyd blows out of town again to parts unknown and Raylan doesn't know how to feel about it. He's been quite confused when it comes to Boyd, and that was before the kiss that's left his head in knots. Scholars could devote their lives to figuring it out. Raylan isn't having any luck deciphering it. Boyd turning into Houdini doesn't help any either.

There's a danger here Raylan can't figure out. Kissing, leads to touching, leads to sex and thus pain. He has plenty of anecdotal evidence to support that. This new thing should be scary, a promise of more violence. Yet, despite the territory Boyd took him to, however brief, he felt safe there. Even if he doesn't want Boyd like that, Boyd wouldn't hurt him.

It's all so confusing and muddy and Raylan hates being both.

In Boyd’s absence, Ava starts spending even more time at the bar.  She comes after work and stays until Bowman comes and collects her, bitching about dinner not being ready for him at home. 

Bowman’s beating her.  She seeks Raylan out to cry on his shoulder about the whole affair.  Raylan’s disappointed, but not surprised.  It’s not an intellectual leap to assume Bowman would have his father’s penchant for throwing fists.  He doesn’t know why Ava tells him, other than they can commiserate over abusive pricks using them as punching bags.  He certainly can’t be Ava’s cowboy and take her off into the sunset if that’s her angle. 

In away, Ava is kind of his.  She starts stopping by before work, in the early mornings before anyone else has gotten up.  She lets herself into Raylan’s trailer, usually with baked goods and tends to any injuries Raylan received the night before.  She can’t really tend to anything more than wrapping sprains and cleaning small cuts but she’s tender and kind as she does it.

It kind of burns, Raylan can’t look out for her the way she is for him.  Next time he sees Boyd, he promises himself, he’ll ask Boyd to curb Bowman’s wrath against Ava.  He’ll trade his baseball time and books for the favor.  He’ll willingly go to Boyd’s bed if that’s what it takes to secure the favor. 

Art gets his man. And he doesn’t need Raylan to do it.  Probably not for all the crimes he was hoping, but Bo's going to be doing a decent stretch. Locals may be responsible for the arrest but the giant smile on Art's face as they lead Bo away in handcuffs is etched into Raylan's brain. Art’s smiling like it means something. Raylan knows different. As long as there's an heir, nothing changes. Raylan's just traded Bo for Bowman. Bowman and Johnny- who seems to have Bowman’s ear. Raylan had kind of hoped Boyd would be a more prominent fixture in his father’s absence, but from overheard conversations, he's pieced together that Boyd has designs on a different future that's less about the drug trade and protection and more about blowing shit up and stealing.

Raylan was right about Mullen. Now that the marshals have what they want, the monthly raids stop and the only people coming into Audrey's are the usual customers and the only place Raylan gets to go, is to his trailer.

Bowman is a bit out of his depth. He takes advice from everyone and as a result, things get a little loosey-goosey. Bo might have suspected as much because word on the street is he hired Arlo to look after his protection and collection business.  Raylan isn't going to complain. He hasn't been chained up in weeks and his quota is gone, replaced by just filling appointments. He no longer has to actively participate in the selling of his ass, just show up at designated times, lay back and think of Harlan.

It makes the idea of running tempting. He might even make it past the county line with Bo slowed by being in prison. It could be worth it to get a few months of freedom before Snake tracks him down and drags him back.

The picture of Christy haunts him- those terrified dead eyes pointed lifeless at the camera.  Then he thinks of Ava, who's only escape is the bar and Raylan's company, and he can't bring himself to step out of the parking lot.

Maybe being the cowboy doesn't mean riding off into the sunset, but just showing up and being there.  If he runs, Ava will be truly alone.

“Are you fucking my wife?” demands Bowman, puffing his chest and backing Raylan into the backroom storage.

Raylan supposes it was inevitable.  People have eyes and it’s not hard to draw certain conclusions when those eyes see Ava frequenting a brothel.  “I’m forced to fuck a lot of people around here, Bowman.  Your wife isn’t one of them.” 

“Then maybe you do it for the pleasure, smart mouth,” he snaps as quickly as he does his fist into Raylan’s gut.

Raylan lets out a pained moan as he doubles over.  Gasping he grabs a hold of the wire shelf beside him to help pull himself up to a standing position.  “I ain’t sleeping with Ava,” he protests.  It’s presently true.  It’s not like it hasn’t crossed his mind, it just seems like it would be taking advantage of Ava. 

Bowman’s less than convinced.  Based on the disdain on his face, Raylan will be hard pressed to say anything to dissuade him of the notion. “Then why she hanging around here all the time?”

The smart play would be to play dumb.  He’ll probably take a couple of hits, because according to Ava, Bowman likes to use his fists not his words, but emerge rather unscathed.  Raylan’s never liked a bully.  Watching Arlo beat his mother down, he has no place for wife beaters.  “It’s probably the company or more likely, she’d be home if her husband wasn’t an abusive piece of shit that can’t get it up unless he’s beating on a girl,” says Raylan and in the vacuum of the words, as Bowman’s blood comes to a boil, he doesn’t regret it.  If he has to die, he’d rather do it like a man.

The first punch sends fireworks of pain bursting along his jaw, leaving him slightly dazed and unfocused.  The next few hits connect like beats of a drum, solid and repetitive, turning the world upside down as they bring him to his knees.  His skin splits under the repeated blunt trauma, burning sharply before blood oozes out of the gashes.  Warm blood runs into his eye obscuring his vision even more.  It pours out of his nose and mouth so much, that Raylan can’t even tell the exact source anymore.

He tries to pull himself into a tight little ball, but Bowman just uses it as an opportunity to grab whatever is near by to throw at him.  The bag of ice is hard and cold against his ribs as it slams down.  The flimsy plastic bag splits, letting the ice cubes rain down around him as Bowman raises his arms to club Raylan with the bag again and again until it’s just empty plastic. 

Reaching over, Bowman grabs the next closest item: a bottle of whisky.  As he does Raylan rolls from his side to his belly and starts to crawl away.  The greater the distance between him and Bowman the less impact the blows will have.  The bottle smashes against his back with a sharp crack as something in Raylan’s side gives way and the bottle fractures on the cold cement floor.

Fire explodes in Raylan’s chest rolling out from where the bottle hit like shock waves from an earthquake.  Each new breath stokes that fire.  The next bottle just misses his head, cracking on the ground and spreading out shards like a minefield Raylan has to drag himself through.  He’s not sure where he’s trying to drag himself to, just that the instinct to get away is driving him forward.

“Put hands on my girl!” screams Bowman, storming over to grab Raylan by the scruff of the neck.  He reaches out with his other hand and grabs a larger piece of glass from the second broken bottle and drives the sharpest point into Raylan’s outstretched arm.

Raylan screams as the broken piece of glass drives itself deep below the skin until it finally achieves freedom on the other side.  Bowman slams his head against the ground for good measure and the last thing Raylan sees before the darkness sweeps in, is Bowman’s boot stepping down to smash the shard sticking out of his arm.

A persistent beeping permeates Raylan’s consciousness.  He can’t quite place it, but it’s getting harder and harder to block out.  He should care, but he can’t latch onto why or any other line of thought that seems to float just out of reach.  He’s tired and heavy with under currents of sore but it feels like there’s a coating of mud separating him from really feeling the burn of actual pain.

The whole side of his face itches.  It takes far more effort than it should to convince his hand to come up and scratch.  He gets his hand about halfway up, but it feels like something is hanging off of it or rather something tethered to it.  Frowning, his face creases, forcing the skin to pull awkwardly exacerbating the still present itch.  He forces his eyes open because something isn’t right here, and won’t that just be a shitty way to start the day to find out someone thought it would be fun to tie him down.

His right eye won’t open at all which should raise some sort of alarm, but concern is an emotion his brain can’t seem to find at the moment.  That should be scary too.  His left eye isn’t too keen on working right now either and he blinks a few times just to get things into focus. 

His hand is indeed entangled but it’s a clear tube that disappears under a swath of bright white tape that’s semi holding him down.  “Huh?” he moans, because that just doesn’t make a lick of sense.  Anyone that likes to tie him down isn’t afraid to use rope or chain; tape and tubing just isn’t effective.  His other arm isn’t tangled in tubing, but it is covered from wrist to elbow by white gauze.

“Just take it easy,” soothes a vaguely familiar male voice.  A creak of hard plastic, and then someone is holding Raylan’s hand, the one moored by tape and tubing.

Raylan’s head lulls to the left.  He has to be hallucinating, because it’s none other than Deputy Marshal Art Mullen, sitting there holding his hand.  Then again, Raylan supposes he has a hefty bill to settle with Art for all those lunches since he didn’t actually help him get Bo Crowder; Art must just be here to collect.  “Wha…?” he whispers through cracked parched lips.  His tongue doesn’t seem to want to follow directions, tripping over every syllable of the word.  He can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Art clutching his hand, which is pale and limp and equally as uncooperative as his tongue.  What is it with people wanting to hold his hand lately?

Art leans forward.  He’s tired and not just from sitting here most of the day.  The fact that he has to sit here at all, has awakened an exhaustion that’s been hovering around him the last few years, born of the weight of the price this job places on his soul.  He shouldn’t care; it’s not his business.  But he doubts anyone else will and isn’t that the same thing that happened to Khody?  “Someone beat the shit out of you.  I suppose they were trying to beat some sense into you, but I wouldn’t worry too much.  I doubt it will take.  Do you remember what happened?”

It kind of rings a bell.  Raylan’s not sure if he remembers what happened or if the memories of every other beating are just trying to slot themselves in this one’s place.  He starts to shake his head no, aborting the motion pretty quickly as the room starts to swim. 

“Just… lay there,” cautions Art.

Raylan’s inclined to comply, not because Art sounds so wrecked, but because he doesn’t feel like his broken body can do much more.  Maybe this is Art’s predilection- helpless and unable to move. It will be good to finally pay Art off.  Raylan can’t owe this many people and keep it all straight anymore; Boyd for friendship, Ava for kindness, Art for pretending to care.

Art grabs a paper cup sitting on the rolling table that was pushed up against the wall to make room for Art to sit next to the hospital bed.  Gently he tips it to Raylan’s lips and lets a few ice chips slip into Raylan’s mouth.  “According to reports, a blond woman in a pickup unceremoniously dumped you at the emergency room entrance here in Lexington.  The nurses said she dragged you out of the passenger seat and dropped you by the door, propped up against the wall.  All she’d say was you needed help.  She wouldn’t stay or leave her name.  You were already unconscious, but you wouldn’t have any insight into the identity of your driver?”

Raylan doesn’t know a lot of blonds and fewer still that would risk helping him.  It has to be Ava.  Like a domino, that thought triggers another until the pieces start falling into place, outlining a still fuzzy picture of Bowman accusing him of carrying on with Ava and taking unkindly to the notion.  “Don’t have the foggiest,” he says, sucking on the gloriously cool and soothing ice chip.

“Mmm hmm,” hums Art like he isn’t buying it.  “You have an orbital fracture.  They repaired your punctured lung, but the broken rib will take longer to heal.  They removed all the glass shards out of your arm, repaired any damage but you’ll probably have to do some physical therapy once healed to help with the muscle damage.  Concussion, blood loss and myriad of other injuries classified as minor.  Honestly, if that woman hadn’t brought you in, you’d be dead, Raylan.”

“Oh,” is all Raylan can say.  It certainly feels like all of that is true.  He toys with the idea of giving Ava up, mostly because he’s terrified of what will happen to her if Bowman finds out she helped him and a tiny piece of him wants to thank her for saving his life.  He has a vague memory of Ava’s concerned face floating over him in the parking lot of Audrey’s. 

“Care to roll over on the Crowder crew now?” asks Art, pressing his advantage. 

Raylan remains stubbornly silent.

“You name your assailant and I’ll see charges are filed.  We can get you protection.”

Raylan thinks about that polaroid on the office door.  They killed Christy for running.  There’s no depth of hell Bowman won’t over come to get Raylan for turning on the Crowders, especially after thinking he’d been carrying on with Ava.  Bowman will make them both pay- Raylan for his trespass and Ava for keeping Raylan alive to commit such an act.  And then Bo will formulate some revenge from prison too. “I didn’t see anything.”  Same song on the same old worn-out record.

Art looks disappointed but not surprised.  “You should know, there is a burly tattooed gentleman that’s been in the waiting room for the last couple of days.  He’s been claiming kinship, but both you and I know you don’t have any relatives that are going to show up here.  I’ve been able to keep him out, claiming an ongoing investigation but if you don’t give me anything son, this case gets handed over to someone who’s going to bury it if there’s no leads to follow.”

“Days?” asks Raylan, surprised.

“You’ve been in and out of surgery and out cold for four days.”

Four days.  Four days of not working and incurring medical bills.  Four days that Ava’s been left alone.  “The guy have a snake tattooed around his neck?”

“He does,” confirms Art.

Maybe if he was well enough to run.  Maybe if he didn’t owe Ava his life now.  Maybe if Bowman hadn’t already got his chess pieces in place.  Maybe Raylan would find himself taking Art up on his offer but unlike the other people in this equation, Raylan knows there’s no clear path to success.  Trying is just going to damage a whole lot of people.  “I can’t tell you nothing, if I don’t know nothing,” says Raylan regretfully.

Art lets out a defeated breath.  He’d been hoping… he doesn’t know what he’d been hoping for, but this isn’t it.  He bites his lip, nodding to himself.  It’s a drought and still the horse won’t take a damn drink.  He just prays that this stubborn kid doesn’t drown in the oncoming floods.  “My wife’s concerned about the toll this job takes.  Mostly the stress and the time away from my kids.  With Bo Crowder locked up for awhile I figured it was a good a time as any to try something new.”  He has everything tied up and squared away to walk away and start the next chapter of his career.  Everything squared away except just this one thing.  “I’m transferring to Glynco to be an instructor.  So, I won’t be in Lexington anymore,” he emphasises. 

The news hits weird.  Raylan wouldn’t say they’re friends, but Art is familiar.  Raylan chalks it up to the devil you know and believes he will miss their back and forth.  Turns out, Art was one of the few people he was safe with, because here Art is telling him goodbye and he still hasn’t bent Raylan over the nearest flat surface or knocked him to his knees.  “I still don’t know anything.”

Art let’s go of Raylan’s hand and gently pats the top of his hand before pulling back completely.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” Raylan says, and he means it.

“Me too,” says Art sadly as he gets up from the chair and heads to the door.  He pauses before crossing the threshold.  “You take care of yourself, kid,” he says without looking back.  He has no doubt it’s going to be the last time he sees Raylan Givens alive.

Chapter Text

Raylan’s discharged a week later AMA. He doesn’t have any clothes because his are in tatters, cut off by the ER staff upon his arrival and shoved unceremoniously in a plastic bag with name and patient ID number scribbled on it.  At some point Art managed to shove his business card in with Raylan’s belongings.  Even if the clothes weren’t shredded, they’re drenched in blood that’s turned dark brown and crusty.  He’d toss them but just his luck someone would pluck them from the trash and log them into evidence.  So, he sits in a pair of scrubs one of the nurses managed to dig out for him, in the wheelchair he was forced to be escorted out in, just to sit at the curb until Snake pulls his truck around. 

It's getting cold out, cold enough that he shouldn’t be out here in short sleeves.  He scratches at the bandage over his right arm which never seems to dispel the itch since he can’t actually drag his nails over the bothered skin directly.  Snake’s probably taking his sweet time, just so Raylan has to sit out in the cold.  Anticipation is also a weapon the Crowders like to wield, and Raylan knows he’s going to walk into hell when he gets back to Audrey’s. 

Snake rolls up with a bang and cloud of black exhaust.  Reaching across the bench seat he pushes the passenger door open for Raylan.  Raylan wraps his bandaged arm around his chest and uses his left hand to try and push himself out of the wheelchair.  His face grimaces with pain.  It’s slow and unsteady but he manages to get his feet under him, panting only a little at the exertion.  Getting in the truck is another matter.  It’s a step up, requiring him to pull with his right hand.  He sort of manages, enough anyway that Snake is able to grab his upper left arm and pull him the rest of the way in the vehicle. 

They ride back in utter silence and Snake leaves Raylan to struggle on his own to get out of the truck once they arrive.  It’s a bit easier, in that Raylan can let gravity do most of the work as he slides off the seat.  He makes it in the bar in time to see Snake hand off Raylan’s hospital papers to Bowman who’s sitting at one of the tables with Johnny going over the books.

“You have nine lives,” says Bowman bitterly, reading over the paperwork.  He hands the stack of papers over to Johnny. 

Johnny whistles as he reads the bill.  “This’ll take a couple of years.”

“I’m sure Raylan’s really enthusiastic about getting it paid off as soon as possible,” says Bowman with a malicious smile.  “Shouldn’t take him more than a couple of months.”

Raylan can’t help the shudder that runs through him.  If Bowman knows he can pay off an astronomical medical bill in only months, he’s obviously has some big plans on who and what will be shoved in Raylan’s ass for the foreseeable future.

“Lock him in his trailer.  I wouldn’t want him to miss an appointment,” dismisses Bowman.  Snake is more than happy to roughly escort Raylan back home.

Raylan pretty much has a revolving door to his trailer for the first week.  It’s one person after the next with barely a six-hour break in the middle of the night to try and sleep, eat and bathe.  Raylan’s not really successful at accomplishing any of those lofty goals.  He’s tired and in pain still from the hospital never mind the constant ache and soreness that comes from being violated pretty constantly in an eighteen-hour period every day.  His performance doesn’t benefit any from his recovering lung either.  There’s nothing hotter than a harlot that can’t catch their breath, though none seem deterred by Raylan’s post hospital state.

Everyone Bowman’s found must know the score because no one has any complaints that he pretty much just lies there and takes it.  The strength and energy to even try and pretend he’s a whore has long since vanished, leaving him an empty vessel to be used as whoever enters sees fit.  He’s pretty sure this is what’s going to kill him.  He wasn’t feeling entirely alive when Snake informed him he was leaving the hospital either by his own volition or in a body bag.

At the end of the week, he hears a key in the lock.  “Just fucking kill me,” he moans into his pillow.  He has nothing left.

“You’re getting off lucky,” says Johnny, poking his head in the door.  “You’re out of service for the next three weeks, but if I were you, I’d keep my ass right where it is because Bowman’s liable to overlook this deal if he sees you.”

“What deal?” rasps Raylan.  He can’t even move his head anymore so he can’t look and see if Johnny is even actually at his door or if it’s some fever dream or hallucination he’s having right now.

“Your bill has been paid off by a generous benefactor as well as your time.”

Raylan frowns.  It’s a lot of money, far more than anyone should be willing to pay for a broken whore and not get anything for their trouble.  “Who?” he croaks.  He doesn’t know anyone with money, not like that anyways.  If he’s going to owe someone that much, he’d like to know who’s liable to come collect.

“Boyd,” says Johnny with disgust before slamming the door closed.

“Boyd,” repeats Raylan.  He doesn’t have the strength to think on it too hard but the overwhelming relief he feels at knowing that trailer door isn’t going to be opening for awhile leaves him openly sobbing.  Raylan’s not sure he can ever balance out what he owes Boyd, who now has a track record of saving his life.

Sarah May makes sure Raylan has groceries in his trailer for the next few weeks.  Nothing too fantastical, mostly fruit and easy to make foods like fixings for sandwiches and foods that just need to be heated.  Sarah May is a nice girl, but she isn’t about to go out of her way to help Raylan, not of her own accord. 

“Boyd paying you for this?” he asks, grimacing as he pulls himself into a sitting position when she comes in and starts emptying the brown paper bag.  He’ll never be able to repay Boyd at this rate.

“Boyd? Don’t know no Boyd,” she says frowning. 

“Bowman’s brother,” supplies Raylan, worried she might hurt herself if she thinks much harder on it.  It isn’t the best and brightest working at Audrey’s.

“That weirdo?” she says with disgust.  “He don’t buy any of the girls around here.  Ain’t been around in forever neither.”

“Then why?” asks Raylan, nodding towards the grocery bag. 

“Ava,” she says simply.  “She pays for ‘em and gives the girls free beauty appointments if we bring ‘em back and get them to you.”

“And she’s alright?”  Raylan’s been worried.  She hasn’t been by, not that he suspected she would since it was Bowman suspecting they were sleeping together that did all this.  But he hasn’t set foot in the bar yet either, so he doesn’t know if she’s been around or if Bowman finished with her what he started with Raylan.

“She seems fine every time I see her. Should be seeing her again in a few days,” replies Sarah May.

“Tell her thanks… for everything, from me.”

“Will do.”

Things settle over the next year, but they still feel uneasy.  Raylan’s always walking on eggshells, because Bowman’s rather unpredictable and is often in a bad mood.  It sounds like he and Arlo are botching Bo’s collection and protection business.  It means Bowman is rather scarce after 5pm going home to his wife who only shows up on the weekends now and only on Bowman’s arm.  Johnny’s pretty much running things around Audrey’s and as far as management goes, he’s pretty laid back as long as everything balances out at the end of the week.

Bowman isn’t especially good at hiring thugs and most of the intimidating muscle are out trying to take care of illegal matters than hanging out in the bar anymore.  It leaves the cheaper help Bowman’s wrangled, who are dumb and annoying rather than intimidating.

“I don’t know why he bothers,” snips Raylan before tossing back a shot with Sara Beth as he glares at Dewey Crowe who’s loading the jukebox up with every hillbilly karaoke song possible despite his plans to head out back.  Obviously, Bowman’s paid him because he’s flashing money around like he just struck oil.

“Men like to pretend they have power,” replies Sara Beth with a smile.  They watch Sarah May, Amber and Ellen May paw all over Dewey and laugh at everything he says.

“You’d think he’d want to get something for his trouble.  Why spend your ill-gotten gains on a trip out back that lasts all of two minutes for him?”

“You’ve got something to say there, Raylan,” asks Dewey in the most obnoxious voice possible as he realizes the two at the bar are watching him.

“I was just saying it seems unfair to charge you full price when the fastest trip you can take in Harlan is taking you out back.”

“You jealous you have to work twice as hard for your clients?” counters Dewey with a big grin on his face.

Sara Beth chokes on her drink giving Raylan an incredulous look that only he can see.

“I take it back Dewy Crowe,” says Raylan with a coy smile playing at his lips, “the fastest thing in the world is an intelligent thought going through your head.”

Dewey starts to smile at his victory but pauses as he considers Raylan’s words.

“That’s not very kind of you, Raylan Givens.  It’s also not very sporting to pick on the less astute like Dewey here,” says Boyd appearing in the doorway.

“Boyd,” says Raylan and it’s so full of relief; it feels like he can finally breathe after holding his breath for the last year.

“Say his name and he shall appear,” says Boyd walking over and embracing Raylan tightly.

“Are you back in town now?”

“I have business that aims to keep me awhile,” replies Boyd, taking a seat at the bar.

Raylan turns to grab a bottle of Jim Bean, but Boyd stops him with, “I have something better.”  He places a mason jar on the counter, the clear liquid sloshing within. 

Raylan smiles big and bright as he grabs two glasses, Boyd filling them with the moonshine.  Clinking glasses, they toss it back; Raylan making a more pronounced face as it burns all the way down.

Boyd never mentions paying off Raylan’s debt and Raylan can’t find a moment to bring it up that doesn’t feel forced, business like or like it will ruin the evening.

Not bringing up his debt sits like a caged animal in his chest, clawing desperately to escape.  Raylan’s learned things hurt a little less when he knows they’re coming so he doesn’t want to be surprised when Boyd comes for his pound of flesh.  He knows what his friendship to Ava cost him- an extended hospital stay, and an invisible tether that keeps him from fleeing.  He knows what Art’s tentative associations costs.  He doesn’t know the price of Boyd’s friendship anymore.

The air is crisp and cold, turning every breath Raylan exhales into a fine white mist against the night sky and bright lights of the baseball field.  Every swing he takes, melts away his resolve until the words come bubbling out, “Why did you cover my debt with Bowman?”

Boyd looks up from where he’s been pushing dirt around with his foot behind the batting cage.  “You’re my friend and I had the means to ease your burden,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Nobody does something for nothing, Boyd.  What’s it cost?”  Raylan hits another ball sending it sailing far beyond the reach of the lights.

“I assure you, Raylan, I did not do it expecting any recompense from you.”

“But you expect it from someone?”

Boyd shrugs, tucking his hands in his pockets.  “Any ulterior motives I may be inclined to, I assure you, will not befall you.”

“Yeah?” says Raylan in disbelief.  “Shit seems to fall on me anyways.”

“Suppose I did it to ease my own soul and my own conscience?”

“Why would my fate be a burden to your conscience?  It’s not like you hold the leash.”

“No,” says Boyd pensively.  “But I am aware of Bowman’s unkindness towards the lovely Ava and still I do nothing with many avenues open to me to intervene.  You on the other hand do not hesitate to ease her burden.”

“I’m just her shoulder to cry on,” says Raylan, the bat slipping off his shoulder only to barely graze the on coming ball. 

“Which is far more assistance than anyone else has offered.”

“It’s no assistance at all,” Raylan says firmly.

“It is.  Just as your willing to listen to my plights and humor me with batting practice.  It’s why I got you something,” says Boyd grabbing the extra bat and heading over to the far dug out.

Raylan follows behind, letting his bat drag along the ground.  Getting to the dug out, Boyd flips the light switch to turn on the lights that illuminate the back half of the field.  It takes a moment for Raylan’s eyes to adjust to the bright overhead lights, but in the tree by the away team’s dug out, is none other than Dickie Bennett strung up in the tree upside down. 

Dickie wriggles and squirms the best he can, trying in vain to reach up and pull at the rope around his leg.  Boyd just walks over and pulls the strip of duct tape from Dickie’s mouth before grabbing a hold of Dickie, pushing him until he starts to spin and sway.  “Damnit Boyd, you son of a bitch!  You cut me down,” wails Dickie now that he can talk.

Boyd just smiles, raising the bat to his shoulder and taking a swing at Dickie.  The bat smashes against Dickie’s side sending him into an even wilder swing.  “Oh, dear Dickie, I think you have this coming,” says Boyd taking another swing.  “I believe you owe a penance to Raylan.”

“Raylan?” screams Dickie trying to twist himself to an angle where he can get a good look at just who is standing at the edge of the dug out.  He squints trying to make out Raylan in bright light.  “Raylan, buddy, you wanna tell Boyd to cut me down?”

“I ain’t your buddy, Dickie,” says Raylan with a smile as he leans casually against the dug-out wall, letting his bat rest on his shoulder.

Boyd’s smile gets bigger.  “Ain’t nobody gonna help you, Dickie boy.”  He takes another swing, nailing Dickie in the shoulder and savoring the following howl.  He takes another two swings, blood flecks spraying out when Dickie’s nose makes a sickening crunch.  Boyd drops his bat, a little breathless. “Batter up.  You’re on deck, Raylan.”

Raylan’s never fancied himself a sadist but it’s hard to not find some pleasure in seeing Dickie strung up and wailing for help.  Boyd did it.  He wrapped Dickie Bennett up like a present for Raylan.

“Raylan.  Raylan, don’t!” says Dickie raising his hands to try and block the next hit.

Raylan walks over so he’s in swinging distance and plants his first foot, twisting the toe of the other in the dirt.  He looks over at Boyd who’s moved to lean against the dugout wall and gesturing at him to proceed.  Raylan raises the bat to his shoulder.  He let’s out a long steadying breath and swings.

Contact.  Dickie screams as the bat smashes into his hip.  “God damn you, Raylan Givens!”

Raylan takes another swing but it’s more of a glancing blow as the momentum from the previous hit causes Dickie to swing by.

“Ball one.  We need a homerun, Raylan,” encourages Boyd, watching the whole affair with delighted interest.

Raylan takes another swing, eyes narrowed and focused on his target.  He can feel the bat connect, the vibration running through the wood and up his own arms. The sharp snap of bone rings out before Dickie’s anguished screams fill the night.

Dickie’s blubbering, holding his now broken arm with the other and begging Raylan to stop with everything he has.

Boyd stands up straight even more excited by the situation.  Like a shark, there’s blood in the water and Boyd wants to see Raylan tear Dickie a part.  “Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded.  This is the ball game right here, Raylan,” cheers on Boyd.

Raylan raises the bat again, tightening his grip.

“Please, Raylan.  Please.  I’m beggin’ you, Raylan, don’t do this,” sobs Dickie.

Raylan breathes out and stops.  Dickie is a bloody and blubbering mess, crying for his momma not unlike when Raylan took a bat to his knee all those years ago.  Dickie was always tough when he was dishing it out but sang another tune when on the receiving end.  Raylan’s own desperate pleas echo in his ears.  ‘Don’t you do it, Dickie Bennett.  Don’t you do it.’ 

He's long fantasized about getting Dickie back for everything Dickie’s done to him.  He supposes though when he imagined it, it was a fair fight- something Dickie never aimed to give him.  He isn’t going to be any better than any person who’s wronged him if he goes through with this- not in this manner anyways.  He knows what his father would do in this situation, what Mags would do in his position, how Bo and Bowman would handle it.  Boyd obviously agrees because he’s the one that set this up.  Harlan demands blood and has put Dickie Bennett on the sacrificial altar to get it.

Another opportunity isn’t going to present itself and Raylan’d be a fool not to take it.  He thinks of Sheila who had no reason to cover his quota ever or tend to his wounds, but she did, despite not being in much better circumstances than himself.  He thinks of Ava that got groceries to him and got him to the hospital knowing the wrath of Bowman would fix upon her even more if he found out.  He thinks about Art who still treated him like a person, fed him lunches and visited him in the hospital knowing full well Raylan would never sell out the Crowders.  His momma comes to mind and her steadfast belief that Raylan could be better than her and Arlo, better than anything Harlan could make him.

Raylan lets the bat drop off his shoulder into the dirt.  “I can’t do it,” he says brokenly.  It would be so easy to take that swing, feel the satisfaction of dishing out only a fraction of what has been doled out to him, but Harlan would well and truly own him then.  Raylan turns and starts to walk back to home plate.

“I can,” says Boyd, going over and picking up the bat, assuming the position.

Raylan pauses at the edge of the dugout, shoulders slumped and head hanging low.  “Just… cut him down, Boyd,” he says quietly, before walking away.

Boyd looks at Raylan disappointed, but the bat still clangs against the ground.  He pulls out his pocketknife.  “It’s your lucky day, Dickie,” he proclaims as Dickie drops to the ground like a stone.

Chapter Text

They never talk about that night and Dickie Bennett, but Raylan can tell Boyd’s disappointed in him.  It hurts but not as much as if Raylan had taken that final swing and ended Dickie.  They don’t go to the batting cages or field again.  Boyd slowly becomes just another ghost in Raylan’s life, spending more time with his new crowd and whatever work he claimed brought him back to Harlan.  Raylan knows it isn’t mining and based on the money Boyd has to throw around, it isn’t something legal or honest.

Raylan blows a cop and puts on a performance for a hidden camera because Arlo told Bowman to secure blackmail material. 

Boyd blows up a church with a rocket launcher.

Not to be out done, Ava shoots her husband at the dinner table, deciding she’s finally had enough of Bowman’s abuse.

It’s a busy week in Harlan.

It took years and plenty of shit, but Ava finally finds her breaking point or more importantly she finds a bullet for Bowman’s gun.

Raylan hears about it first when a tearful Ava shows up at his door. He’s unsure if she’s remorseful for doing it, or for waiting so long to find the courage. He pours her a drink from the bottle he stole out of the storage room and has been slowly nursing for the last couple of days. Between the tears and the booze, she's asleep on his bed before they finish the bottle. Raylan sleeps on the kitchenette table.

In the morning she's gone, which is probably for the best because Boyd comes back to Audrey’s like the devil is on his tail.  Word among the girls is he’s looking for Ava.

Raylan says nothing of seeing Ava the night before, but does offer his condolences. Bowman may have been a son of a bitch, but he was Boyd's brother, whom Boyd loved. Boyd's always been decent to Raylan; the least he can do is pretend Bowman passing is a solemn occasion.  

He hears it from Boyd a week later that Ava isn’t going to be prosecuted for shooting Bowman.  She hasn’t been back to the bar which is good, because there’s all kinds of whispers about Crowder retribution for one of their own, even if Ava is a Crowder by marriage.  For all the talk of going after Ava, Johnny never seems to make a move and while Boyd is slightly busy being interviewed by law enforcement, he doesn’t make a move to find her.  Raylan will promise him the world, if he has any sway with Boyd, to let Ava be.

Raylan has to kind of admire her.  She got tired of Bowman’s crap and took action, consequences and Crowder redemption be damned.  Or maybe she no longer cared how the story was going to end and couldn’t endure waiting anymore.  He hopes it all works out better for her than any time he tried to break free of Harlan’s chains; partly because he does love her and partly because someone deserves a happy ending.

It’s Devil that comes into the bar and says not so quietly in Boyd’s ear that Ava is still at the house she and Bowman shared.  Boyd’s quick to polish off his drink and grab his coat, saying, “We’ll I best be on my way before out dear Ava makes herself scarce.  Affairs need to be settled after all.” Devil passes him a gun that he tucks in the waist band of his pants.

“Boyd,” says Raylan hesitantly as Boyd reaches the door. 

Boyd stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn to look around.  “I’m busy at the moment, Raylan.”

“It’ll only take but a minute,” promises Raylan.  Boyd’s hand grabs the doorknob anyways.  “Please.”

Shoulders sagging, Boyd’s head dips forward a fraction.  “One minute,” he says, turning with a forced smile.  He looks at Raylan expectantly.

Raylan looks around the bar.  Everyone’s looking at him since he saw fit to grovel for Boyd’s attention.  “Perhaps outside would be better,” he suggests. 

Looking put out, Boyd gestures for Raylan to step outside.  “This better be important.  I have pressing matters to attend.”

The bar door thumps shut behind Raylan and he’s starting to second guess his decision.  If Ava can hold that gun steady on Bowman, he can do this.  “I know you’re upset about Bowman,” starts Raylan.

“He was my brother,” agrees Boyd.

“I know Ava is the one who gunned him down and that death needs to be answered for, but I’m askin’ you Boyd, to leave Ava be.  She did what she had to, and Bowman had it coming.”

Boyd rounds on Raylan grabbing him by the arm so hard it bruises and slams him against the wall.  Boyd’s so close their chests are pressed together, and Raylan has nowhere to go or any other option than to look Boyd in the eye.  “I can find my way to seeing you beg for Ava’s life given the considerable history you two share, but what I cannot abide is your ability to disparage my brother’s name in front of me in defense of his killer.”  There’s a dangerous edge in Boyd’s eyes, a wildness that Raylan hasn’t seen since he and Boyd were running for their lives out of the mine. 

Raylan should leave it at that but images of holding Ava in his arms on that breakroom couch after making love tenderly, where she never wanted anything more than Raylan was prepared to give, and the many mornings she cleaned and bandaged his wounds after someone did take more than Raylan could afford to give, tumble through his head.  “Please Boyd.  I’ll do anything you want if you just leave her be,” he says softly. 

“Anything?” asks Boyd, suddenly interested in what Raylan has to say.  His hips press against Raylan’s.

Raylan nods his head.  He has nothing but his body to bargain with and no right to ask Boyd, who’s the only one to ever do anything for Raylan and not ask anything in return.  “Anything,” he agrees, suddenly unwilling to look Boyd in the eye.

Boyd lets go of Raylan’s arm.  “I suppose I could see my way to becoming so distracted I don’t have time to visit the grieving widow.”  He reaches down and unzips his fly.

Raylan shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed that in the end this is what Boyd wants. He’d secretly been hoping this wouldn’t be the price of their friendship all along.  He drops to his knees and undoes Boyd’s belt. 

Boyd’s fingers knock off Raylan’s hat as they work their way through his hair, nails scraping along Raylan’s scalp as he swallows Boyd.  Boyd makes every enthusiastic sound as Raylan sucks him off like the consummate professional he is. 

Boyd isn’t rough and Raylan’s not sure if that makes it easier or harder.  He swallows when Boyd climaxes and sits back on his heels waiting for Boyd’s next command.  Whatever Boyd wants, he’ll do it.

“There are many more hours in a night, Raylan,” says Boyd as he comes back to himself.  He pulls Raylan up to his feet.  “I have a great many fantasies but none of them occur in the parking lot of Audrey’s.” 

Raylan's off balance with Boyd. Maybe because it’s Boyd or maybe because so much is riding on this.  If someone wants more than a blow job or a hand job, Raylan's usually forcefully bent over something, face pressed hard against something as someone takes him brutally from behind. Boyd keeps putting Raylan on his back no matter how many times Raylan tries to roll over and assume his customers preferred position. Boyd's demanding, undoubtedly in charge but takes great care in everything he does to be gentle. 

Boyd raises Raylan's hands above his head on the lumpy old mattress, but instead of securing them there with tape or rope like Dickie or chains like Snake, or the handcuffs used by his more zealous clients, he holds them in place with his hands. They're palm to palm, fingers laced together. While Boyd's using it as leverage to hold himself up as he nips at Raylan's earlobe, down his neck and across his collar bone, while slowly fucking Raylan- they are essentially holding hands. Raylan's torn between staring at the ceiling to keep his objectivity and watching Boyd's face. Boyd has his eyes closed as he picks up the pace, working towards his own release but every moment of pleasure and anticipation ripples across his features. Raylan wonders just who Boyd is picturing Raylan is in whatever fantasy he's enacting.  

"Sorry," mumbles Boyd as Raylan let's out a small hiss of pain. He slows his thrusts, giving Raylan a chance to adjust to the new deeper angle he's found.  

Boyd comes with one last decisive thrust, collapsing on top of Raylan, resting his sweaty brow in the crook of Raylan's neck. "Promise you’re mine for forever," whispers Boyd in his euphoric haze.

Raylan's not sure how to answer, how serious Boyd is. Raylan's never been attracted to Boyd and Boyd's given no obvious sign before today that he's desired Raylan except for one brief kiss. They're friends but more than that, they're linked together forever by the simple fact that they mined coal together- together at far too young an age, depending on each other to make sure they both got out alive. Raylan owes Boyd his life. He owes his sanity to Boyd too, with all the books and nights playing baseball. It seems natural to promise his whole self to Boyd, as best he can, given his life's circumstances. If that's the price for Ava's stay of execution, he can handle it. "Of course, Boyd."

Raylan lies there, perfectly still, listening to Boyd snore in some mock performance of a relationship.  Raylan feels hollow and used but in a different way than he has with anyone else.  Boyd’s price was more than just flesh, it was Raylan’s solemn word to consider himself Boyd’s.  Any hope of leaving with Bo out of the picture and Bowman dead, dies under the weight of his promise to fill Boyd’s need for revenge.  He’s swapped places with Ava and chained himself to this hellish place.

They don’t talk about that come morning.  Boyd puts his pants on in silence and leaves.  It’s a couple days before Boyd even comes back to the bar.  When he does, he buys Raylan a drink and makes easy conversation as Raylan goes about working.  They don’t touch, and Raylan doesn’t know if that’s the way it’s always been with them or if Boyd’s going to great lengths to make sure they don’t accidently make contact.  Either way, Raylan’s paying particular attention.

They sit outside after the bar closes and drink beer most nights.  Boyd tells stories about the nitwits he’s sharing accommodations with in that old church. It feels like old times, before Raylan actually asked for anything.  Boyd makes no mention of wanting to do it again and Raylan’s too afraid to ask if the price of Ava’s life was a one off or if he’s on an installment plan.

The broken part of Raylan, the one Harlan’s forged, wonders if Boyd is disappointed with their night, if he failed to satisfy Boyd and Boyd’s too kind to tell him he doesn’t even make a mildly remarkable lay.

The notion is so absurd that Raylan actually starts laughing when it crosses his mind.  He laughs so hard he chokes on his beer, spitting it out all over himself.  Boyd just stares at him like he’s lost his damn mind.  They were sitting in complete silence until Raylan went a little maniacal.

Ava’s a little distant too when she finally reappears.  Johnny keeps his eyes on her all night but never says a word or leaves from behind the bar.  She doesn’t say anything to Raylan about Boyd and he takes that as a good sign.

Boyd and Raylan are drinking out back, much to Johnny’s irritation. For one, it occupies Raylan’s time- time that as far as Johnny’s concerned, should be spent on his knees making money for the bar, and two, Boyd’s drinking the top shelf stuff tonight and not the imported beer that doesn’t sell all that well. 

Boyd’s influence only goes so far, and that’s only when he’s around.  Come tomorrow when Johnny’s checking the books and Boyd’s nowhere to be found, Raylan’s lack of earnings and bar tab will become and issue.  It leaves an uneasy feeling in his gut but nothing that Boyd’s liquor can’t settle for tonight.  Anything else will be tomorrow’s problem and Raylan’s just reveling in what is the first normal feeling night he’s had in forever.  If this is what every other free soul in Harlan does, Raylan can see the appeal of the quiet mundane life.

“Uh-oh,” says Boyd with a bit of a giggle as he turns over their latest bottle and nothing comes out. 

“I’ll get us another,” proclaims Raylan, voice slurring as he makes to get to his feet.  He sways, stumbling with his first step.  The third step puts him right back on his ass.

Boyd bursts out laughing. “Raylan, I do believe you are a bit of a light weight.”

“Jus outta practice is all,” he defends.

Boyd, only slightly steadier on his feet, saunters over and pulls Raylan up.  “Time to get you home.”  Boyd pulls Raylan’s arm over his shoulder and together they shuffle off to Raylan’s trailer.  It isn’t graceful but they manage the stairs, Boyd pretty much dropping Raylan’s ass on his bed.

It’s been a good night and Raylan’s prepared to let that warm heavy feeling wash over him and pull him into a deep sleep with the stupid grin on his face he hasn’t been able to wipe off.  He frowns though as a couple of thuds sound off near the kitchen.  Crawling along the mattress, Raylan tries to get a look at what Boyd’s doing.  “I guess I ain’t the only drunk one,” he starts to say, until he realizes the sound is Boyd taking off his boots and dropping them on the floor like he’s meaning to stay.

Raylan watches, stomach sinking as Boyd sheds his jacket next, followed by his vest, both neatly hung up on the hook by the door.  “Boyd, whatcha doin’?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.  Boyd’s belt landing on the table, makes it indisputable. 

Smiling, Boyd steps out of his pants.  “Just relax, Raylan.”  The mattress dips as Boyd sits on the edge, deft fingers working to free Raylan of his clothes.

"Boyd," says Raylan in a pained whisper. He doesn't want this. Selfishly he wanted Boyd to remain that safe place- a friend, maybe a protector, and nothing more. Both are hard to come by in this life.  Like an idiot, he’d allowed himself to think they were square. "Please, don't."

"Shhhh," soothes Boyd, his fingers continuing to trace the slope of Raylan's hips. 

There's nothing stopping Raylan from getting up and off the bed. It's not like Boyd has a death grip on him or is even pinning him down. Raylan can't seem to make his legs work. He can't even lift his gaze from the tattoo painting Boyd's arm to look him in the eyes. He should have known he wasn’t done paying for Boyd's charity; has to applaud Boyd's ability to play the long game. Perhaps Boyd's more like his daddy than Raylan ever gave him credit for.

Fighting crosses Raylan's mind for about half a second. But to what end? Boyd will still get what he wants, Raylan will just be a little more broken for it. If he protests, Boyd might revoke any future kindness he intends on offering Raylan. Raylan's not sure he can live in a world like that. It's not like anyone else makes normal conversation with him, brings him books and food and takes him to have a turn at bat again. 

Raylan's pretty pliable as Boyd turns him over on to his back, lifts him up to prop a pillow under Raylan's hips to better angle him for what's to come.

Raylan clenches his jaw, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling as it takes everything in him to keep from trembling, keep the tears from falling. What did tears ever get him anyways?  Frankly, he’s a little surprised he has anything left to mourn.

The click of the lube bottle is startlingly loud in the silence of Boyd's tender, almost loving ministrations and Raylan's shallow ragged breaths. His breath hitches as the cold lube touches his skin, followed by the contrasting warmth of Boyd's calloused hands as they start to fondle at everything he finds while slowly pulling away Raylan's boxers with his other hand.

Raylan does let a shaky whine slip past his lips as Boyd works a finger inside of him. Raylan wants to scramble away but there's nowhere to go. He focuses on keeping his breaths steady as Boyd slides his finger in and out, eventually working in a second and then a third.

"Boyd," Raylan pleads, desperately. Boyd can still stop this before it goes any further.

Boyd just smiles, misinterpreting Raylan's moan as one of pleasure, shutting him up with a deep probing kiss.

The room fills with the smell of fake strawberry as Boyd rips open the foil package of a flavored condom and rolls the bright red thing over his firm and leaking dick. Instantly Boyd rolls over, moving from beside Raylan to over him, one leg hooked over Raylan's hip as he thrusts in, the earlier prep easing his way. His left hand is fisted in the fabric of the pillow under Raylan's head. His right arm supporting his weight by way of leaning on his elbow, freeing his fingers to cup Raylan's jaw, keeping Raylan's head in place as Boyd nibbles on his jaw and his bottom lip.

Raylan doesn't return Boyd's affection, lying perfectly still. It doesn't matter, Boyd doesn't notice, and any disinterest Raylan tries to convey is countered by his traitorous dick and its insistence it give Boyd a standing ovation. That, Boyd does notice.

A gleam forms in Boyd's eyes. Without breaking rhythm, he shifts so he's supporting himself with his left hand, using his right to stroke Raylan.  Boyd doesn’t let up until they both cum.  Afterwards, Boyd sprawls out next to Raylan, falling asleep like they’re a damn couple or something.

Chapter Text

Raylan becomes Boyd’s weekly ‘distraction.’  It’s not all bad.  Any injury Raylan sustains seems to be accidental and Boyd is never pointlessly cruel.  In fact, Boyd curtails the number of clients Raylan entertains, having final say on if he feels like sharing Raylan that night or not.  Raylan’s not completely off the market but it is a respite he’s desperately needed for a long time. 

Boyd’s kind and thoughtful in the way that he makes sure Raylan has three meals a day and not just the left-over deep-fried stuff from the bar, but actual home cooked meals.  Boyd’s tolerance for how other’s treat Raylan is apparent by the way he sicks Devil and Snake on people that see fit to leave marks on Raylan either at the bar when he’s serving or in his trailer when servicing. 

It’s such a drastic change to how things used to be, Raylan has to remind himself more than once that he’s still a prisoner and this thing with Boyd isn’t something he actually wants.  While Boyd may treat him better than anyone else, Bo still holds everyone’s strings- even Boyd’s.

It stings just a little when Boyd gets shot at Ava’s over dinner, though instead of Ava shooting, this time it’s a US marshal.  While they couldn’t pin the church explosion on Boyd, the confrontation at Ava’s produces a laundry list of charges they can pin on Boyd.  Raylan sold his soul to Boyd, when Boyd had no intentions of causing harm to Ava in the first place, rather his concern for her was of the romantic persuasion.

Raylan’s decent treatment ends as quickly as it takes the marshals to lock Boyd up in a prison hospital.  Johnny’s more than happy to reinstitute the old rules on behalf of Bo who’s counting on Johnny to hold things together.

The local lawman that put the final nail in Bo Crowder’s legal coffin is found to be corrupt by the marshals in Lexington.  It makes the news and the front page of the paper but no one in Harlan is overly surprised that the law is just as crooked as the criminals in these parts.  It gets a bunch of Sheriff Mosley’s cases tossed, including the case against Bo Crowder.

Bo’s already situated himself on a barstool like it’s a god damn throne by the time Raylan wanders in to start his shift on the day of Bo’s release.  He’s loath to admit it but fear crawls all over him like ants at the sight of Bo.  It doesn’t help that everyone, particularly Snake, looks happy to have the man back in their midst. 

“Well if it ain’t my favorite male whore,” says Bo, as his eyes land on Raylan. Snapping his fingers, Bo calls Raylan over like a dog.

Raylan has to force himself to comply.  It’s too early to incur a beating; Bo’ll wear him so thin, he’s going to need to hold on to his reserves for as long as possible if he wants to survive.  He tries not to flinch as Bo grabs his face viciously with one hand, squeezing his jaw and turning his head until he’s in profile.  “Good thing you’re still pretty.  I’ve got plenty of work lined up for you,” promises Bo in a way that sends a chill down Raylan’s spine.

Raylan would smile when he hears the news that Boyd’s getting out, because the case against him has fallen apart- something about the prosecution feeling the marshal making the case was hinging on them not being beyond reproach, but his jaw aches too much.  He hates to admit it, but he keeps a weathered eye on the door, waiting for the moment Boyd returns to Harlan and Audrey’s.  Bo may run things but the promise of being Boyd’s keeps running through Raylan’s head.  It would be trading one jailer for another but he’d rather Boyd be holding his leash than Bo.  Since Boyd is Bo’s son, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Boyd could simply ask to have Raylan- permanently.  Raylan’s prepared to ask the next time he sees Boyd.  He kind of got a raw deal over the whole Ava thing anyways.

It takes a few months, but Boyd comes busting through the door like a hurricane. Storming through the bar, he doesn’t even so much as look at Raylan as he strides right into Bo’s office, slamming the door for extra dramatic effect.  The bar is closed so it’s just Raylan doing the cleaning and a couple of Bo’s lackies getting their late morning drink on.  The office door does a pretty good job of obscuring the words being said but does nothing to hide the volume at which they’re being uttered.  In the end, Boyd emerges fit to be tied, and breezes out the door without so much as a word to anyone. 

Raylan drops the bin of glasses in the sink and ducks out the back door, making to head off Boyd before he gets to his vehicle.  “Boyd,” he calls rounding the corner of the building.

Boyd comes to a halt like someone lassoed him.  Stiffly he turns to face Raylan with a look of disdain that melts any smile off of Raylan’s face.  “What do you want, Raylan?” he asks sounding rather put-upon. 

“Are you doin’ alright?” asks Raylan, tipping his hat up and nodding towards Boyd’s chest.  He hasn’t seen Boyd since a marshal narrowly missed ending Boyd. 

“God saw fit to use me for other means than a cautionary tale,” answers Boyd.

“You find god in prison, Boyd?” says Raylan with a chuckle.  The joke dies a horrible death as Boyd doesn’t laugh, just continues glaring.

“I don’t have time for this, Raylan,” says Boyd turning back to his vehicle.

A horrible pit forms in Raylan’s stomach.  “You coming back, Boyd?”  He’s not sure he wants to hear the answer to his question.

“God has given me a higher purpose.  There’s nothing for me here,” he states coldly. 

“I’m here,” slips quietly past Raylan’s lips.  Raylan’s never asked for help for himself before, be it pride, stubbornness or the fact that no one ever seemed likely to follow through.  It takes a fair amount of courage to say, “Take me with you?”  Boyd’s the only one who has ever saved his life, maybe he can do it again.  Deep down, Raylan knows he’s not going to survive Bo this turn.

Boyd looks at Raylan then to the bar door.  Something flickers across Boyd’s face but it’s too fast for Raylan to catch.  “I intend to spend my time saving souls.  As much as it pains me to say it, your soul isn’t worth saving, Raylan.”

Raylan frowns.  He isn’t much for god but he can’t say that doesn’t hurt, especially coming from Boyd.  “What was that crap before then?  If I ain’t worth having, which you didn’t seem to have a problem with before when you were fu…”

His head snaps to the side as Boyd’s fist gets acquainted with Raylan’s cheek, hard and fast.  It’s enough to send him staggering a few steps to the side, hand automatically coming up to rub at the burning ache blossoming there.  Looking at the smear of blood on his hand in shock, he gently probes at his split lip to test the damage. 

“Raylan, this is where you belong,” says Boyd, staring off beyond Raylan’s shoulder, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact.  He digs in his pocket for his keys, gets in his pickup and burns out of the parking lot, gravel spitting out behind the tires.

Raylan glares after him until the truck is no longer in sight; Boyd’s words hurting more than the punch ever could but only slightly less than Boyd actually leaving him behind.  He bends down to grab his hat.  Salt in the wound, is Bo standing at the door with an amused smile on his face.

The blasts from the past keep on coming.  Not only is Bo back and Boyd’s been resurrected but the marshal who was so intent at putting Bo away, resurfaces.  Art Mullen walks into Audrey’s, navy jacket and hat all bearing the marshal services logo on full display for all the rift raft still sleeping off the previous night’s hangovers to see.  He takes his sunglasses off as the heavy wood door clanks shut behind him choking off any sort of natural light.  The man’s a little older, little grayer but that enthusiasm for the job still sparkles in his eyes.  He’s not alone either.

 A young woman is with him, following behind him in step as they take a seat at the table up against the wall.  Art comes off as relaxed but it’s clear in every line of the woman’s body and the way her eyes never stop surveying the bar, she expects a confrontation.

Raylan’s never been self conscious before but seeing Art Mullen after all these years and after the shit-kicking he took last night, leaves him a little frayed.  He grabs two menu sheets from under the counter and heads over to the table.  This isn’t a social call or some need of Art’s for lunch, but until Art lays on his sales pitch or slaps cuffs on Raylan, he’s going to play it like the dutiful bar hand he is.  He subtly rolls down the sleeves of his plaid shirt to cover up the fresh cigarette burns on his forearms that Bo blessed him with last night for not getting his drinks fast enough. 

Slowly he limps towards the table, unconsciously holding his ribs with his free hand.  His hat is tip forward to the point it almost obscures his vision to hide the bruising around his left eye that runs up his forehead and under his hairline.  Raylan throws the menus on the table along with a couple of coasters.  “Art,” he says gruffly. 

“Raylan,” replies Art, jovially.  “Didn’t think I’d find you still here.”  He says the words but is anything but surprised to see Raylan still working at Crowder’s establishment- alive maybe, but not still entangled with Bo.  He keeps the smile on his face as he catalogues every injury the young man is sporting and trying extra hard to hide.

“What can I get you, Art?” asks Raylan and it comes out far more tired than he wants it too.  This dance is exhausting, and Raylan hasn’t had any reserves for a very long time.

“What do you recommend?” asks Art, eyes not even flicking towards the menu.

“Georgia’s Diner down the road is good.”

“Well we’re here so we’ll have to take whatever you’ve got but I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

Raylan squints towards the bar.  “We got Kentucky Common on tap.  Wild Turkey’s a usual favorite.”

“We’re on the clock,” states the woman.

“Oh, that’s right,” agrees Art. “I’ll guess we’ll just have to settle for some information.”

There it is.  Raylan’s shoulder sink and he curses under his breath. “Thought you were at Glynco.  How are the kids?”

“Kids are good.  At that age where they don’t have a lot of patients for having me around.  Seemed like a good a time as any to get back in the field and right some wrongs.  So, have anything you feel like sharing?”

 He fixes Art with a forced smile.  “Can’t say my memory or my observation skills have improved any all these years.  I blame my third-rate education for the short coming.”

“Now see, you’re going to embarrass me in front of Rachel here.  I told Deputy Brooks, that you’d know your boss’s schedule.  Are you going to make me a liar, Raylan?” asks Art, putting his elbows on the table.

Raylan looks over his shoulder and around the bar.  “Bo ain’t here.  Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“How about Boyd Crowder?  You know when he’ll be by?”

“Boyd’s more into bible thumping than indulgence these days, here tell.” 

Art snorts, like he can’t actually picture Boyd delivering sermon.  “Then I guess we’ll just have to get some waters and wait to see if he shows.”

Raylan tries to grin but it faulters halfway as Rachel pushes the menus back into his hands.  He gets them their waters and steers Amber into the cooler as she walks in the back door.  She gets the word out to the rest of the girls to stay clear of the bar until the marshal’s leave, but it cuts into business for hours as Art seems uninclined to leave without a conversation with Bo.

It’s a painful couple of hours.  Raylan’s ribs are killing him to start with, having to hide the fact that he’s hurting by moving more naturally is taking its toll.  Art’s an oddly soft touch.  Raylan has no doubt the bastard will drag him out of here by his ear and drive him to a hospital if he catches a whiff that he needs medical attention.  The problem is the irritation it will cause Bo and the fallout for everyone that Art won’t be around to see.  Owing Art is problematic in that the only thing Art has directly asked for is something Raylan can’t give.  If Art was interested in his ass, Raylan could provide but so far Art hasn’t come for that.

“You going to order something now or just another refill on those waters,” asks Raylan.  It’s getting close to the start of evening service and the night is going to take a serious hit if there’s still two marshals present when the crowd starts rolling in. 

Art looks at the clock behind the bar counter then at Rachel who just shrugs.  “Just the cheque.”

“Water’s free, Art,” replies Raylan, shaking his head in amusement.

Rachel gets up first taking four steps away from the table.  Art throws a ten-dollar bill on the table.  “So is advice.  Here’s my offering for you.  Bo has a laundry list of things he’s going to go down for.  Boyd’s well on his way to outshining his father in that regard.  A lot of people are going to crumble in the process.  Don’t let one of them be you.  Give us something and we can see that you get a fresh start somewhere.  Somewhere where you don’t have to worry about who’s delivering the next hit or if your sleeves are rolled down far enough so no one sees what’s underneath.”

Raylan tugs his sleeves a little lower.  It’s a pretty offer, but Art has no intention of being his personal babysitter which means it will fall to some uniform to provide his safety and that poor son of a bitch won’t stand a chance against the shit storm Bo would rain down.  "You couldn't even keep Bo locked up."

"He got out on a technicality. My marshals aren't corrupt so when we get him, and we will, him and Boyd Crowder, they're both staying behind bars," says Art matter-of-factly.

The mention of Boyd stirs alarm in Raylan.  Boyd may have turned his back on Raylan, but Raylan knows the score between them and he owes Boyd so much.  "What's Boyd got to do with this exactly?"  Boyd’s found god and according to some of the guys around here, it sounds pretty legit.

"Besides being an all-around asshole?" says Art.

"He blew up a church. And most recently, he blew up a mobile meth lab with a man inside," says Rachel, clipped and to the point.

Raylan chews on his lip. It sounds like Boyd, especially the Boyd that came back from the army. But now there's the Boyd that spouts off religious ramblings, who walked away from the family to start some church and had no problem ditching Raylan and Raylan’s sin filled life. Raylan doesn't want it to be true, but what he wants and what is, never seems to align. While there maybe some avenue in which Raylan might be persuaded to turn on Bo, he can't fathom turning on Boyd. "Boyd's found God, not explosives and meth labs."

"That's your final answer on the subject?" asks Art skeptically. Raylan just nods. "Alright then." He signals Rachel to lead the way out. "Tell Bo, I look forward to re-punching our dance card," he adds before stepping out the door.

"Damnit Boyd," huffs Raylan, throwing the bar towel against the wall.

Chapter Text

Bo’s sour and it has nothing to do with the marshals’ visit earlier in the week.  Everyone is keeping their heads down and the flow within the bar is mostly Bo’s men, who are keyed up about something but far more jovial than Bo. 

Raylan pours Bo’s evening glass of bourbon and puts it on the serving tray to take over to Bo’s table in the back.  Getting about halfway, his wrist is grabbed, pulling him towards a table.  The grip is firm and unrelenting, leaving Raylan no choice but to go with it.  Snake pulls him down until he’s sitting in Snake’s lap. 

“Where you goin’?” says Snake in a low rumble in Raylan’s ear like their god damn lovers sharing a secret.

“Getting’ Bo his drink,” replies Raylan pushing off Snake to stand up.

Snake just latches onto his arm again and wraps his other meaty mitt around Raylan’s waist, fingers crawling over Raylan’s hip and settling on his inner thigh.  “Celebration.  No need to run off just yet.”

Raylan closes his eyes as he feels the hardening bulge in Snake’s pants, slightly overcome with the inevitability of everything.  He didn’t realize just how much he was banking on Boyd being his white knight- his cowboy, until Boyd said he was done with him.  “Bo don’t get his drink, nobody’s going to be celebrating tonight.”

“Then I suggest you get it to him and hurry back because I want one last go at your ass.”

Raylan wants to protest that he hasn’t done anything to earn any quality time with Snake.  He’s done all his work, looked after all his clients, kept the girls away from the marshals and kept his mouth shut.  He hasn’t earned a punishment, so Bo must be feeling especially cruel if he’s green lit any of Snakes desires.  It’s the ‘one last’ part that really captures Raylan’s attention.  “You goin’ somewhere and not coming back?” he asks, trying to hide the joy from his voice at the thought.

Snake tightens his arm around Raylan’s waist, until Raylan’s back is flush with his chest, like he’s hugging Raylan and lets go of Raylan’s wrist to reach over and grab his shot glass.  The booze sloshes over the edge of the glass as he brings it to his lips, dripping down Raylan’ shoulder.  Tossing the shot back, he sets the empty glass on Raylan’s tray and with wet lips against Raylan’s ear, says, “It’s you that’s leavin’.  Bo went to Miami to broker a deal with some heavy hitters.  He’s using you as the cherry on top of that deal.  Going to get yourself a nice tan being some cabaña whore if you survive long enough to make it down there.”

Raylan goes rigid.  Bo’s selling him.  Selling him sight unseen to associates in Miami as a gift.  Bo never sells his assets, only rents them out.  If he’s giving one away without being directly asked for it, and Raylan highly doubts throwing in a whore was a condition of any deal, it means Bo suspects Raylan’s treatment is going to be far worse than anything Bo can personally come up with at this point.

Snake shoves Raylan hard in the back, getting him on his feet.  “Best be getting’ Bo that drink so we can get this party started.”  He kicks Raylan in the ass when he still doesn’t move.

Jerking forward, the liquid in Bo’s glass laps over the edge like waves against the shore.  He should be worried about spilling the drink slightly, but his mind keeps fixating on being sold.  He won't survive being a party favor, and it sounds like they're going to have a party with the Miami people. It’s probably Bo’s point- to sit comfortably and watch Raylan get wrecked by someone else under the guise of doing them a favor when in reality their doing Bo’s dirty work for him.

Raylan thinks about his wealthier clients and if he can endear himself enough to get them to buy him instead; take his ass off the market and spare him an initiation.  There’s not enough time for that if it's his last night. He contemplates sucking Bo’s cock to convince Bo to keep him, but Bo’s actually the only one who doesn't touch him like that around here.

Maybe he can beg Snake to keep him.  Snake’s always considered Raylan to be his favorite toy.  Surely that has to be better than what’s to come- a forced drug addiction to keep him compliant and willing to do whatever and whoever his new masters point him at.  His life may suck here, but Bo’s never forced him to be strung out the way he’s heard the Miami boys do, and as long as Raylan keeps Bo happy and his pocket full, Raylan is allowed to be his own self. 

Snake’s brutal that night, holding Raylan so hard he leaves bruises everywhere his fingers touch.  After he takes Raylan rough, fucking him like a jackrabbit as the hard wooden edge of the kitchen table scrapes contusions the length of Raylan’s torso as he’s pushed forward with each thrust, he crawls into Raylan’s bed, spooning Raylan and holding him tight like a childhood teddy.  Raylan doesn’t sleep that night.  He lies there committing every part of his trailer to memory, holding on to the few brief moments of happiness he carved out in this hellish life here. 

In the morning Bo makes a show of tying Raylan’s hands in front of him like he’s a prized steer at a rodeo and has Snake throw him in the back of Bo’s pickup.  They drive out to Bo’s cabin where representatives of his Miami connection are waiting. Yanking Raylan out of the truck, Snake shoves him up the cabin steps while Bo approaches his guests.

Shoving Raylan so hard he falls onto the living room couch, Snake snarls, “Wait there,” before stomping over to the window to keep an eye on what’s going on.

Raylan toys with the idea of running.  He won’t get far; either Bo will gun him down or Snake will.  But it has to be better than ending up in the hands of the Miami people, who according to Snake are professional human and drug trafficers.  He’s going to die in their hands or worse, become a living zombie, dependant and so desperate for what ever shit they’re willing to push in his veins that he’ll gladly fuck or get fucked by anyone.  He’s forced to almost the same lifestyle here but at least he’s sober enough that’s it’s against his will and in absence of any control in his life, his disdain for what he’s forced to do is pretty important to him. It’s the last thread to prove Harlan hasn’t completely won.

Raylan’s broken from his thoughts by the decisive crack of gun shots outside.  His eyes snap towards the window and Snake who’s gone rigid with his weapon drawn.  Before he can say anything, there’s a loud bang from within the cabin and Snake drops like a sac of bricks, blood spraying all over Raylan.  He sits there, too stunned to breathe.  Blood drips off his eyelashes and bangs.  Slowly, on autopilot, his head turns to the sight of Boyd standing in the cabin, weapon drawn and pointing in Snake’s former direction.  “Boyd?” he says rather breathlessly.

“Raylan,” replies Boyd, unfazed by the current circumstances.  He moves to the window, kicking Snake’s arm out of the way like it’s something dirty as he goes, and takes shelter by the wall, peeking out to see what’s transpiring outside. 

Head spinning, Raylan can barely fathom what Boyd, of all people, is doing here.  That Boyd, who said he didn’t want Raylan, has just killed Snake.  He stares at Snake’s body, lifeless eyes still seeming to zero in on Raylan even in death.  Raylan thought he would have felt something knowing Snake was dead, that those callused hands would never defile him again.  He just feels like he’s floating alone in the ocean on a foggy day, unsure of which direction to swim to make it to shore.

“God damn it!” snarls Boyd, tucking his handgun into the back of his waistband.  He strides towards the front door.  “Wait here,” he commands, not even looking back at Raylan as he grabs the rifle leaning next to the cabin door and marches outside.

Shots sound out, Raylan flinching with each one as they go off in rapid succession.  Boyd’s hollering about something but the words don’t seem to formulate in Raylan’s brain in any decipherable order.  Sitting there frozen, he just stares at Snake’s body long after it goes quiet outside.

The silence is scarier than the shooting.  It’s just Raylan, his pounding heart, the intrusive memories of every moment he had to forfeit his body for someone else’s pleasure and the unwavering and judgemental gaze of a dead man. The silence drags, Raylan’s unease growing predicated on the simple fact that Boyd is never quiet- not willingly.

He grabs Snake’s discarded handgun, eyes glued to the man like he’s a horror movie villain that will come back to life for one last attempt at revenge, and heads out the door.  The ground is littered with bodies, Bo’s among them.  Raylan doesn’t shed a single tear for the man or the other bodies that he can identify, nor can he summon an ounce of sorrow for the ones he doesn’t recognize, being as they were probably his intended jailers.

He catches sight of Boyd circling around a line of vehicles occupying the driveway, stalking, every line of Boyd’s body screaming predator.  Movement out of his periphery alerts him to another presence, another individual on death’s mission.  From the placement of the cars and Boyd’s angle against the cabin, he can’t see the Miami man lining up their shot.

Raylan doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate for one single solitary second, just raises the gun and pulls the trigger.  Miami goes down with a startled grunt.  The gun feels infinitely heavier in Raylan’s hand.

Boyd glances back, then turns to open fire at something just past the tree line, marching forward like he’s storming the beach in Normandy.  He disappears out of sight, but the shots don’t let up.  It doesn’t sound like anyone is shooting back anymore.

Raylan examines the gun in his hand then shuffles over to the body he laid out.  He thinks back to the pig Arlo had him shoot and how the whole affair disturbed him so.  He had agonized over pulling the trigger then, had to take three extra shots to make up for the hesitation.  He didn’t seem to suffer that affliction here.  Guess he didn’t have the right motivation back then.

He turns the body over with the tip of his cowboy boot, breath catching in his throat as he gets a good look at the decisively feminine features.  The years have proven to Raylan that he’s capable of a great many things he never thought he would be, but he didn’t think ending a woman’s life would be one of them.  Looks like he has more of Arlo in him than he feared.

Unlike Snake, this body doesn’t look at him.  The lifeless eyes just stare off in the distance.  Raylan tries to rationalize what he’s done.  She was going to shoot Boyd.  If Raylan didn’t fire, Boyd would be dead.  And he’d probably be on his way to Miami by the end of the day or occupying an unmarked grave.  He finds he can justify it just fine, but is still surprised.

“Raylan!” snaps Boyd, suddenly standing behind Raylan, sunlight framing him like the avenging angel he is.

“What?” says Raylan, shaking his head to snap out of his trance.

“I said, let’s get you out of here.”

“Oh.  Okay,” he says dumbly, turning to follow Boyd.  His eyes drift back to the cabin where Snake lies as he does, the absurd notion that if he looks away the boogeyman will come to get him and drag him to hell with Snake.

Suddenly Boyd’s right next to him, gently prying the gun from Raylan’s hands and tucking it into his waistband. He places his hands warm and firm against Raylan’s face as he checks for any injuries, a source for the blood splatter other than Snake’s explosive end.  “Are you alright?”

Unable to find his voice, Raylan just nods.  With hands on his shoulders, Boyd steers him to the passenger’s side of Bo’s truck.  Boyd just steps over the bodies as they traverse the yard.

“What about Bo?” asks Raylan in alarm as Boyd opens the passenger door for Raylan to get in.  Bo’s going to be pissed his deal fell through and his men are dead- that Boyd killed Snake and is now absconding with Raylan- except that Bo’s dead, lying on a battlefield of his own making.

“Daddy’s dead,” says Boyd, closing the door for Raylan and then getting behind the wheel.  The truck rumbles to life and Boyd shifts it into drive.

“I’m sorry, Boyd,” says Raylan, unsure what to actually say.  He hated Bo and certainly has no love for his own father Arlo who’s demise he imagines often, so the loss is nothing to him but knows Boyd loved his daddy like he loved Bowman.

“I regret that one of the Miami crew was able to accomplish the deed before I could see it done by my own hands, but I did retain the satisfaction of ending them for killing daddy.” 

Raylan frowns.  “You came to kill your father?”

“Yes,” replies Boyd, like it’s any everyday normal transaction.

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t let it stand.  What he did… Raylan a man has to stand for something and when that something is challenged, he will either rise to the occasion or fold.  I choose not to fold for daddy anymore.”

“What did he do?” presses Raylan.  The list is endless, but his daddy’s trespasses have never bothered Boyd in the slightest before.  Boyd has always done his own thing, consequences be damned, and regardless of his father’s approval.

“He wanted more than I was willing to give,” Boyd says without taking his eyes off the road.  Reaching over, he places a firm hand on Raylan’s knee.

Raylan stares at Boyd’s hand.  It somehow feels heavier than it should, yet it feels like the only thing that’s keeping him from being swept away.  They drive in silence to wherever it is Boyd thinks they belong.  It’s been a day.

Chapter Text

At some point the rocking of the truck on gravel roads lulls Raylan to sleep.  Snake’s dead.  Bo’s dead. Raylan isn’t being sold to trafficers in Miami.  Boyd rescued him, so it’s safe to catch a bit of shuteye. Blinking blearily, the truck comes to a stop.  The sun’s just slipped below the horizon blanketing everything in the last throws of dusk.  Shock probably has a firm grip on Raylan, and he can’t quite shake the shackles of sleep, but he does recognize his trailer at Audrey’s. 

Boyd opens his door, wrapping his arms around Raylan to help slide him out of the truck and then gently escorts him inside.  He sits Raylan down on the edge of the bed, fetching a damp washcloth from the bathroom to wipe the dried blood from Raylan’s face.

There’s a tickle in the back of Raylan’s brain that wants to ask why would they come back to this place when everyone intent on keeping him here is dead and the world is open to them?  But Boyd’s here too, lovingly pulling off Raylan’s boots and pants as he’s dead weight lying on the bed.  Raylan fumbles with the buttons of his shirt but Boyd just bats his hands away and undoes it himself. Boyd’s hand ghosts over Snake’s most recent bruises on Raylan’s chest, the ones made last night as a parting gift to his most beloved toy.

Raylan shifts his hips and spreads his legs to make room for Boyd.  His debt is so large now, he doubts he’ll be able to pay it in one lifetime.  If Boyd wants Raylan right here, right now when he’s so exhausted and broken, he’ll still oblige. 

“Not tonight,” whispers Boyd, grabbing the blanket and covering Raylan instead.

It stings a little and Raylan hates to ponder why.  He’s about to resign himself to being alone- now in a way he’s never been before, no keeper in sight, when Boyd removes his jacket and unbuttons his vest before crawling in the bed beside Raylan, on top of the blanket and laying his head next to Raylan’s.  It’s comfortable having a weight beside him as he drifts off to sleep instead of on top of him.

“Good morning,” declares Boyd with more enthusiasm than anyone has the right to at such an early hour.  He never completely undressed the night before so of course he’s already dressed, though he did tame his hair slightly and find time to make coffee and pancakes which he’s enjoying while reading a newspaper.  He reaches over and presses an empty plate in Raylan’s hands before Raylan’s even had a chance to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

Raylan stumbles sleepily to the table and pours himself a cup of coffee, sucking in the aroma with an appreciative hum.  He watches as Boyd holds the paper with one hand, and stabs pancakes blindly with the other only to stack them on Raylan’s plate.  Boyd’s dispensing syrup when Raylan asks, “You going to cut them for me too?”

Boyd looks up from his paper.  “I just want to make sure you start the day off with the right nutrition.”

“I dropped out of health class but to my recollection, syrup wasn’t one of the food groups.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have the organic section at the local grocer to work with,” he counters pointing at Raylan’s refrigerator and sparce cupboards.  “It’s a big week, Raylan.  You’re going to need your energy.”

“For what?” asks Raylan around a mouthful of pancakes.  He’s not burdened with an abundance of property, so packing his shit won’t take more than a minute.  Picking some place to go, well Raylan doesn’t care much where he ends up, as long as it isn’t within the boarders of Kentucky.  Figuring out how to finance the journey might take a minute.  But hell, he’ll blow every and any truck driver that’s willing to pick him up if it gets him across state lines.

“Someone has to take over now that daddy’s out of the picture.  With him gone, there are plenty of business opportunities available but I’m going to need some seed money and a little extortion material to get started and that’s where you come in, Raylan.  You and your unique skills set,” says Boyd, eyeing Raylan like he’s a smorgasbord on display.

Raylan’s fork clangs against his plate.  “I didn’t do any of that shit cause I wanted to, Boyd.  There ain’t nothing about this life that was choice,” he snarls.  He isn’t some whore in a shitty trailer, that’s not who he is, even if that is who he’s become to everyone else.  “I’m this because Arlo, Mags Bennett, Bowman and your daddy made me this.  It ain’t a choice,” he adds, slamming his fist on the table.  Now that they’re gone, Raylan’s hoping to make another choice.

Boyd sits there unfazed by Raylan’s simmering anger or visible outburst.  “I showed up in Bulletville with the intention of shuffling my daddy from this mortal coil all because he aimed to send you away to get back at me for refusing to do his bidding.  It cost me my followers, my faith and my family, Raylan, all to save you.  That day I left you here, was because he said he would kill you if I tried to take you with me.  Now I’m still trying to protect you Raylan, but that is an infinitely arduous task without the financial resources.”

Furrowing his brow, Raylan asks, “Protect me from what?  Your daddy is dead.  Bowman is dead.  You think Johnny is going to be interested in keeping me around?”

“Not cousin Johnny,” says Boyd shaking his head.  “Johnny law is who I’m more concerned about.”

Raylan snorts.  The notion’s funny but it also hides his discomfort.  “Shit, you’d think if they wanted me on prostitution, they would have taken me down already.  I ain’t nothing to them, Boyd.  Just an afternoon of inconvenient paperwork.”

“I’ve never met a lawman that didn’t get hard at the prospect of catching a murderer.  As such, I hazard to think they will be a little more motivated in their pursuit of justice against you.”

“Murder?  Who the hell did I…”  starts Raylan, realization dawning on him like a punch in the gut. He was so close to a clean break; he could practically see the county line, but they keep moving the damn thing.  He protests, “It was self defense.”

“It seems to me when I left you, you were perfectly safe in the cabin. You picked up the gun and you came outside, and you shot that woman who was not aiming at you but at me,” clarified Boyd in his cold smooth tone.

“She was going to kill you, Boyd. I had no choice.”  The words feel dirty in Raylan’s mouth.  Though not untrue, he wonders if a smarter man, a braver man, a better man, might have secured a different outcome that didn’t have a bullet leaving his gun.

Boyd sits a little straighter.  “I know that. And you know that. But I'm afraid Raylan, Johnny law does not know that, nor will they care. What they will care about is your prints on the gun that matches the ballistics of the bullet in the back of that young woman. So, you have two choices my friend. You can stay here on your knees for me and my needs for awhile or you can spend the rest of your life on your knees in prison.”

Raylan looks torn.  He can’t keep the image of the woman dead on the ground out of his mind.  He imagines Sheila would be disappointed in him.  Arlo would probably applaud.  Art would be resigned but slap the cuffs on Raylan, with a dejected, ‘I warned you, son.’

“I'm just asking you to help me out Raylan and in exchange I'll keep you safe. Just like Myrtle Creek.  Haven't I been doing that all along?” asks Boyd like he’s begging Raylan to offer him pity and grace him with the opportunity to save Raylan’s soul.  “I now find myself running through a crumbling mine hoping someone can help pull me from its clutches.”

Raylan gets quiet and closed off.  Boyd’s asking a lot, but not more than he’s given Raylan.  More importantly, Boyd’s asking.

“Stay Raylan,” says Boyd, soft and pleading.  “I need someone I can trust.”

Raylan’s stomach sinks. Prison is about as appealing as Miami, especially considering Bo still has friends on the inside who probably still have orders to tear him a few new holes and then fuck all those holes.   He runs through the ever-growing list of what he owes Boyd for.  Leaving a bad taste in is mouth, he asks, “How long?”

“Just long enough for me to get daddy’s operations up and running again properly.  It will seem like a drop in the bucket to the life you have before you. If I get things back on track, I'll be able to send you off into that bright shiny world with a bag full of cash for you to go wherever it is you see fit,” promises Boyd.

“How long,” presses Raylan again.  Shit in Harlan, success is always one more job, one more score away from the dream.  Boyd getting things on track could be a month, could be years.  Raylan has an opening to put all this bullshit behind him and finally reclaim his life.  Except can he walk away and leave the one person who’s shown him any kind of kindness in the lurch?

Boyd cocks his head, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  “I was unaware you had a pressing engagement to get to.”

Raylan just glowers back.

“Tell me something Raylan, just what were your plans?  You have no money which means if you leave here, you’re on the streets, where you’ll just have to do some lewd things to survive.  What are you going to put on a job application with no education or work experience?  Whoring doesn’t exactly have transferable skills.”

“Fuck you, Boyd.”

“Maybe later,” replies Boyd, disimpassioned.  “Work for me for awhile and we can both get what we want.  You’ll have money to start out wherever you want, and I’ll have the means to offer you protection wherever that is.”  Boyd scrambles out of his seat and kneels before Raylan taking Raylan’s hand in his.  “I need your help in getting a foothold.  Someone I can trust to have my back,” he says earnest and raw.  “Just like when we were in the mines.”

It feels wrong and dirty, but Boyd has a point.  Every time Raylan’s tried to run, he hasn’t gotten very far.  He certainly doesn’t have the skills to avoid the law, not for murder at any rate.  Boyd isn’t Dickie or Mags or Arlo or Bowman or even his own father. 

Boyd takes Raylan to batting cages, gives him books, strung Dickie Bennett up for him and laid with him all night without putting a hand on him and when he did take Raylan to bed, was gentle about it.  Boyd is going to keep the gun from falling into the wrong hands.  This will be different.  Boyd doesn’t own him, he just needs a little help for a little while.  “Alright.”

Things change as much as they don’t with Boyd taking charge.  Johnny’s sullen at being passed over as the heir apparent, though some of that melancholy might be from the fact that he’s currently bound to a wheelchair thanks to Bo.  Ava is a frequent flyer at the bar again though this time instead of hanging off of Bowman’s arm, she’s clinging on to Boyd. 

Prostitution isn’t a job that hands out an actual paycheque.  Raylan doesn’t get paid out like the girls do, however he does get to keep his tips now.  It’s not a lot of money at the end of the day, but for the first time in his life, he can have a pizza delivered to his trailer or pick out and purchase his own shirt instead of relying on the things Johnny would bring to the bar from the church donation bin.  It’s the little things that make Raylan feel almost human again.

He still has to perform double duty every night- bar tender and entertainment, but Boyd has never been keen on sharing his toys and doesn’t take too kindly when someone gets rough with Raylan.  It’s nice not having to worry too much about the volatility of his customers.  He gets the usual injuries if they’re a little too enthusiastic or like it rough and he gets smacked around a bit but never enough to break anything or require stitches.

Saturday nights though, Boyd doesn’t like to share Raylan at all.  It seems like a poor business decision given Saturday is the busiest night of the week, but Boyd is insistent Raylan stay on his feet behind the bar and keep his pants up.  Suits Raylan just fine.  There’s only one person that gets to touch Raylan on Saturday nights and it’s Boyd himself.  Raylan isn’t sure if the whole affair isn’t lubricated by excess liquor or if it was Boyd’s designs this whole time.

Raylan isn’t into it, but he figures Boyd deserves the best performance he can give.  It doesn’t seem to bother Boyd if he’s figured out Raylan’s enthusiasm is just for show.  Boyd’s gentle- almost loving and isn’t happy until Raylan’s gotten off too.  It’s a whole new kind of weird- and uncomfortable.

When Boyd’s done, fast asleep in the arms of fucked out bliss, Raylan lies there, still as possible and wonders what Ava thinks of it all.  Ava seems happy with Boyd.  She certainly hasn’t smiled like she does when Boyd’s nibbling on her earlobe or worshiping her neck with tender kisses, since she used to lean casually against the wall behind the batting cages waiting for Raylan to notice her instead of taking the next swing.

She deserves to be happy.  Especially given what it’s cost her to get to this point.  Raylan would hate to be the poisonous fruit that destroys her newfound bliss.  The most expedient way to avoid it would be to offer Boyd anything else but Raylan’s aware enough to notice the possessive and predatory gaze he follows Raylan around with when they’re in the same room.

Raylan’s a special kind of animal in that he wants to believe nobility will trump self preservation, but he knows turning Boyd’s advances away will put him back on the open market seven days a week and without the protection of ‘not breaking Boyd’s toys.’  He resigns himself to doing what he needs to survive and avoids looking at himself in the mirror for fear he’ll see Arlo staring right back at him.

Boyd never talks about when Raylan can leave, just brings it up in vague terms, a date in the future that never seems to arrive, and Raylan senses things aren’t panning out the way Boyd thought they would or at the speed he planned on.  Raylan’s itching to leave Harlan in the rearview mirror, but he’s a man of his word.  If he’s nothing, he at least has that kind of integrity.  He won’t leave Boyd high and dry.  In the end, Boyd’s always done right by Raylan.

The longer Raylan stays, the more it feels like he’s never going to leave.  Eventually he stops bringing it up altogether, because Boyd doesn't have to say it. Raylan's leaving is a fantasy perpetuated by Boyd to keep Raylan complacent. In the end, Boyd's just like everyone else. The common denominator in everything is Raylan, and he has to wonder if he's the problem. Maybe this is just his station in life: Harlan's professional whore.

Raylan's fingers tighten into the feathery fold of his pillow until his knuckles go white. "Ouch. Take it easy, Boyd."

Boyd doesn't stop. If anything, his fingers dig in deeper and tighter against the skin of Raylan's hips as Boyd continues his relentless pace that Raylan just can't loosen up enough for.

"Damn it, Boyd. I said that hurts!" snaps Raylan, looking over his shoulder at Boyd when he feels like somethings torn. Though Boyd is never exactly gentle when he takes Raylan from behind, he's usually at least careful.  Gentle ended awhile ago when Boyd started walking around like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Man up, Raylan," Boyd snarls in return, eyes fixed on the headboard above Raylan's head. He doesn't slow or change angle; he does push Raylan's head down to the mattress with the palm of his hand pressing against the knobs of Raylan's spine just below his shoulders. He's on a mission tonight, one in which Raylan's enjoyment isn't a consideration.

Raylan bites the inside of his cheek after that, muffling every frantic and irritated fuck that wants to escape his lips. He tries to focus on anything other than the pain as Boyd rubs and stabs against already raw and abused flesh, until finally he can feel the wet finish of Boyd's climax. He breathes a sigh of relief as Boyd collapses on top of him. It's elbows and weight in some uncomfortable places but Boyd at least pulls out.

 After a minute to catch his breath, Boyd rolls off completely, allowing Raylan to roll off his stomach and inch his way to the edge of the bed. He makes to see just how much damage Boyd's done in his single-minded zealous quest for release, but Boyd grabs Raylan by the bicep before he can slither off the bed and yanks him close. Uneasy, Raylan lays his head on Boyd's chest, as the other man wraps his arm around Raylan in some mock representation of a couple, in which they are not. The only solace Raylan can take, is Boyd can usually only manage one round when he's in this type of mood. The clinginess afterwards means Raylan doesn't have to worry about working for the rest of the night either.

"Ava says she doesn't want me in the whore business anymore. Guess she wants a relationship with a respectable gentleman," says Boyd with a smile.

There it is.  When there’s trouble in paradise, Boyd uses Raylan as a means to take out his frustration.  It’s some fucked up form of chivalry, where Boyd never lays a hand on his woman, laying them on Raylan instead.  Raylan’s man enough to endure it, because despite everything, he’d rather a Crowder never takes a hand to Ava again.

There's something about Boyd saying Ava's name during and after that makes an unseemly deed somehow lower. It turns Raylan's insides. Both because he once found comfort in Ava's arms and knowing she's with Boyd burns just a little, and in that Ava's never personally wronged Raylan so getting fucked by Boyd, even when he doesn't have much say in the matter, feels like he's the one chipping away at her happiness. "You going to do it for her?" asks Raylan with a fair amount of reservation. Boyd owns him and all things considered, it's the best situation Raylan's been in. If Boyd gives up Audrey's what befalls Raylan next could be so much worse.

"Doesn't make much business sense to. This is the modern age, Raylan. What kind of man would I be if I hindered the entrepreneurial efforts of young women and yourself by closing this place down?"

"You're a man of the times, Boyd."

Boyd must convince Ava, because business at Audrey’s doesn’t stop for a second and Boyd is just as present as ever.

Chapter Text

Raylan always wondered why his mother stayed with Arlo.  More accurately, wondered why she always came back.  Selfishly he hoped it was for him.  That she would get to wherever she’d run to and realize she forgot a piece of herself behind- one she just couldn’t live without.

He thinks he knows the answer now as he pokes at a loose tooth with his tongue while holding a pack of ice to his rapidly bruising jaw.  He doesn’t know what pissed Boyd off, coming in all hot and bothered but he knows what soothes Boyd’s irritation.  Boyd of course apologizes profusely- after he fucked Raylan against the stall door in Audrey’s bathroom.  Swears he’ll never do it again and didn’t mean to take it out on Raylan, but trying to build an empire is trying at times.

Raylan kind of has to buy it, because he hitched his start to Boyd, and hung his integrity on the line for the believe that doing this will make him and Boyd square, make them better than square.  Other wise Raylan’s just condemned himself to this hell and he can’t be that broken and stupid.

“You believe me, don’t you?” asks Boyd, looking every bit the part of contrition.  He’s down on his knees in front of Raylan in the back office. 

It’s a trick Boyd’s especially good at.  Making himself smaller so the other person feels they have all the power.  Raylan’s not dumb enough to think there’s any other answer than to offer forgiveness but it surprises him that he’s thinking about it enough that it might be genuine.  He puts the bag of ice on the table.  “Sure, Boyd,” he says softly but can’t bring himself to look Boyd in the eye.  Maybe this time it will be the truth.  That’s really all the hope Raylan has these days.

Boyd smiles, burying his head in Raylan’s lap and wrapping his arms around Raylan’s waist in some remorseful hug.

Business calls and Boyd sends Raylan back out to work, leaving Boyd to go over the books and dream up schemes to get some quick cash to help build the bright and shiny future he’s promised Ava.

Johnny’s cleaning glasses at the bar as Raylan walks out.  “You’re walking funny,” comments Johnny with a malicious smile.  It’s not a secret that Boyd’s been getting more than money out of Raylan.  Those that already had it out for Raylan just assume it’s Raylan that goes crawling on his knees begging for Boyd to put his cock in Raylan’s mouth or ass.  Raylan embracing being a whore seems to bring them endless amusement.

Raylan squints, giving a hate filled smile to the man still relying on a wheelchair during his recovery from Bo’s heavy handed retribution.  “At least I’m walking,” spits Raylan as he heads out towards his trailer to try and assess just how much damage Boyd’s caused and what he’ll be able to do tonight.

Boyd proposes to Ava.  Raylan hears about it from Sarah Beth who heard it from Teri who heard it from Johnny.  Neither of them bothers to tell Raylan about it personally.

For awhile Raylan thinks that will be the end of Boyd coveting his ass.  Boyd’s a lot of things, but he does have a strong sense of loyalty and Raylan figures wedding vows are those things Boyd would be hard pressed to break.

It takes two months for Boyd to show back up at Raylan’s trailer under the cover of darkness. 

Technically he and Ava aren’t married just yet.

"Yeah!" yells Raylan at the knock at his trailer door.

The door opens and it's Ava stepping through. She gives him a small smile, as she steps in, careful to keep the two cups of coffee in her hands from spilling. 

Ava's one of the last people he'd expect to show up in his trailer. Throwing the last pair of jeans in his laundry basket up in the overhead cupboard, he tosses the laundry basket back on the bed for later. "What can I do for you, Ava?"

"I thought we were due a conversation."

Raylan's been assuming this has been coming. He gestures towards his breakfast nook, sliding onto the bench seat himself.

Ava sits across, sliding one of the mugs over towards him. She takes a drink of her own, pushing at the handle with her manicured fingers once she's put it down. "We need to talk about yours and Boyd's relationship," she finally says.  Her thumb worries at the band of the engagement ring now sitting on her left hand.

"Boyd and I aren't in a relationship," he says. "Not like that anyways." He takes a swallow of steaming hot coffee hoping it helps the lie slide down easier. It's more a half truth, really. Boyd fucks him on the regular but it sure ain't love. Not on Raylan's part and he kind of doubts on Boyd's part either. Raylan's a poor substitute for something else missing in Boyd's life; Raylan just doesn't have the luxury of refusing his service. He has no designs on getting between Ava and Boyd or stealing her man.

"I ain't blind, Raylan. I do have ears too. I see the way he looks at you. I hear what he gets up to with you, and I ain't interested in being made a fool, nor being the third wheel in my relationship." She lights a cigarette, something productive to give her fingers to do.

"I can assure, I ain't enticing Boyd to come around. And if I had a choice, I'd be no part in any of this."  He really doesn’t want to ruin things for Ava if Boyd is the man who is going to make her happy.  And if she aims to keep Boyd on a tight leash, that’s a bonus for Raylan too.

"You think I can't keep him happy? That I ain’t enough woman for him?" she accuses.

"You're more than enough, Ava. Whatever Boyd feels compelled to do here, it don't mean anything. He loves you. It's why he gave you that rock there," says Raylan, pointing to the diamond ring Ava's been sporting lately.

"Ain't going to share him with nobody," she insists.

When did Ava start looking at him like he was the enemy?  Raylan doesn't have the patience for this circular argument. If he had any say, he'd have told Boyd to stop the first night Boyd even looked at him like he could take liberties with Raylan’s body. The cold fact is, Raylan offered himself to spare Ava the Crowder wrath for killing Bowman he thought was coming.  Boyd sunk his teeth in forever when he saved Raylan’s life, not for the first time, at the Bulletville cabin.  Boyd was always going to do whatever he's going to do. "Just ask him to stay home," he says getting to his feet. He has to get ready for tomorrow.

Ava’s eyes follow Raylan, a frown wrinkling her brow.  "Boyd don't listen to me when it comes to you."

Standing up, is proving to be a bit of a mistake. Raylan blinks to try and get the trailer to steady as it starts to roll and pitch. It doesn't work and the colors of the world start to tilt and run like a carnival ride. Raylan puts his hand out, bracing himself against one of the cupboards shaking his head to dispel the blurriness. It's a sluggish and uncoordinated move, like the arm he's trying to move isn't his own. Suddenly he's gripped with the feeling he's going to be sick. He tries to get to the bathroom but it's like he's climbing up hill to get there. The steep incline proves too much, and Raylan topples to the ground.

Ava just looks down at him from her spot at the table. She doesn't seem the least bit surprised or concerned.

"Whad... dij ya do, Ava?" he slurs, his tongue becoming as uncooperative as every other part of him as the world fades to black.

Raylan works his jaw as sleep pulls back its embrace. He can't quite convince himself to open his eyes yet. The blankets are tangled around him, cocooning him in softness and gentle warmth and if he keeps from committing to consciousness, he could drift right on back to sleep. But damn it, it kind of feels like he fell on his face, and no amount of rolling or shifting his jaw wants to dispel the slight ache.

Fuck it. He goes to move his hand to his face, maybe force something to crack or pop, but his hand doesn't make it very far, brought up short by the cold hard bite of steel and the rattle of confinement. "What the hell?" he says, eyes snapping open to see his right wrist cuffed to a headboard that isn't even his.

He makes to test the durability of both the cuff and the post only to realize his left wrist is in the same state pulled towards the other side of the headboard. Everything's hazy from yesterday with a big question mark about anything that happened after he went to do laundry. Did he get jumped and kidnapped out of the laundry room? Seems like a lot of effort to get a whore in bed.

That's where he's restrained, spread eagle on a crisp white duvet with a mound of pillows surrounding him. The shackles around his feet have some give, but not enough to close his legs and secure himself any kind of dignity. Though given the circumstances he doubts his comfort level is going to be a factor. There's a god damn bright pink bow tied around his chest, like he's waiting to be opened on Christmas day. It's hard to get a decent angle but what he can see, and feel, he thinks he might be sporting a pink cock ring with a bow too.

"Fuck me," he huffs letting his head fall back into the pillows.

"I think that was entirely the idea," says Boyd leaning casually against the doorframe looking at Raylan fervently.  

"Well now you've gone and ruined the surprise," says Ava, in a sultry voice, coming out of the adjoining bathroom in a white teddy.

"Which surprise is that?" asks Boyd with a salacious smile as his eyes drift from Raylan to skim over every bit of exposed skin peeking out from the sparse silk and lace fabric on Ava.  There’s more exposed flesh between the two of them than anyone person has the right to feast upon.  Boyd is up for the challenge though.

"Now I thought to my self, what do I get for the man who has everything," says Ava caressing her hands across her chest and down her waist through to her hips. She tips her head towards Raylan who’s wearing only silver cuffs and a pink bow. It's her only acknowledgement that he's even in the room.

Boyd's eyes drift between her and Raylan, his smile getting impossibly bigger. "What did you conclude?" he asks.

"How about permission," she replies, low and predatory.

Boyd's across the room in a flash, hands fighting to touch every inch of her delicate flesh as he kisses her ravenously. Ava let's out a moan as Boyd's mouth works its way from her lips, down her neck to suckle at the breast he's freed from its white dressing. Boyd's hard, uncomfortably so confined still in his dark jeans. Hastily he fumbles one handed to undo his belt and shed his denim prison.

Gently Ava pushes him back, gaining breathing room and a free hand to grab at the white sheet covering the TV tray standing next to the wall. "That and toys," she says exposing the assortment of sex toys and fetish gear.

"Good god woman!" he shouts enthusiastically, eyeing the assortment of treasures. He scoops Ava up, bridal style, carrying her to the bed and lying her next to Raylan. "I don't know what I did to deserve you," he tells Ava as she works at his belt that's still looped through his pants.

“If you two need a minute, I can come back,” says Raylan hoarsely.

Neither acknowledges Raylan.  Pants sliding down to the floor, she motions for Boyd to bring the tray closer to the bed. As Boyd steps out of them to gather their entertainment Raylan locks eyes with her. "Please, Ava. You don't have to do this," he pleads. There isn't love in her eyes when she looks at him. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that most of those toys are going to be used on him and not for his enjoyment. This is payback for some slight she believes Raylan at fault for, when none was intended if one ever occurred.

"Playthings shouldn't talk," she says dryly. Opening the bedside drawer, she pulls out a bottle of pills, dumping a couple in her hand. Grabbing Raylan's face, she squeezes his cheeks until he has to open his mouth. Quickly she tosses the pills in his mouth, covering it with her hand so he can't spit them back out.

"Boyd, don't let her do this," he pleads but it comes out as an inarticulate mumble behind her hand. 

Boyd's smile falters when he sees the pure panic in Raylan's desperate eyes. "What are those?" he asks.

"Just a sedative. Keep his mouth from ruining tonight. He'll be fine in the morning. You'd think for a whore he'd understand the virtue of dirty talk, but until he does, silence is better than his whining," she says once she feels Raylan's throat work the pills down.

"Sometimes his desperate begging enhances the mood," says Boyd, smile returning to his face. He crawls up from the foot of the bed, kissing a trail from Ava's foot up to her full lips as he worms his way between her and Raylan.

They fuck right there beside Raylan. Neither pays him much attention other than the occasional moment Boyd blindly reaches behind him to palm and squeeze at Raylan's ass.  

Raylan lies there, trying to drown out the sounds around, the motion of the bed as Boyd and Ava rock and thrust together but the more he tries the more his brain focuses on it all in sharp clarity. The pills work pretty quickly, his arms and legs feeling heavy. Even trying to flex his fingers feels like an arduous and uncoordinated effort.

Raylan’s not lucky enough to be forgotten about completely.  Boyd props himself up on the pillows, leaning against the headboard.  Unlocking one of Raylan’s cuffs, Ava lays his head on Boyd’s lap- a front row seat for Boyd to watch Ava sodomize him with a series of dildos and anal plugs.  The show lasts until Boyd is ready to go again.  This time, Ava watches as Boyd fucks Raylan. 

When they’re done, Boyd carries Raylan to the bathroom and deposits him in the bathtub like a discarded sex toy.  Ava makes sure to cuff him to a safety bar so he can’t leave under the cover of darkness once the pills wear off- like Raylan has anywhere to go.  Boyd, at least supplies him with a blanket to hold off the chill of his porcelain prison.  Then they both head back into the bedroom to go to sleep like they’ve tucked a child back into bed after a nightmare.  Raylan’s still too drugged to give a shit about his mistreatment.  It makes it easy to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

The new rule is Raylan is a tag team sport.  The couple that rapes together, stays together.  Boyd isn’t allowed to have his turn at Raylan unless Ava gives her blessing or is present.  Mostly that means the whole affair is quiet for the outside world, all appearances being that Ava is making an honest man of Boyd Crowder.  It’s easy to enforce since Ava has given up her job at the beauty parlor in favor of running the entertainment side of Audrey’s.  It gives her an excuse to be around Boyd all the time and control over Raylan’s time and client list.

Under different circumstances Raylan would enjoy having Ava around, but since her and Boyd got serious, Ava’s gotten cold.  Gone is that sweet girl he used to make love to at the rec center.  Now she holds nothing but disdain for Raylan, a fact made unmistakable during their weird threesomes. 

While the functioning of the bar doesn’t fall under Ava’s domain, she’s rather insistent that Johnny work Raylan like a horse.  It suits Johnny just fine, because like most Crowders, Johnny has it bad for Ava.  Anything he can do to appease her, he’ll make happen.  Torturing Raylan is just a bonus.

Raylan’s been tasked with maintenance and repairs for the day, before the after-work crowd starts rolling in.  The daytime is generally slow on weekdays, so Raylan doesn’t have to pay much attention to customers.  It’s mostly dirty jobs today, like deep cleaning the ice machine, and keg lines and fixing the urinals.  Basically, if it’s a shit job no one else wants to touch with a ten-foot pole, that makes it Raylan’s.  Looks like all those how-to books Boyd used to bring him have a practical purpose in Raylan’s life after all.

He’s in the tool shed rummaging for the proper wrench set. It used to be Snake’s shed, and the tools were just a byproduct of the more seedy, underhanded things Snake used the shed for.  Raylan’s intimately familiar with what used to go on out there and he does his level best to avoid looking at the chains that are still fixed to the ceiling.  No one bothered to clean it out after Snake died, mostly because the tools of Snake’s trade- the infliction of pain and suffering on others, have more practical, real-world applications.  And nobody gives two shits about Raylan’s apprehension and discomfort at seeing the tin sheers Snake used to cut into him with, the screwdriver set Snake would use when he hit his refractory period and the chains that used to hold Raylan up when his own legs could no longer support his weight.

Focusing on trying to keep his hands steady and his breathing under control as he searches is probably why Raylan misses most of the commotion unfolding in the bar.  In fact, he doesn’t even pick up a disturbance until he’s at the bar’s back door.  Ava is arguing with someone, a man and one of the girls is crying, so it’s probably a dispute over services. 

Raylan grabs the bat by the back freezer figuring showing a little muscle might deter the john and send him on his way.  It won’t garner Raylan any favors but letting a customer get rough with the girls, especially Ava, and doing nothing about it, is going to earn him Boyd’s wrath.

Turns out, Ava doesn’t need saving, though her handling of Bowman should make that less of a surprise than seeing her blow a man away does.  Raylan clears the corner just as the gun rings out and the body hits the floor.

Ellen May is a raving mess; tears and thanking Ava.  Ava is a cool customer, holding the shotgun like she’s daring the body to get up again.  There’s blood painting the walls as the puddle on the carpet expands.

“Jesus Christ, Ava,” says Raylan, the bat falling off his shoulder.  It’s broad daylight and the damn bar is open.  Anyone could be outside to hear the shot.  More importantly anyone could walk in and be party to this shit show. 

Ava just glares at Raylan.  She drops the shot gun on the counter and stalks over to Ellen May, grabbing her by the arms to make sure she looks at her.  “You need to help me clean this up,” hisses Ava.  “You hear me!”  She gives Ellen May a shake to try and make her stop crying.  Turning to Raylan, she snaps, “Go out back and get a tarp.”

Raylan shakes his head but moves to comply.  He hits the front door first, locking the doors and turning off the open sign before heading out back.  Tarp in hand he pauses briefly at the backdoor, looking at the phone on the wall.  “You don’t want to go down as part of this, Raylan,” echoes in his head.  He has no delusion that Mullen will bury him for being party to this.  He’s already on the hook for the murder of one of the Miami thugs, a crime he’ll swing for all on his own.  Helping Ava here, ties him to this crime and chains him to Ava- a woman Boyd will do anything to protect.  He and Ellen May are just dangerous collateral.  Boyd will never let him leave now that he has information that can bury Ava.

If he doesn’t protect Ava here, it’ll be Boyd that buries him now.  Art won’t get a chance.

Raylan wraps Delroy up in the tarp and drags him out to Ava’s truck.  The three of them mop up the blood, clean the floors and the walls with finite precision.  It takes hours and a few bottles of bleach, but they get it done.  It’s disturbing how normal the place looks once it’s done. 

Raylan questions the wisdom of Ava leaving Ellen May to open the bar.  The girl is obviously rattled and has a mouth she just can’t manage to shut once it starts running but he supposes she’d be even less help moving Delroy.  And if the bar is closed much longer, it might raise an eyebrow or two.  At the very least the couple of regulars that start drowning their sorrows early will take note and mention it at the wrong time to the wrong people.

Together Raylan and Ava drive the body out deep into the hollers. Raylan drives and Ava sits in the passenger seat, shotgun sitting across her lap pointed at Raylan.  It’s a subtle reminder of who’s in charge even if her finger isn’t coiled around the trigger.  If Ava meant to clear away the witnesses, she would have brought Ellen May along too.

He tries to reconcile this new Ava with the one that used to twirl the strands of hair behind her right ear as Raylan’s hands rested warm and heavy on her shoulders before his fingers would slide the straps of her bra off her soft shoulders.  This woman sitting beside him is not the one who brought him groceries or cleaned his wounds after a john got rough with him the night before.  This isn’t the delicate flower that used his shoulder for cry when Bowman used his fists to convey a point.  This is Ava Crowder riding shotgun, and it aches to think sweet little Ava Randolph is no more.  Catching his own reflection in the side mirror, Raylan supposes he isn’t that kid who dreamed of leaving Harlan for baseball career or even that kid Shiela would use her tips on and make birthday cupcakes for.  Harlan has a way of destroying innocence.

“Where do you mean to take Delroy?” asks Raylan, his gaze catching the tarped body in the rearview. 

“The deepest darkest mineshaft you know,” replies Ava, flatly.

Life’s going to get complicated.  Ava’s developing a pattern of gunning men down and Raylan knows Delroy’s entangled in a whole lot of things that are going to have the law curious as to where he disappeared.  Raylan tries, “We do this, it’s murder.  We go back, put the body back on the floor and we can still claim self defense.  Delroy had a gun, we say he pulled on you first.”

“I did shoot a man, Raylan.  My second one actually.  I suggest you remember that as we do this.”

“Ava…”

“Don’t Ava me.  You’re going to help me and then you’re going to keep your mouth shut or we’re going to have another problem today.  You got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Raylan’s not sure if he’s the one that carries the body, throwing all that dead weight over his shoulder and hiking up the last bit up the road as Ava trails behind with a flashlight, because he’s the indentured help or if Ava’s just clever enough to make sure it’s Raylan’s prints all over everything.  As he heaves the body over the edge and watches as it tumbles into the darkest depths of Harlan’s belly, he thinks maybe it’s because she didn’t want to get her hands dirty.  Without the body on his shoulder, he can feel the cool dusk air chill the blood stains that manages to form on his shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks Ava as Raylan starts unbuttoning his flannel shirt.  She shines the flashlight on him.

Raylan squints in the light.  “Got Delroy’s blood on it,” he says, shrugging it off his shoulders.  It’s a shame, he really likes this shirt.  When Ava continues to side eye him, he adds, “Can’t bring any blood evidence back.”

“Cause you wandering around with no shirt on ain’t going to draw attention to us.”

“Probably less than the blood.”

“Ummm.  If that’s the case, then you should probably go down that mine shaft with Delroy because the shirtless guy with blood on him is going to draw all the attention,” snaps Ava.

Raylan glances at his shoulder, the light glistening in the blood staining his skin.  “Shit.”  He wipes at it with his shirt, but it’s dried on.  “There’s a creek just down from the last bend there.  I can wash it off there.”  Clearly, Raylan’s inherited his father’s penchant for performing crime rather poorly.

By the time Raylan gets back to Audrey’s, he’s half frozen.  No shirt and cold creek water combined with the heater in the truck being broken has almost left his skin blue.  He and Ava part company while he heads to his trailer to grab a new shirt and she heads into the bar.  It doesn’t take him long but when he makes it to the bar for his shift, Boyd already has Ava pulled in the corner having a private conversation. 

Raylan watches them through the crowd as he starts to tend bar.  It’s too loud to hear what they’re talking about, but given their expressions Raylan can figure it out.  It might be a good thing the bar is packed except that when Boyd gets through with Ava, he heads to his office, shouting, “Raylan, with me.”

Raylan tosses the bar rag in the sink, with dramatic flourish because isn’t today just all kinds of shit.  He’s barely through the door and Boyd’s on him, fist twisted up in Raylan’s collar marching him back until he slams Raylan against the desk.

“Ava says you took a body out of here today,” says Boyd, face right in Raylan’s.

“Jesus, Boyd,” chokes Raylan, trying to free himself from Boyd’s grip.  “It’s taken care of.”

“It’s taken care of,” parrots Boyd, slamming Raylan against the desk again.  The edge hits right against Raylan’s shoulder blades.  Snarling, Boyd spits, “If you took care of it right, you would have dumped the body in the slurry so there wouldn’t be anything to find in a couple of days.  They can always go looking down a mine shaft.”

“If no one says nothing, nobody is going to go looking,” Raylan chokes out.

“I know you’re not going to say anything,” says Boyd as he turns Raylan around so he’s bent over the desk, his face pressed against the note pads and stray paperclips lying on top of it.  He kicks Raylan’s feet apart before yanking down Raylan’s jeans.

“I ain’t ready,” hisses Raylan as the tip of Boyd’s dick presses between his ass cheeks. He clamps down on a pained whine as Boyd shoves in regardless of his protests or Boyd’s own lack of preparation or lube.  Raylan’s too busy being lit up by pain to worry about Boyd’s enjoyment of the situation, but Boyd only gets a few pumps in before he notices Raylan’s pretty much just lying on the desk gripping the edge for all he’s worth.

Boyd punches Raylan in the kidney. It's a quick but precise hit, one that makes Raylan's teeth click at the impact. "Put a little enthusiasm into it," goads Boyd as he pulls Raylan back up onto his hands.

Raylan backs into Boyd meeting his thrusts halfway. Standing against the desk, Boyd holds onto Raylan's hips as Raylan's bent over the desk, legs pinned, holding himself up while Boyd pulls and pushes against him with his own momentum. It doesn't leave a lot of room for Raylan to get creative or do much more than work Boyd by squeezing and tightening around him as he slams back into Raylan.  

Boyd folds himself over Raylan’s back forcing Raylan to lock his elbows to keep Boyd's weight from pushing him down to the desktop. He knows better than that by now.

"Moan for me, Raylan," he cheers. Then putting his lips right by Raylan's ear whispers, "Use that filthy mouth of yours to tell me how much of a cock slut you are."

Raylan would rather not.  Boyd’s in a mood to start with; this isn’t about Boyd getting off but teaching Raylan a lesson.  Given the activities earlier today, that lesson has something to do with Raylan knowing his place.  He’s contemplating the matter when Boyd punches him in the kidney again.  At this rate he’s going to be pissing blood.

Raylan doesn’t have to consult his hard-earned encyclopaedic knowledge of sex talk, beating Raylan seems to be a big turn on for Boyd these days, as he finishes pretty quickly after that.  Still folded over Raylan’s back he says, low and dangerous, “Remember who owns your ass, Raylan.  From what Ava tells me, there’s more proof of you being involved in Delroy’s death than Ava.  And I still have the gun you killed the Miami girl with.  If anything, or anyone threatens Ava over this, you’re going down for it.  You just better hope in that scenario it’s the law that gets you before I do.”

Boyd sweeps Raylan’s legs out from under him as he leaves and heads back to the bar.  Raylan lies there for a few moments, breathing hard and bleeding.  Boyd’s never going to let him go now, not when Ava’s freedom could depend on one wrong word out of his mouth.  Ellen May knows Delroy is dead, but in an actual smart move by Ava, the mouthpiece has no body to back up her claim should she come forward.  Ultimately, it’s a secret between him, Ava and Boyd. 

Raylan slowly works his jeans back up over his hips and uses the desk to help pull himself back up on his feet.

Chapter Text

Delroy isn’t a Harlan figure.  His passing goes incredibly unmarked with the next seedy cesspool creature filling in whatever gap he’s left.  There might be a big to do if a body was found, law enforcement parading around in the pursuit of justice for a soul weighed and measured as equally important as anyone else.  Raylan hasn’t heard any mention of a body being found, Delroy or anyone else and yet it feels like the law is sniffing around in hot pursuit. 

Raylan read the tell-tale heart over summer break one year. He never gave it much thought beyond letting one's own guilt get so bad it trumps their own self interest in self preservation as being slightly ridiculous. Then again, he grew up with Arlo, who as far as Raylan's ever been able to tell, hasn't felt guilty about a single god damn thing in his whole life. Since Delroy, everywhere Raylan seems to turn there's another cop in his vicinity. They've probably always been there; Boyd certainly does enough to keep their undivided attention. Some are just around because they’re under Boyd’s thumb.  Some are around just to kick stones and see what scurries out.  Either way, Raylan can’t swing a dead cat and not hit someone who could arrest him for the crime of ending Delroy’s miserable existence.  Now that Raylan has something else to hide, they seem to be permanently camped out in the bar. His very own Tell Tale Heart, live for his suffering.

Ava may have pulled the trigger, but there isn’t one doubt in Raylan’s mind who’s going to swing for the crime if it comes to light.  That will be Boyd’s payment- Raylan doing hard time for Ava Crowder’s crime.  The shotgun she used, used to be kept behind the bar so there’s no way it doesn’t have Raylan’s prints on it.     

It doesn't take long for Mullen to start appearing like a bad rash too. Art's a little more purposely in Raylan's sphere, coming in with Marshal Brooks and asking point blank if anyone has seen Delroy.

Raylan swallows hard but keeps wiping up the bar. The two customers shooting pool this afternoon give a side glance at the marshals before resuming their game. It's Ava that kind of freezes up like a deer in head lights.

"Why would anyone here know about Delroy?" she asks, trying but failing to keep her voice from shaking.

"We were told Delroy had a controlling interest in the place," says Rachel.

Ava forces a smile. "Delroy hasn't been a part of business around here in, gosh, must be going on fifteen years now. He used to manage the entertainment and nothing more.  Can’t say myself or any of the other employees engage with the man socially."

"Well, he's gone missing. We're looking for anyone who might have seen or heard from him recently," adds Art.

The bead curtain separating the hall to Boyd's office and the bar rattles as Boyd parts it. There's hesitancy on his face as he sees the marshals and Ava's rigid demeanor.  Like the consummate performer, Boyd's quick to hide his concern behind his bright and perfect smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure of some of Lexington's finest visiting our establishment?”

"Boyd, sweetie, the marshals are looking for Delroy," says Ava rather robotically.

"Delroy hasn't worked here in quite some time. Didn't part with my daddy on such great terms and as such quenches his thirst at other establishments," confirms Boyd, sounding apologetic. 

"Ms Crowder said he managed the entertainment. Maybe he's been in contact with the girls?" says Art casually.

"I don't think any of those girls still wait tables here," Ava says, voice still timid.

"Do you have a warrant?" demands Boyd, all traces of civility gone.

"Do we need one?" asks Rachel, voice equally as clipped.  Her hand rests near her holster.

"As the owner of this particular establishment it is my duty to ensure the rights of my employees are seen to. That includes making sure they have representation when talking to law enforcement or requiring the correct paperwork to have people violate their space and property." Boyd stands a little straighter.

"What about you?" asks Rachel, zeroing in on Raylan. "Do you feel the same way, or do you fall into the category of entertainment?"

"I ain't seen Delroy," answers Raylan before his eyes flicker towards Boyd and his deep scowl.

"Well if you do," says Art, sauntering over to the bar and depositing his business card specifically for Raylan like he knows Raylan can show them what hole Delroy is down like a metaphorical Lassie.

"You'll be our first call," says Boyd, giving them the bum's rush to the door.  Boyd waits until he hears them pull out of the parking lot. "I mean it, Raylan, not one god damn word to anyone," he warns snatching Art’s business card out of Raylan’s fingers and crumpling it. Stomping over to the window, he makes sure Art didn't leave any babysitters.

Ava hasn’t breathed a word about that day or uttered Delroy’s name since the marshals came shaking the trees.  She doesn’t even seem to have the capacity to look at Raylan.  The greatest extent of their interactions, given she’s his boss, is the occasional snap of her manicured fingers as she then points to whom or what she expects Raylan to do.  Neither she nor Boyd are around on the weekends of late, gone elsewhere to either fuck or scheme, it matters little, because it no longer involves Raylan and their weird ‘secret’ threesomes up at the cabin.

Ellen May is rattled but grateful in a way that means she intends to keep herself focused on work.  If that doesn’t settle her nerves, it’s nothing oxy and coke can’t fix.

Everyone is so preoccupied with what happened or whatever Boyd’s scheming towards that no one notices that Sarah May leaves one day and doesn’t come back.  Not even Sarah Beth who often pulls the ‘twin’ fantasy with her despite neither sharing anything in common beyond a partial first name.  It’s Johnny that brings it up casually by asking, “Has anyone seen Sarah May lately?”

The girls shake their heads and Boyd’s guys shrug their shoulders.  “Give it another week then clean out her trailer,” says Johnny.

“Maybe we can get some new talent around here then,” mutters Jimmy, Boyd’s newest bar hire.  The kid isn’t involved in anything more than serving drinks, though it’s only a matter of time given the way he watches Boyd all starstruck and talks about him like he’s the second coming.

Throwing a damp bar towel at the back of Jimmy’s head, Johnny says, “You’re not supposed to be screwing the help.” 

It’s a clear case of do as I say and not as I do that Raylan has to raise an eyebrow over.  Johnny’s no saint to start with.  It certainly doesn’t help that everyone knows Teri is his favorite girl.

“Raylan doesn’t waste time screwing the girls.  He’s focused on his job,” adds Johnny.

“Yeah, Raylan’s too busy fucking ‘em boys,” snickers Devil into this glass.

“Not just guys,” counters Raylan, feeling particularly contrary lately.  Maybe being Ava’s fall guy has emboldened him in all the wrong ways.  “Your girl was in here last night looking for a little pay to play.  Of course I was happy to oblige.  Poor thing has gone unsatisfied for so long, I felt it my duty to remedy that for free.”

The screech of a chair grinding against the floor as Devil gets up, is the only warning Raylan has that the punch is coming.  It hits its mark, splitting Raylan’s lip on his teeth and painting them red as the excess blood dribbles down his chin.  It doesn’t go unanswered as Raylan swings back, a little less on target than Devil, but he hits them all the same. 

It’s Johnny that pulls them apart before things get really out of control.  “Don’t let Boyd catch you breaking the merchandise,” he warns Devil, pointing the Louisville slugger from behind the bar at him.  Turning on Raylan, who he actually smacks in the ass with the bat, he demands, “What the hell has gotten into you lately?”

Raylan doesn’t have to answer, Boyd fills the silence with, “Looks like you have an abundance of energy, Raylan.  I think I know just what to do with it all.”  There’s glee in his eyes, like a kid watching a worm wriggle and squirm before ripping it in half.  Obviously, Boyd and Ava returned just in time to catch the closing number of this show.  “Ava, darling, I think Saturday nights need a revival,” he says, pulling her closer to his side.

Ava’s seems rather emboldened by Delroy’s demise and lack of resulting arrests too, particularly when it comes to having Raylan in the bed she and Boyd share.  Usually, she supplies Boyd with the time and implements to act out every perverse fantasy she wants to inflict on Raylan.  A sort of punishment for being the third wheel in their otherwise devoted relationship.  Tonight’s brought out her zeal for some rather hands on participation where she usually ignores Raylan in favor of letting Boyd indulge.

“Ouch, Ava,” hisses Raylan, breathy and low, muffled slightly by the pillow as Boyd snaps his hips, thrusting into Raylan from behind.  Ava continues nipping at Raylan’s shoulder, her face buried in the space between his neck and shoulder as she presses her breasts against his chest.  Her hand is coiled around his hardening penis, tight like a human cock ring, Boyd hitting his prostate like he’s on a mission.

“Stop it,” he tries again, a little firmer, as Ava’s teeth scrape over his skin, leaving deep scratches in their wake.  If it was a client, he’d push them back or orchestrate a new position that gives Raylan more control.  He can’t do that, sandwiched between Boyd and Ava, and he’s been warned numerous times about killing the mood or putting hands on Ava.

“God damnit, Ava, I said enough!” he finally snaps as the sharp decisive pain of Ava taking an actual chunk out of his shoulder ripples through him.  Blood wells up, sending red beads rolling across his chest and staining the crisp white linens.  He places both hands on Ava’s shoulders, open palms to avoid potential bruising and pushes her back out of reach of her fangs taking another chunk.  Years as Harlan’s whore have forged him to take a lot of discomfort and more than his fair share of pain.  This is too much at this moment.

Ava doesn’t even look phased at Raylan’s protest, nor does she seem inclined to back down, lips plump and red with is blood.  Raylan’s not entirely sure what to be afraid of here.  While Ava seems to delight in his anguish since she and Boyd got together, she tends to be a passive participant in the actual infliction.  Tonight, she’s dead set on being as active as she was when she shot Bowman and Delroy.

The commotion pulls Boyd’s focus, pulling out before his climax.  “Now darling, we don't want to hurt him,” chastises Boyd fondly, blissfully content to ignore the hypocrisy of his claim when it’s become one of his own favorite sexual games.

“What if I do?” she asks all sultry, Boyd gently rubbing Raylan's blood from her lower lip. Boyd looks absolutely enraptured at this new hardened and animalistic Ava. Raylan just holds his breath wondering where he's going to fall on Boyd's list of treasured things tonight.

"Nothing permanent," he says, cupping Ava's jaw before kissing her tenderly. Ava watches like the fox about to snag the rabbit as Boyd leans down and over to where Raylan's head is pressed against the headboard, running his tongue along Raylan's jawline until he can whisper in a sultry voice in Raylan's ear, "Pain's good for the soul, Raylan."

Chapter Text

Devil has to drive Raylan to the clinic in Lexington. Neither is happy about it, but the shoulder is definitely dislocated and no one at Audrey's has the skill to get it back in place.  Boyd and Ava are good at getting it out of place but neither seems inclined to learn how to pop it back in. Every pothole Devil hits, and he makes sure to hit them all, sends a bolt of pain tearing through Raylan.  

It's not life threatening so they're forced to sit in chairs and wait. Devil squirms more than Raylan, itching for a fix and unable to do anything about it because he has explicit orders not to leave Raylan alone at the clinic. It just means any pain meds Raylan scores from this visit to help endure his shoulder are going to be helping Devil instead by the time they hit the parking lot.  

The nurse does give Raylan a muscle relaxer while he's waiting, to hopefully help ease popping it back in when he finally does get face time with a doctor. It's good stuff and Raylan sits there with a goofy smile on his face while they wait.

Finally, six hours later, Raylan gets called. Small clinic, short staffed, he can’t blame them and given what awaits him at home, isn’t inclined to complain about waiting.  He stands with Devil practically on his hip. He knows Boyd's worried Raylan will say something, either unintentionally under the influence of a sedative or he'll get pressured into reporting, like Boyd's an abusive boyfriend or something. Either way, extra attention is bad for business. Raylan’s not going to say anything, mostly because Boyd's done a good job of incriminating him and exposing the Crowders is going to bring him down to. Mutually assured destruction.

"I'm sorry," the nurse apologizes, "just the patient and immediate family."

"He's my boyfriend," says Raylan, with his most charming smile. It makes Devil twitchy and uncomfortable, and nobody asks anymore questions about Devil following him into the exam room.  He slips his hand into Devil’s pocket for added effect.  It’s easy to be brave when there’s a room full of witnesses.

They get Raylan’s shoulder back in and he nods along to the care instructions like he would the beat of a familiar song as the nurse goes over them.  He’s right about the pills and Devil’s almost immediate confiscation of them.  It doesn’t matter much anyways.  It’s been a long day and the pain has exhausted him to the point where he’s planning on sleeping the second they hit highway.

It didn't take long for word to get out that Walt McCready called the cops on account of his daughter being abducted by a pedo Dickie hired. Coover has a sweet spot for Ellen May and an unsupervised discretionary fund for handling the grow-op portion of the Bennett’s business, meaning Dumb as Shit has forty-five minutes left on his hour to tell the most loosed lipped prostitute in all of Harlan, every thought and idea that crosses his mind. So, when Devil rolls into the gas station to fill up before leaving town back to Harlan, Raylan knows exactly what's in progress at the pump next to them.

"Stay here," warns Devil, flashing his gun at Raylan to remind him who's holding his leash, before tucking it in his waist band and heading inside to pay for the gas and buy smokes.

Raylan shouldn't get involved; it's not his business nor his place and why would he do the Bennetts any god damn favors?  But his window is down, and he can hear the girl banging desperately in the trunk while James Earl Dean is pumping gas. He tries to ignore it, but every bang and thud is a knife in the last pieces of his soul. He knows, better than most, what awaits that kid if he doesn't do something. With a pitying sigh, Raylan resigns himself to the shit storm that's going to come his way for being egregiously stupid in a moment of altruistic induced madness.

He opens the glove box and grabs Devil's extra gun and an old, crumpled road map before grabbing his hat out of the backseat.  He gets out of the car.

"Excuse me," he says holding out the unfolded map, careful to keep the gun out of sight. Sauntering over in a stride that matches his hat he slowly gets to the trunk of James Earl Dean’s car. "You wouldn't be able to help me get back on the highway? I keep getting myself all turned around," he says in a slow comforting tone and batting his lashes. He knows he ain't the guy’s type, obviously, but he needs to convince him he isn't a threat.

James stands there a moment, rigid and ready to pounce as Raylan lays the map out over the trunk. "Please," he says in the manner his customers like, leaning against the trunk with his hip to accentuate the lines of his body. "I'd really appreciate it."

James looks around, then like a timid deer, slowly comes over to get a better look at the map. "You want to take this road," he says running his finger along the map.

Loretta takes that moment to give the trunk door another good kick. The guy's eyes widen and as he turns to make a move on Raylan, now that his dirty secret has been exposed, he comes up short, face to face with the barrel of Raylan’s gun.

"Don't even," warns Raylan. It's been a while but he's pretty confident he's faster and won't miss. "Now why don't you open that trunk and let the girl out. Nice and slow."

James holds out his keys with a scowl and cautiously opens the trunk.

The second the lock clicks open, Loretta’s kicking it open, looking all kinds of terrified. Her loud muffled protests continue as she's lifted out and placed on her feet until she sees her would be rapist is under duress himself.

"Untie her," orders Raylan with a nod to the girl.

Hesitating, Jimmy Earl Dean considers his options now that Loretta is out in the open.

"I will shoot you," warns Raylan hefting his gun to remind Jimmy Earl who has the upper hand here.

He unties her. The second Loretta is free she wraps her arms so tightly around Raylan, the devil himself couldn't tear her away. "Thank you," she says in a tiny voice, shaking like a leaf.

"You're safe now," says Raylan, though truth be told, now that she's out of the trunk, he doesn't know what to do next.

"What the hell is this?" snarls Devil, walking back to the car, lit cigarette between his lips and gun in his outstretched hand.

"It's the McCready girl," says Raylan, still keeping the gun trained on Jimmy Earl with one hand and holding Loretta with the other. "The one everybody's looking for."

Devil looks especially put out and Raylan starts to wonder if it was even worth it to come and get his shoulder reduced. Devil fires his gun, and it takes Raylan a second to realize Devil didn't shoot him, but Jimmy Earl who is on the ground clutching his leg.

"Git in the damn car!" yells Devil, gesturing to it with his gun.  Boyd didn’t give them any specific orders to aid the Bennett’s in their search for their little ‘problem’, but now that the girl is in their hands, keeping her away from the pervert could give Boyd a leg up in his uneasy accord with the Bennett clan.

"Let's go," whispers Raylan, steering Loretta to the car. Opening the back door, he pushes her in the backseat.  James Earl writhes on the ground clutching his leg and threatening all sorts of things he’s going to do to Loretta and Raylan.  Loretta shouldn’t have to hear or see any of this.

"The gun!" demands Devil over the hood.

Raylan drops it onto the passenger seat through the open window and climbs in the back, partly to comfort Loretta who's still shaken up, and because it's the furthest away from Devil he can get.  Boyd maybe able to press an advantage at Loretta’s rescue but Raylan broke a few rules to do it and that won’t go unanswered no matter what bounty it earns Boyd and company.

The drive is long, silent and tense but they all make it back to Harlan alive.

Devil drags them both back to Audrey’s. Raylan keeps himself between Loretta and Devil, who is clearly put out and unhappy about having a second passenger. Devil shoves Raylan along because anything worse would just be counter productive to why they went to Lexington in the first place.

Behind the bar, Boyd looks up as they walk in, smile vanishing as his gaze goes from Raylan to Loretta. Cocking his head slightly, he directs Devil to take both of them through the back and downstairs. 

The further in the establishment they get, the tighter Loretta holds Raylan’s hand. Devil tells them to sit down on the couch then goes back upstairs, probably to explain why he brought a minor back to the bar.

"It'll be alright," Raylan assures Loretta. They have no cause to hurt her and if Mags is looking for her, bringing harm to her is only going to reignite a war between the families over nothing.

Boyd keeps them waiting. It's a tactic that really has no effect on Loretta but gives Raylan plenty of time to dream up a plenitude of consequences to his various and numerous trespasses today. Finally, Boyd finds his way downstairs an hour later, couple lackies in tow. "Now Raylan, I don't recall you asking if you could have a friend come over to play."

"Boyd," says Raylan, sitting forward a little so Loretta is slightly behind him, "we both know what that guy was going to do to her."

"And we both know the whole sordid affair was none of our business."

"And yet the girl is safe, and you can look like some sort of hero to Mags for finding and returning her lost little lamb."

"Is that what you were thinking? That you stumbled upon a way to get me in Mags good graces? Those wouldn't be the graces I'd be worrying about being in if I were you, Raylan," says Boyd low and dangerous. Boyd steps closer, towering over Raylan.

"Boyd, she was in danger," he says softly, aiming to justify his choices.

Boyd backhands him hard. Head snapping to the side, Raylan’s hat falls off and blood dribbles from the deep gash on his cheek. Loretta let's out a gasp.

"You were told to wait in the car. What part of that order confused you?"

"The order was clear," replies Raylan through clinched teeth.

"Good. I'd hate to think that blow to the head earlier caused permanent damage." Boyd reaches behind him and pulls a gun out of his waistband. It's Devil’s gun, the one from the glove box. "But you see, you pulled a gun, Raylan. Now, I just have to wonder what other foolish notions are swirling in that pretty little head of yours or if you can even be trusted anymore."

"I can be trusted," insists Raylan. He knows what happens to people who can't be.  He helped Ava drop one in a mine shaft earlier this year.

"You're going to have to prove it." Boyd shoves the gun towards Raylan, the cold end of the barrel bashing his teeth through his lips. Raylan dutifully opens his mouth. "Show me how you're going to apologize to me," says Boyd squatting down so they're at eye level.

Raylan holds his gaze for a moment before he starts sucking and licking the barrel like he's giving Boyd head. He tries not to focus on the fact that Loretta is right next to him watching the whole performance, but as long as he's holding Boyd's attention, she's fine. After a couple minutes Boyd pulls the gun free. "That was very enthusiastic, Raylan, but it isn't just me you need to apologize to. You caused Devil all sorts of distress. Now you can apologize, or the young lady can, but reparations will be made."

Raylan can feel Loretta sink back into the couch behind him trying to make herself as small as possible. Devil for his part loosens his stance and fixes his eyes upon Loretta with a predatory grin.

Raylan closes his eyes. He knows what Devil’s into and it has very little to do with the actual act of intercourse. It will be pain and any kind of debauchery he can dream of just to find out far he can push Raylan before he breaks. For Loretta it will be a quick blow job in a dark closet somewhere, but Raylan still can't go that route. Not to mention it kind of defeats the whole point of rescuing her from Jimmy Earl if she just gets past to the next pervert.  Slowly he gets to his feet. He has to pry his hand free from the death grip Loretta has on it, ignoring her distressed, "No."

He hands her his hat, saying, "Take care of this for me for a spell." Holding his head high, he walks across the room poised, anything to keep the satisfaction of his fear from them. Slowly he gets on his knees in front of Devil, face inches from his crotch and licks his lips. If he makes it enticing enough, maybe Devil will drop the matter here and nothing more will come of it. "Please accept my sincerest apology for my transgressions this night. It wasn't my place to go after the girl or touch your gun, since we both know you would have done the right thing of your own volition."

Devil loosens his belt and unzips his jeans. He let's Raylan do the rest, letting out a low moan when Raylan finally gets his mouth around Devil. Devil isn't a customer looking for a good time, he'll hold back his release as long as possible just to make Raylan work harder, simply because he knows Raylan hates all of it. He tangles his fingers in Raylan's hair, pulling hard enough it hurts, but Raylan can't pull away as Devil gives one good last thrust pushing so far back Raylan can't breathe at all and shoots his load. Raylan swallows out of self-preservation and Devil pulls out with a wet plop.

"Satisfied?" asks Boyd, who’s moved to sit next to Loretta at some point, and has the gun he had Raylan suck off proudly displayed on his knee pointing in her general direction.

"How long can I keep him for?" asks Devil as he zips up.

Raylan's heart sinks. He'd hoped to avoid more, but isn't surprised.

"I want him back tomorrow morning," says Boyd. 

Devil grabs Raylan by the back of the neck and halls him to his feet. "You're mine, cowboy," he sneers.  Raylan isn’t Devil’s preference, but he can sell Raylan to the rest of the boys for cash, which is his preference.

"Just remember," warns Boyd, "nothing to his face. He needs to earn money with that.  And I don’t want to look at him all broken and pathetic.  It’s a mood killer."

"You don't need to do that," snaps Loretta, finding her voice. "He was just rescuing me from that pervert."

"Come now, little darling," says Boyd clapping her on the knee. "It's past your bedtime and we best be getting you back to Mags.” Boyd gets up and starts leading her out by the hand.

Loretta yanks her hand free as they pass by Raylan.  Like a barnacle, she wraps her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her head against his chest.  Her glare dares any of Boyd’s men to try and pry her from her saviour. 

"I'll be fine," assures Raylan, though he doubts anyone could be fine with Devil.

"You promise?" demands Loretta.  The red and purple lights of the basement sparkle like glitter in her tear-filled eyes.

Raylan raises his hand. "My solemn oath as a boy scout," he says.

Grabbing Loretta roughly, Boyd pushes her towards the door. "But Raylan, you were never in the boy scouts," he declares in his usual melodic manner as they walk out the door.

In the morning, when Raylan regains consciousness and the aches have died down enough that he can move, he emerges from the basement to find Loretta is gone but his hat is safely sitting on the bar.

Chapter Text

The marshals show up at Audrey’s two days after Loretta turns up back at home, Art doing the talking with Rachel seconding him and a third guy hanging by the door watching their backs.  It seems they were expecting a fight but with Boyd out for the day, Johnny’s less inclined to put up a fuss when they say they’re there to take someone in.

It’s Ava that bangs on the trailer door, hard and demanding.  “Raylan!” she hollers.  “You’re needed out here now.”

The commotion wakes Raylan and he stumbles to the door, cracking it slightly to see what has Ava in a huff.  The chill in the air is comparable to Ava’s chilly reception and he shivers slightly wishing he grabbed a shirt before opening the door. Looking around, Raylan finds he has an audience.

“Raylan Givens, we have some questions for you down at the office,” states Art rather formally.  “You can come willingly, or Deputy Gutterson can put you in cuffs.  Your choice,” he says, hands on his hips.

“Your cuffs or mine,” Raylan says rather absently.  “I only have the fuzzy ones, with the cheetah print on them, but they work just fine.”

Gutterson holds up his cuffs, a bland expression on his face.  Rachel’s further back, hand on her weapon, her gaze shifting from Raylan to Ava like she’s trying to decipher a private conversation.

Raylan glances at Ava who just glares harder at him, like this meeting is all his fault.  The silent question passes between them- what does she expect Raylan to do here?  It this a go quietly situation or stand and fight?

“Well go on, Raylan,” she snaps crossing her arms and leaning against the side of the trailer.

Raylan just kind of stands there, awkward and only half dressed.  He feels like he’s just been dropped in the middle of a minefield.  What three marshals, who are willing to cuff him, want, is a mystery, but interacting with law enforcement for any reason brings out a real cruel streak in Boyd.  But Ava verbally shoving him towards them feels like he’s being hung out to dry.  Boyd always mounts some protest, even if it’s futile, to keep Raylan away from the authorities.  He glances helplessly at Art.

“Go put a shirt on,” says Art tiredly.  Then to Gutterson, directs, “Go with him, Tim.”

Tim looks put out as he reclips his handcuffs to his belt but follows Raylan into the trailer like a dutiful soldier.  Standing at the entrance, Tim’s sharp eyes scan the space, following Raylan’s every move intently.  “Nice and slow,” he orders as Raylan opens the closet to grab a shirt, hand hovering ever so subtly over the gun on his hip.

Tim’s ramrod straight, doing his best not to touch anything.  His face doesn’t give anything away, but Raylan’s seen it before, the disdain for who he is and what transpires in this trailer, like just breathing the same air is going to infect them somehow.  “You going to tell me what this is all about?” Raylan asks, pulling a ratty grey t-shirt over his head.

“You and the Chief can talk about it at the office,” replies Tim blandly. 

Raylan tries to ignore the pang in his gut that says the murder of the Miami woman and dumping Delroy are finally going to catch up with him.  “Can I get real clothes on or are you taking me in in my pajama pants?”

“Oh please, by all means, make yourself as pretty as you want,” snarks Tim, letting his hand rest on his gun holster.

Raylan works on a pair of jeans and grabs a flannel long sleeve to put on over his t-shirt.  He might take an extra minute for socks and pulling his boots on, just to watch Tim grind his teeth.  Grabbing his hat, he shimmies past Tim in the tight space to get to the door, Tim unwilling to put his back to Raylan.

Art rolls his eyes as Raylan steps out but leads the way to the waiting car.  The drive is long, and Raylan doesn’t sprawl out in the backseat like he used to back in the day.  Partly because the foreboding feeling won’t let him relax, but mostly because Tim drew the short straw in having to ride in the back with Raylan.

“Do you ever blink?” asks Raylan, uncomfortable with Tim’s unwavering attention.  He catches Art glance back in the rearview mirror from the driver’s seat.

“Nope,” says Tim, plainly, not diverting his gaze.

Raylan tips his hat forward like he’s going to take a nap and crosses his arms over his chest.  Keeping his eyes closed, he’s still awake the whole way to Lexington.

Rachel peels off once they hit the office, leaving Tim to escort Raylan into the conference room and sit with him until Art saunters in with a stack of files in hand, a few moments later.  Art lays a series of pictures out in front of Raylan. 

Raylan looks them over.  They’re crime scene photos of a body, laid out on the side of a road, blood splatter painting the pavement from the back of the head.  It’s the last one, where the angle is changed to include the person’s face that sets Raylan’s jaw tight.  He recognizes that man in the photos.

“James Earl Dean was found dead last night.  He’d already been dead a day, but I suspect you knew that,” says Art coldly.

It’s not the usual banter or badgering between them and Raylan feels small in the presence of professional, all business Chief Deputy Mullen.  “Why would I know that?” asks Raylan looking pensive.

“Because you were the last person to see him alive,” chimes in Tim, head propped in his hand on the arm leaning on the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Raylan.

“Loretta McCready showed up at Mags Bennett’s place, safe and sound after being abducted by James Dean.  She says he had some nasty things planned for her but can’t rightly say where he got to once she magically escaped his clutches at a gas station.”

Raylan shifts in his seat.  “I have nothing to do with child abduction,” he says, a little offended that Art could even suggest it.  Raylan can force himself to do some pretty ungodly acts, but child abduction and or forcing a child to endure anything he suffered growing up will never be one of them. “If he was planning on raping that poor girl, I don’t think anyone will shed a tear that he’s gone.”

“Probably not,” agrees Art, “but the law being what it is, his killer needs to be brought to justice.”

“I’m still not figuring how I fit into this.”

This time Tim slides a photo across the table.  It’s a grainy, black and white, slightly unfocused shot.  Shoulders sagging in defeat, Raylan looks at himself standing in the photo pointing a gun at James Earl who’s only half in the shot, along with Loretta’s left shoulder and long hair.

“Want to try this again?” asks Tim.

“Aren’t too many cowboys at that gas station that eyewitnesses can put in that car with the girl.  The same car parked in Audrey’s parking lot.

Raylan swallows.  Of all the things he could and probably should go down for, he didn’t imagine it would be for something he didn’t do. “Not my car.  And if you have witnesses that can put me there then you also have witnesses that can say I left him there- alive.  All I did was get the girl out of there.”

“Where’s the gun from the photo Raylan?” asks Art.  He seems tired and old, in a world-weary way; like years on the job or dealing with Raylan have finally caught up to him.

“Gone,” says Raylan softly. 

“That doesn’t help your case, son,” Art says.

“He was alive when I left,” reintegrates Raylan, bitterly.  It’s the truth.

“Why don’t you run us through the whole night, Raylan,” suggest Art.

Biting the inside of his lip, Raylan chooses his words carefully.  He doesn’t know what happened to James Earl, but he suspects based on what Ellen May let slip, Bennett retribution is most likely.  Nobody is going to protect Raylan if he throws suspicion on them.  Given Art’s penchant for wanting to go after the Crowders, Raylan has to avoid anything that’s going to incriminate Boyd and company in any way.  “A friend was giving me a ride to the clinic in Lexington.”

“A friend?” parrots Tim.

With a little less bite in his voice Art asks, “Why were you at the clinic?” while he leans back trying to subtly do a wellness check on Raylan.

“I think that’s protected under doctor patient privilege,” says Raylan, sharply.

“It is.  But wouldn’t it be nice for you if we could corroborate your story?”

“I went to the clinic, Art, and then on the way back we had to stop for gas.  My friend went into pay and that’s when I heard Loretta screaming.  I used the gun to threaten James Earl into letting her go, then my friend drove us both back to Harlan.  James Earl was alive when we left.”

“And what about after Loretta was returned home safely?”

“I was working at the bar,” says Raylan, looking at the wood grain in the table.  He can’t bring himself to cite Devil orchestrating his brutalization as an alibi.

“All night?” asks Tim looking skeptical.  “Doesn’t it close at one?”

Raylan just nods.

“You of all people can’t give a name of someone who was with you all night,” asks Art.  It’s a cheap shot, but the kid- who hasn’t been a kid in years, is in a hole that no one is likely to pull him out of.

“I’m sure people saw me,” Raylan says with a shrug.

Rachel knocks on the door frame as she breezes through the door.  “Mr Givens’s lawyer is here with sworn statements verifying his time at the clinic and multiple customer statements claiming he was at the bar after Loretta arrived in Harlan.  The gas station attendant is even claiming he saw Raylan leave with James Earl Dean still standing in the parking lot.”

“Amazing what a Crowder lawyer can do,” declares Art, slamming his open palms on the table.  “I guess we’re going to have to cut you loose for now.  Stay where we can find you, Raylan,” he advises.  “Unless you don’t want to go back to your boss?”

Raylan stands up, side eyeing the man in the suit holding a brief case standing in the middle of the office.  Picking his hat up from the table, he puts it on.  “You know where to find me, Art.”

Boyd knows where to find Raylan too.  In fact, Boyd’s lying in wait, flipping through one of Raylan’s books as he sits on Raylan’s bed.  “What did your marshal friends want, Raylan?” he asks coldly, not even looking up as Raylan steps in the trailer.

Raylan leans against the entryway closet, keeping his distance.  In the end, it won’t matter; Boyd will do whatever he wants.  If the distance discourages any immediate impulse, that’s a win in Raylan’s book.  “They ain’t my friends, Boyd,” he says cautiously.  Association with law enforcement is dangerous.  Suspicion of collaborating and helping them, is even worse and Boyd still hasn’t found all his leaks.

“Oh?  You do seem to spend an exorbitant amount of time with them.”

Raylan shrugs causally.  “A complication of being a whore, I guess.”

“And which one wanted a blow job this time?  The older one have a predilection for younger men?  I bet the woman’s looking to saddle you up and take a ride.”  Boyd pats a space on the bed beside him, beckoning Raylan to join him.  “Or was it an initiation for the new young one that they’ve barely let out of Lexington yet?”

Raylan weighs out what resisting and playing hard to get will earn him tonight.  His torso is still a Rorschach of blacks and yellows, and concealer is still struggling to hide his black eye.  He’ll play along, appeal to Boyd’s benevolent side.  Sauntering over to the bed, he sits down, pressed close to Boyd.  Cupping Raylan’s face gently, Boyd rubs soothing circles with his thumb around Raylan’s eye.  Raylan can’t help but lean into it, hating himself for the solace he takes in the nonviolent touch.

Boyd looks at Raylan like he’s something to be cherished.  “I hate when other people mess with my things,” he says breathy. 

Where was that concern when Devil was peddling his ass the other day, or any day a john thinks they can pay Boyd for another piece of Raylan’s soul?  “They just wanted to know about the pervert and Loretta,” replies Raylan softly.  Boyd already knows this; his lawyer showed up already pre-armed for the argument.  Just like Boyd probably knows exactly what befell James Earl Dean after Raylan, Devil and Loretta left the gas station.

Boyd’s fingers work their way up to carding through Raylan’s hair as he presses kisses against Raylan’s jaw.  “And what did you tell them?”

“That the girl was rescued and taken back to her people and Jimmy was alive when we left.”

“And that’s all you told them?”

Raylan frowns.  “Yes.”  Nobody told him to say otherwise, and it is what happened more or less.  Nothing about that part of the night can come back on Boyd.

Boyd’s grip tightens painfully in Raylan’s hair before his other hand finds Raylan’s neck, squeezing as he pushes Raylan back onto the bed.  With Raylan prone, Boyd straddles him, both hands choking Raylan as he tries desperately to breathe.  “Why don’t I believe you?”

“It’s… it’s the… truth,” chokes out Raylan.  His fingers desperately pry at Boyd’s, trying to loosen them even a fraction.  Ears ringing, the world grays around the edges.  “Boyd… please,” he tries brokenly.

Boyd relents, loosening his hands until he finally lets go.  He doesn’t get off of Raylan, keeping him pinned on the bed as Raylan sputters, his heaving lungs greedily pulling in air now that he’s free to do so.

“I ain’t done you wrong yet, Boyd,” says Raylan, because Boyd still looks like he has doubts about Raylan’s integrity.  Raylan hasn’t gone against Boyd, not in any meaningful way anyways.  He’s nothing if not loyal - and Raylan is a special kind of stupid loyal.

The rage has vanished from Boyd’s eyes.  The cold distance that Raylan saw when Boyd was having his internal debate about staying in Harlan or joining the army has replaced it.  “You are a loyal dog, Raylan.  But I have to wonder, would you be that loyal if I didn’t hold your leash?”

Raylan wonders that too.  He stayed with Mags out of fear.  With Bo it was much the same.  Boyd has beaten fear and consequence into him but why didn’t Raylan leave when Boyd first took over the Crowder business?  Was it books and booze?  A kind word and time at the batting cages?  Was it because Boyd, Harlan’s own personal devil was the only one who saw fit to show him any kindness in a life of malevolence?  “We dug coal together, Boyd,” says Raylan softly.  Raylan owes him a life, even if his own life isn’t worth much, it belongs to Boyd.

“That we did, Raylan.  That we did.”

Boyd motions for Raylan to scoot back so he’s entirely on the bed, his legs no longer hanging off the side.  He crawls up next to Raylan, fluffing a pillow as he cozies up on his side.  Arm wrapping possessively around Raylan’s chest, they lay down for the night, sharing nothing more intimate than being held.

Chapter Text

Raylan rolls his eyes as he hears the commotion outside.  He wonders if Boyd knows just what bumbling idiots he employes or if they just save their stupidity for when Boyd’s away and Raylan’s the one that’s going to catch hell for their blunders.  Boyd doesn’t leave Raylan in charge of anything but when the dumbass squad messes up in away that Raylan could have stifled their stupidity with a short word, Boyd takes it out on Raylan, citing, ‘You’re smart enough to know better, Raylan.  If one of us goes down, it could take us all down, including you.’

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” snarls Raylan’s current john as Raylan pulls off his dick before sucking him to completion and gets to his feet.  “I paid for the whole god damn hour!”  He reaches out to grab Raylan by the arm.

Yanking his arm back, Raylan peers through the slits in the blinds of his trailer to assess the clown show traipsing through the parking lot.  “And I’ll make it up to you in a minute,” offers Raylan in a placating tone as he grabs his hat.  “I just gotta take care of something here.” 

The john falls back on his elbows on the bed, looking dejected.  His dick is still hard and the john waves to it to highlight its lack of attention.

“It’ll only be but a moment,” Raylan promises.  “Just think about your beautiful wife until then,” he adds nodding to the john’s wedding ring.  The john gives him a face that suggest thoughts of the wife aren’t going to do the trick.  Raylan rolls his eyes and scrunches his nose.  “The girlfriend then.  Whatever.  I’ll be back.”

Raylan strolls casually across the yard and into the bar towards the continuing ruckus.  Leaning against the door jam, so his hip juts out, Raylan watches the four low level hires of Boyd’s, run around like chickens with their heads cut off.  “Jesus, fuck!” says Raylan taking in the sight of the one lying on one of the tables bleeding like a stuck pig.  The other three are trying to figure out their next move and what to do about their injured comrade.  The type of brain power the idiots are trying to employ, one would think they were trying to crack life’s deep philosophical mysteries, not work out how to stop the bleeding.  “Put pressure on the wound.”

The three on their feet all stop and glare at Raylan.

“Get a towel from behind the bar and push it hard on the wound.  You have to keep his blood inside of him and not all over the goddamn table and floor,” Raylan snaps, irritated. 

The smallest of the three men goes over to the bar and grabs one of the white towels.  Bringing it over, he hands it off to one of the other two, looking really pale.

“You shouldn’t be doing this shit in here either,” continues Raylan.  He’s started this tirade, he might as well finish.  “Health board violations aside, we’re open.  Anyone could just walk in here and see you. You don’t need witnesses and we surely don’t need you shooting the customers. Take him to the back office and keep it down.”  He pinches the bridge of his nose.  Good help is hard to find.

One of the thugs, grabs his holster pulling it a little more forward on his belt to highlight to Raylan he’s carrying more than the assortment of rifles and shotguns they’ve left scattered around the room while tending to their friend.  Stomping up to Raylan, he leaves about an inch between them and glares menacingly.  “You’re giving a lot of orders.  Where’s Boyd?” he demands in a deep husky voice.

Standing his ground Raylan replies, “Boyd’s out for the day.  So, you have a little time to take care of this before he finds out.”  They stare at each other for awhile, locked in a standoff.  “You’re making a mess,” says Raylan eventually.  It’s spoken softly but holds a sharp edge to it.

The guy takes a step back and helps his buddies.  Raylan waits there impatient, until the four of then have moved their shit show into Boyd’s office.  He turns to go, but stops at the door and looks back at the puddle of blood on the table that’s dripping on to the old burgundy carpeting forming a dark sticky circle.  “They’re not gonna clean it up,” he mutters to himself, resigned that the task is going to fall to him.  

The internal debate about going back to his trailer to finish his first job and cleaning up after versus right now, is a brief one as he saunters over to the back closet to get the bleach and cleaning supplies.  At this rate he’s going to have to give the john another hour for free.  He hates working for free but Boyd’s words about doing the smart thing keep tumbling around in his head.

He does a half assed job as a compromise to his time and drags the table back into the storage room to do a better job later.  He writes ‘buy bleach’ in big letters on the white board in the kitchen because what the fuck?  How is a person supposed to clean up all the blood evidence around this place constantly without it?  Satisfied the bar can pass a cursory glance, he heads back to his trailer.

“’Bout goddamn time,” snaps the john, hand around his own dick sliding up and down, as Raylan walks in.

“You want me to give you a minute,” says Raylan, trying really hard to keep the amusement from his face, “or you want me to take over?”

The john sits up on the bed, a flush running across his face and down his neck.  “I’m going to need some serious compensation for this bullshit.”

Raylan hangs his hat on the hook by the door and kicks off his boots.  “You want to report me to the better business bureau?  Be my guest.”  This time Raylan does chuckle.

Looking rather cross and allergic to humor, the john says, “How about I just take my complaints to upper management?”

Rolling his eyes, Raylan rubs his hand over his face.  While he’d personally like to be around to hear Boyd take that complaint, the catalyst for all this, that’s currently making a mess in Boyd’s office, is going to put Boyd in an especially sour mood.  One unlikely to find the humor or patience in this particular moment.  “Alright,” he sighs, laying down on the bed beside the john, “we can upgrade your package.”  Raylan lies back as he works his belt free from his jeans.

He’s got his pants around his ankles and the john on top of him when he hears the crushing of gravel under wheels.  Straining his head, he uses his foot to kick open the bathroom door to get an angle he can use the mirror on it to give him a view of the parking lot through the window.  An official looking Sedan’s pulled in and someone in a distinctive navy jacket is getting out of the driver’s seat.  For a moment, he contemplates suffocating himself with the pillow under his chin.

It's not Raylan’s business.  The marshal could get to the door, look in and see no one around and leave.  They could take a seat and wait until Raylan’s done his duty here and heads on into the bar.  But the odds are the three stooges in the back and their wounded friend are too dumb to be quiet and the marshal will be too nosy.  The idiots are armed to the teeth and probably already know someone’s on their way in.  Which ever marshal it is, is going to be walking into a bloodbath they’re unprepared for.  Just like Loretta in the trunk, Raylan can’t not do something.

 “Off!” he snaps.

“Are you shitting me?” demands the john rather disgruntled, dick just starting to brush against the skin of Raylan’s ass.

Raylan’s already worming his way out from underneath.  Holding up one finger, says, “Just one more minute.”  Pulling his pants up, he staggers to the door, trying to grab a shirt and his hat on the way.  He quick times it across the yard and makes it in the door a couple steps behind the marshal.

Rachel moves cautiously in the bar, hand hovering over her holster as she checks the unusually quiet and vacant space for immediate threats.  Sensing the presence of someone behind her, her hand closes around the handle of her gun as Raylan steps inside, dropping his hat on his head.

“Whoa,” says Raylan taking a step back as he notices Rachel ready to pull.  He raises his hands out to his side.  “I was just out back taking the trash out.  Is there something I can help you with today Marshal…” He lets it hang there, racking his brain to come up with the name.

“Marshal Brooks,” supplies Rachel, lifting her hand so it’s on her hip rather than the actual handle of her gun.  She dissects Raylan with her eyes, flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open to display his bare chest from his neck to the edge of his boxers peeking over the waistline of his jeans.  It would almost be sexy if the outline of various contusion couldn’t be seen littering his chest.  The jeans are bunched above his boots like he pulled them on in a hurry. “Must not have a strict dress code around here,” she says, before resuming cataloguing the empty bar. 

“The clientele ain’t picky,” offers Raylan, slowly moving around Rachel to get behind the bar counter.  As she checks out the corner by the jukebox for any patrons, Raylan subtly pushes a bloody cloth from the lower portion of the bar counter into the open trash can below.

“Can I get you a drink,” he offers, praying the morons in the back can keep quiet.

“I’m here to speak to Boyd Crowder,” she says, turning her attention back to Raylan.

“He done something?”

“I just have a few questions,” she says cooly.

“Boyd ain’t here,” says Raylan.  Rachel starts to cautiously head towards the office in the back, prompting him to add, “But I can get him to contact you when he gets back.”

“Anyone else here?” asks Rachel, paused between proceeding towards the office or turning around and heading back to the counter.

Raylan gives a one shoulder shrug.  “There’s a couple of workers.  The usuals will start showing up in the next hour or so, so I’m sure the dinner shift is around getting ready.”

Holding his breath, Raylan watches as Rachel steps closer to the office door.  He has little doubt the gang in the back has seen Rachel on the cameras and are waiting behind the door to open fire the second she turns the door handle.  None of them are capable of thinking about the repercussions of such an act beyond law bad and we’re not getting caught.

“Boyd might be out in the yard,” blurts Raylan, surprising himself.

Rachel stops reaching for the office door and back tracks to the main barroom space.  A scowl crosses her face.  “I thought you said he wasn’t here,” she accuses.

“He had to check something in the yard before he left.  We can go look and see if he’s still there.”

Rachel looks at Raylan hard, making him feel like she’s flaying him open.  “Alright,” she finally says, gesturing for Raylan to lead the way.

Quick to the door, Raylan holds it open for her.  He takes one last look at the bar and breathes a sigh of relief that the thugs didn’t come out, guns blazing.  Raylan has no real place to take Rachel, he figures he’ll just drag her to the shed in the back, the furthest point she can get from the bar and escort her back to her car.

They don’t get more than a couple feet past his trailer when his john bursts out the door hollering.  “I want my money back.  I’m not putting up with this bullshit anymore.  I paid to fuck or get sucked not play with myself.” 

Rachel comes to a stop, assuming a defensive stance.

Letting out a long breath, Raylan’s shoulder sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

The john takes one look at Rachel then storms over to the pair.  “You’re going to fuck her?  I was here first.  Give me my money!”

Raylan wants to slither under the nearest rock.  All the idiots are out in full force today.  “US Deputy Marshal Brooks this is…”  Raylan waves his hand trying to come up with something.  “John Smith,” he says.  Only an idiot couldn’t put two and two together at this juncture and he’s too tired to try and be clever about it.  It’s not his preferred outcome, but getting hauled in for solicitation would get Rachel off the property.

“Marshal?” stutters the john with a gulp.

“This might be a good time to head home,” suggests Rachel, flashing her gun.  The disdain is clear on her face.  The john takes the opportunity to sprint to his car.  She turns on Raylan.  “You are aware that prostitution is illegal?”

“If any occurred,” counters Raylan, keeping his head down.

Rachel shifts her weight, adopting a stance that screams her irritation.

“You heard him,” points out Raylan.  “Nothing happening here except him playing with himself.”

Rachel looks at Raylan, then to the open trailer door and finally back at the bar.  “If that’s the story you want to go with, you probably should make sure your belt is buckled and your fly is done up before you come into the bar.”

Raylan automatically looks down, his hand moving to the crotch of his jeans.  Sure enough, in his haste to divert Rachel, he’s been wandering around with his jeans open.  He zips his zipper closed and fastens his belt.

“You tell Mr Crowder, the marshal’s service would like a word,” she says as she heads back to her car.

Chapter Text

Loretta hitches a ride with Coover to Audrey’s.  Coover isn't so much aware of the fact given she hides in the back of the pickup. He’s only there for Ellen May, entering and exiting the bar with her on his arm pretty quickly and too oblivious to notice a stowaway.  

Loretta doesn’t have to wait long for the coast to be clear to slither out from under the tarp in the back of the pickup.  It’s going to be obvious to all the wrong people she doesn’t belong if she steps inside Audrey’s.  Especially if she walks in and slaps down money to buy Raylan’s time.  She’ll have to take a guess on which trailer is his and hope he’s not working when she comes knocking.

The first two trailers are a bust.  The first one, the woman can’t stop screaming long enough for Loretta to even ask after Raylan.  At least at the second one, the occupant points her in the right direction before throwing a shoe at her. 

She’s just about to knock when from behind her, she hears, “Loretta?”

Turning, she sees Raylan’s standing next to the dumpster holding an empty bin in his hands.  He looks well, which is a relief off of her shoulders.  She’s been worried since Crowder escorted her to Mags’ that night.  Raylan saved her life, he didn’t deserve what they were planning.  “You’re alright,” she says as Raylan marches forward, grabbing her by the shoulder.

Raylan looks around like he expects a sting operation.  “What are you doing here?”  he scolds, pulling her along up the steps and into his trailer.  “How did you get here?”

“I was worried about what happened to you after I left.  So I hitched a ride with Coover.  He was coming to see some Ellie Mays?”

“Ellen May.”  Raylan shuts the door and closes the blinds around the trailer.  “You don’t have to worry about me.  And you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?” asks Loretta simply.  She doesn’t move from the entrance, but her eyes do all the exploring.  Everyone was so concerned that she ended up at a brothel after being rescued, telling her she couldn’t return because it would offend her young delicate sensibilities.  Being around James Earl Dean offended and traumatized her; Raylan was her knight in a shining cowboy hat.  Looking around Raylan’s ‘office,’ it doesn’t look any different than anyone else’s home.  Raylan certainly doesn’t seem any different than anyone else in her life, at least not in a negative sense.  James Earl Dean was an obvious pervert, and no one paid him any mind until he stuffed her in that trunk.  She’s kind of disappointed the place isn’t the den of sin Mags made it out to be.

“Why?” repeats Raylan.  It should be obvious that little girls don’t belong at whore houses.  Loretta shouldn’t be around Boyd and his stooges either.  “It’s not safe.”  It isn’t safe for her to be around; it’s not even safe for Raylan to be here.

“What?  Is some pervert going to stuff me in their trunk?”  Loretta crosses her arms.  “People keep tellin’ me they’re protecting me, but they won’t say from what.  Mags says she’s protecting me until my daddy gets home.  Dickie insists staying away protects me from you.  Mr Crowder marched me out of here that night saying he was protecting me from all the unseemliness around here.  You’re the only one that’s actually protected me from anything.”

“Mags says your daddy’s out of town?” asks Raylan.

Loretta nods.  “She said it was her way of making it up to us for hiring the pervert in the first place.  He had to go before I even got home that night.”

Raylan purses his lips together, a knot forming in his stomach.  Loretta’s father called in a complaint on James Earl, knowing he was a Bennett employee.  Taking that kind of risk to protect his little girl, Raylan doubts a man that loves his kid that much wouldn’t be there when she got home to make sure she was well and truly alright.  Mags always has been good at weaving pretty lies.  “You talk to him since he left town?”

“No, but Mags says he should be home soon.  Why?” Loretta moves away from the door, sliding into the kitchen nook and making herself at home.  “You got anything to drink or eat?”

“No reason.”  Raylan shakes his head turning to open his fridge.  He doubts Walt McCready is coming home.  Mags doesn’t tolerate potential threats to her kin and cops snooping around looking for a sex offender is definitely a threat.  Especially with the two she raised; their low IQ’s not helping to protect her businesses either.

There aren’t many offerings in the fridge besides alcohol.  Taking out a glass, he fills it with tepid water and slides it across the table towards Loretta.  “Mags treating you alright?”  He takes out a spoon, polishing it with the hem of his shirt before rummaging in the freezer and pulling out a pint of vanilla ice cream.

Loretta looks at both offerings skeptically.  “Water and ice cream?  How do you live?”

“Not entertaining children,” Raylan scoffs sitting down in the nook.  He looks at the clock.  “Eat your ice cream, quickly.”  Coover isn’t going to last his full hour and the last thing either of them needs is for him to find Loretta here.

“Mags is good to me,” she says around a mouthful of ice cream.  “She buys me stuff and brushes my hair.  Talks a lot about always wanting to have had a girl.  The boys aren’t overly thrilled to have me around, but Mags puts them in their place.”

“I’m sure she does,” says Raylan with a thoughtful hum.  “She have you staying in a room in the basement?”

Loretta frowns.  “Ain’t nothing down there.  My room is next to hers.  I think it was Doyle’s when he was a kid.”

Raylan breathes a sigh of relief.  Treating Loretta like family and not a family servant, means she probably will treasure and protect Loretta like she was one of Mags’s own.  “That’s good.  You keep your head down, mind your manners and I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

“Ain’t going to be there much longer to worry about it.  My daddy’s coming home soon, remember?”

“Right,” says Raylan with a tight smile.  It’s a foolhardy notion that goes against every lick of sense he has but Raylan pulls out an envelope from the cupboard that serves as his phonebook and copies out a series of phone numbers before sliding the paper over to Loretta.  “Make sure no one sees those, but if you find yourself in trouble and I mean any kind of trouble, you call those numbers.” 

It’s the number for Audrey’s and a burner phone Raylan has hidden in his trailer.  Not that Raylan’s in any position to help anyone; he might be able to make a compelling case to Boyd to get him to help.  He put down Constable Bob’s number.  Bob isn’t Raylan’s first choice for saviour, but the bumbling idiot is kind of endearing and good in a pinch. And a few more numbers for people who might be motivated to help in the right circumstances.

Loretta reads through the list.  “Who’s Art Mullen?”

“A marshal out of Lexington.  You call him, tell him Raylan says it’s his ticket to Boyd and he’ll be there.”

“What if my problem has nothing to do with Mr Crowder?”

“Say it does anyways until he shows up.  After that, just bat your damn eyes at him and play at being a kid instead of a problem and he’ll do the right thing.”

“He an older guy.  Runs the place?”

“Sounds like him.”

“I think I talked to him.  A couple of ‘em marshals came out to Mags to ask about what happened.  Had to go there to give a statement and then the lady marshal started asking if I knew what happened to the pervert.  Guess they found him dead somewhere.  I hope I didn’t get you into trouble with ‘em but Mags said I had to tell them how I got home.”  Loretta looks almost remorseful if not outright concerned.

“You didn’t get me in trouble with them,” assures Raylan.

Loretta nods like she understands more than any eleven-year-old has any right to and stuffs the paper in her pocket.  “I should get goin’.  Coover doesn’t exactly know he gave me a ride.”  She slides the container of ice cream over to Raylan.  Missing her ride home is going to make for an awkward phone call and getting the very person she came to check on, in trouble.

“I kind of figured,” he says.  He walks her out and back to Coover’s truck.

“Thanks,” she says giving Raylan a tight bear hug, “for saving me from the pervert.”

Raylan stands there rather awkwardly with his hands out by his side.  He isn’t really a hugger, and most people aren’t looking for a whore to be cuddly.  After a second, he reminds himself that the pint-sized pot dealer isn’t any kind of a threat and allows himself to indulge, wrapping his arms around her.  He keeps a lookout while she climbs into the back of Coover’s truck and pulls the tarp over herself.

“Well, what do we owe the pleasure to for a visit from the marshal service today,” says Boyd with a big smile and open arms as he sees Tim walk in the door.  It was only a matter of time before someone showed up given the rumors flying around town in the wake of the mine’s payroll being stolen and half the mine being blown to hell in the process. Boyd’s had the girls hold off on working until the marshals made their presence known.  “It wouldn’t be about that little predicament at the mine, would it?”

“Not unless you’re willing to confess to the crime right now,” says Tim, unimpressed with Boyd’s attempt at showmanship.

“I swear on my momma, I had nothing to do with such a brazen and ill executed operation.”

“Well good, cause I’m here for him,” says Tim, pointing at Raylan working behind the counter.

“What?” says Raylan looking confused.

The smile vanishes from Boyd’s face.  “What do you want Raylan for?”  There’s gravel in Boyd’s voice; an underlying threat that only Raylan can decipher from years of being around Boyd.  The young marshal is up shit creek and he doesn’t even know it.

“That would be between the marshal’s service and Mr Givens.”  Tim pushes his jacket back giving Boyd a good look at the gun in his holster.  “Come out from behind the bar, slowly and put your hands up,” he instructs, turning his whole attention to Raylan.

Raylan sighs dejectedly but does as commanded.  He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve such treatment.  The list of crimes to his name is staggering but there haven’t been any red flags lately about the marshals taking an interest or gaining knowledge of them.  Boyd seems just as surprised, which is disconcerting.  When he gets out from behind the bar with his hands held out at his sides, Tim moves in and handcuffs him, arms behind his back.  “You’re under arrest for prostitution,” says Tim.

“What?  Come on,” protests Raylan as Tim leads him to the door.  Technically, they could have him dead to rights, it’s just anyone giving a fuck about who beds Raylan and for what denomination after all these years, kind of comes out of left field.  Art’s office must be low on their quota for the year if they’re coming to collect this low bearing fruit.

“I wasn’t aware prostitution fell under the marshal’s purview, Deputy,” protests Boyd, smile all sharp edges and dangerous.

Tim, glares at Boyd, not intimidated in the least by a self-proclaimed prince of Harlen as he continues to march Raylan out.  “Arresting criminals is our job.”  Boyd holds his ground in the bar as Tim takes his charge out to the car.  “Shouldn’t have conducted your business in front of a marshal,” he says, unmoved by Raylan’s plight.

“Don’t worry, Raylan,” shouts Boyd after him from the door, phone in hand, “your lawyer is on their way.”

Chapter Text

Art’s waiting at the conference room door as Raylan’s brought into the marshal’s office by Tim.  There’s a twinkle in his eyes despite his hands being on his hips.  “Caught in the act of solicitation in front of a law enforcement officer,” says Art with a fair amount of mirth.  “I thought you were at least smarter than that, son.”

“No money exchanged hands,” protests Raylan as he’s marched passed.  It’s not even that he’s not, not a prostitute- they have him dead to rights on that notion, but there’s something universally unfair about the notion that he’s going to get nailed for it the one time he didn’t actually fulfill the role.  And mostly because he was trying to prevent a deputy from getting shot.  Where is this enthusiasm for cuffs when some John is getting rough or worse, Boyd’s pounding him into the mattress?

Tim pushes him firmly down onto a chair.   Putting one hand securely between Raylan’s shoulder blades he pushes Raylan forward slightly to get better access to the handcuffs still binding Raylan’s hands behind his back. The right one comes off and Raylan pulls his arms in front, rubbing at his wrists.  The relief is short lived, as Tim is quick to refasten the cuffs now that Raylan’s hands are in front of him.

Raylan slumps back in defeat.  Born under a bad sign, he’s always been damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.  Art’s obviously intending to take this seriously and whatever grace Raylan had as a potential trojan horse into the Crowder empire for Art, is gone.

Art sits down, opening a rather thick file after he puts his glasses on.  “No money exchanged hands, he says,” parrots Art more to Tim than Raylan.  Tim sits down next to Art and tilts his head, bland and unforgiving look upon his face.  If Tim’s on the jury, Raylan’s going to swing.  Art looks up at Raylan, saying, “Do you honestly think everyone in the county doesn’t know what’s going on at Audrey’s?”

Raylan just shrugs, fidgeting until he gets as comfortable as possible.  Everybody knows; nobody cares in any way that matters. Just like every local knows how Raylan came to work there, yet no one felt or feels compelled enough or brave enough to right the situation.

Art pulls his glasses down to the end of his nose and takes a good look at Raylan.  The fresh gash across his cheek glistens in the iridescent office light and judging by the slight lean in the way Raylan’s sitting, he’s favoring his left side.  “Tim, did you do that to Raylan?” he asks pointing to the facial wound.  It’s crusty around the edges; no longer weeping but the skin’s split open enough to show off a fleshy red furrow that will most likely leave a faint scar.

“No sir,” replies Tim, dryly, staring Raylan down, like he’s daring Raylan to lodge some false trumped up claim of brutality.  “I picked him up already looking like a scratching post.”

“You have a girlfriend there, Raylan?” asks Art, in a tone that suggest he already knows the answer.

“No.”  Raylan doesn’t have shit.  He certainly has no one.  No one has ever bothered to stick around in his life, except maybe Boyd.  Though Raylan suspects that’s mostly because they’re caught in each other’s orbit by fate and birthright rather than familial bond.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“So, if Tim didn’t do it on the way up here.  And you’re not in a relationship.  And according to you, you’re not exchanging sex for money, what does that leave us?” asks Art ticking each item off on his fingers.  “Did you fall down a flight of stairs?  Run into a door?  Get into a fight with a racoon?”

Screwing up his face, Raylan shifts so he’s turned away from Art slightly.  If they’re going to toss him in a cell for awhile, he could do without the hazing before hand.  “Doors can be tricky,” he affirms, just to be contrary.

“Or is it your boss, Boyd Crowder?” continues Art, regardless of Raylan’s discomfort.

“He’s pretty involved with Ava, but if you ask him, he might consider a three-way with you, given how obsessed you are, Art.  You never know until you try,” says Raylan, aiming to make everyone as uncomfortable as he is. 

Art promises, “If you give me something on Crowder, we can stop having these one on ones and you’ll never have to hear me talk about him again.  I know I’m getting tired of this dance.  How about you, Tim?”

Tim’s sharp eyes remain on Raylan.  The kid doesn’t even blink as he says, “I don’t dance.”

“Not even flatfooting?” poses Art.  Without waiting for an answer he continues, “You’re in Kentucky now, Tim.  Hell, the only one that likes to dance is the Mrs and she knows to limit the amount of times she drags me on the dance floor.  You, Raylan, and the rest of Crowder’s boys like to fill my dance card.”

Raylan snorts, rolling his shoulders.  He’d love to stop having conversations both about Boyd and with Boyd.  Boyd has a way of worming in, infecting everything until there’s nothing and no part of you that isn’t tainted with him somehow.  Raylan’s so covered in Boyd now, it wouldn’t matter if Art sent him to the moon, Boyd’s voice would still slither around in his brain, and his skin would prickle at the phantom touch.  He picks at his thumb nail, afraid if he holds Art’s gaze, the older man will see something Raylan can’t afford to give away.

Art gets up and starts pacing the side of the conference room.  He just doesn’t understand why Raylan won’t take the life vest.  He can see it in every line of Raylan’s body, hear it behind every snarky comment and still he won’t embrace Art’s offer to help.  “Do his operations around here sit right with you? Because I have a feeling they don’t.”

Raylan stops picking at his nail for a second to glare at Art.  “You don’t know anything about me.”  He’s not interested in arguing morality with anyone.  Raylan does the best he can with what’s available to him.  Harlan is just a place that embraces the darkness; he just tries to mitigate his own contribution to it.  In his failure at that, he has just as much blood on his hands as anyone else.

Art leans on the table.  “I know your assault charge was in defense of one of the girls at Audrey’s.  I know you warned me before one of Bo’s boys could shoot me.  I know you rescued the McCready girl.  I know you interfered the other day so one of my marshals didn’t get shot by a couple of incompetent local boys.  I’m willing to bet you’re more prone to doing the right thing than looking the other way.”

The last part catches Raylan by surprise.  It plays across his face because Art says, “Rachel saw the bloody rag and the smear of blood on the doorknob.  She was updated about the robbery before she walked into Audrey’s.  Figured there must be some kind of ambush if you willingly put yourself in such a compromising position to drag her out into the yard for nothing.”

Tim’s eyes narrow at Raylan’s sour look at the mention of outing himself to save Rachel.  Art jumped at the opportunity to pursue a warrant to bring Raylan in for solicitation based on Rachel’s account, making it clear to his deputies that he actually had no intention of seeing Raylan locked up for the act itself.  It’s one of the mysteries Tim hasn’t been able to crack since transferring to the Lexington office, why Art seems so invested in maneuvering Raylan Givens, who by all accounts that Tim can see, is just as culpable to the Crowder reign of terror as anyone else, out of the way of justice.

“Because of your little performance, Rachel called in for roadblocks over every possible exit from the bar.  All she had to do was wait for those idiots to leave to scoop them up with out a shot fired.”  Art rolls his pen between his fingers. From where he's sitting, it should be a no brainer as to what Raylan should do, but he can't tell if Raylan is stupid, stupidly loyal, or just stubborn. "You could wear a wire."

Raylan rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair as far as he can without taking his cuffed hands off the table. "That being the fastest and surest way to end up dead.”

"You don't want to be caught up in this, son," cautions Art and Tim gives him a look that asks why he seems set on giving Raylan Givens so many chances.

"Want has nothing to do with it," replies Raylan with a nonchalant shrug. He's in it, come hell or high water. There's never been a knight in shining armour anywhere other than in his books. Except, maybe for Sheila's cowboy, but he wasn’t there to save Raylan. 

"Tim take him down and get his release paperwork started," says Art, disappointed, yet somehow not surprised.

"Will do," says Tim rising and moving to shepherd Raylan out of the office.

Tim puts his hand on Raylan to usher him to the door, but Raylan shrugs out of his grip.  “So, we’re not charging me?”  He almost looks disappointed at the prospect.

Art taps a case file on the desk, aligning all the contents in it.  “That will be up to the DA if they want to take it to trial.”  There is no case for any lawyer to review but Raylan doesn’t need to know that. 

“And this was?” asks Raylan holding out his arms to show off his handcuffs.

Art replies, “A conversation.”

The elevator ride is silent but Tim's proximity and at ready stance tells Raylan everything he needs to know about the new deputy's opinion of him.  Raylan’s use to it from most people but the close quarters makes it feel pointed at Raylan as an individual rather than the state of his life.

Tim undoes the cuffs once every t is crossed on the paperwork and not a second sooner.  The guy is the definition of by the book and Raylan can’t decide if it’s a personality defect, a demonstration of power over Raylan or because he’s newer to the office.

Raylan hands the cuffs back with a smile. "Here's your jewelry. Guess we ain't going steady after all."

"Oh, I'm sure someone will set us up on a blind date again real soon," promises Tim, his smirk carefully concealed.

It’s the first spark of personality the marshal has shown and something Raylan can work with and respect.  "You don't want to walk me to the door, give me a kiss good night and make sure I get in the cab alright?" he taunts when he notices Tim holds the line at the counter.

Tim nods towards the glass doors. "I think your boyfriend might get jealous."

Frowning, Raylan turns to see what Tim's talking about, his face falling when he sees Boyd leaning against his car in the parking lot. Shit. Boyd rarely comes to collect him personally.  "Another time," says Raylan, forcing the smile to stay on his face.  Looks like he has bigger problems ahead of him than the marshals abusing his precious time.

"Looking forward to it," says Tim, like it’s a promise.  He spins the cuffs around his index finger.

Raylan walks out the door feeling like a dead man walking down the green mile.

They're about a block away from the marshals’ office when Boyd takes one hand off the steering wheel and rests it on the back of Raylan's neck, twirling some strands of hair between his fingers. Then Boyd pushes forward slamming Raylan's face against the dash.

"Jesus christ, Boyd," shouts Raylan indignantly as his nose cracks against the dashboard. He reaches up to plug his nose to keep it from bleeding all over his shirt.

"That new marshal seems to have taken a personal interest in you. What did you tell him?"  There’s a dangerous glint in Boyd’s eyes.

Glancing down at his hand, Raylan sees the puddle of blood already accumulated.  "Shit, I didn't tell him anything, Boyd.”  He pinches his aching nose harder.  “Fuck. I've never said anything."

Boyd turns his attention from the road to stare at Raylan.  "Then why's he sniffing around you?"

Raylan glowers at his knees.  The whole thing was a set up to bring him in; Art painting a target in the shape of a silver marshal star on his back.  "Maybe he's too shy to ask me out properly. Maybe he's trying to get promoted."  Most likely it’s to cause him strife that the marshals can exploit.  Raylan can respect the move, but god damn he wishes people would stop using him like a game piece in his own life.

The tension in Boyd bleeds out like the water running off the windshield as they drive through the storm back to Harlan.  "You think he's someone we could get in our pocket?"

Raylan switches hands, pinching his nose and wipes the blood on his dark red flannel shirt.  He watches Boyd’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.  "I doubt it."

"Why Raylan, are you losing your charms?"

"Not everyone can be bought with a piece of my ass, Boyd,” he replies with heavy disdain.  Honestly, Raylan’s never tried to push anything with a marshal before.  He doesn’t give two shits about entrapping someone with a badge, scumbags being inclined to do what they’re going to do even if Raylan isn’t the one enticing them.  It just feels like taking a shot at Art to go after one of his people, like forcing one of them to betray Art is tandem to betraying Art himself.  Raylan doesn’t necessarily owe Art anything, not like he owes Boyd his life- Art’s just always managed to be decent, despite the circumstances, when everyone else in Raylan’s life hasn’t been.  That means something at the end of the day. 

Boyd reaches over again, undeterred by Raylan’s slight flinch and puts his hand on Raylan’s knee.  “Let’s hope that isn’t the case.”

Raylan gets out of the car; his hat is the only thing keeping him a little bit dry.  Tim didn’t give him an opportunity to grab a jacket before he was brought in, and Boyd certainly wouldn’t think to provide him with one.  It doesn’t bother him; he’s heading for a shower anyways.  Getting wet along the way will just keep the blood from setting in his shirt.  He is surprised when Boyd starts to follow him.

A flicker of alarm shoots through Raylan, but he keeps putting one foot in front of the other.  Silently he prays Boyd is just making sure he gets to his trailer.  As he reaches for the doorknob, Boyd’s hand is already on it, opening the door for Raylan and gesturing him inside.  He hesitates only briefly, cursing internally, as Boyd takes notice and cocks his head.

Boyd grins, all teeth.  Gently he puts his hand on Raylan’s back, spurring him on to take the last few steps inside.  Once they’re both in, Boyd grabs Raylan’s hat, lifting it off his head and tossing it on the kitchenette table.  “You need to get out of those wet clothes.  Can’t have you catching a cold.”  Shirking off his own jacket, he takes the time to hang it in the closet.  He watches Raylan as the other man unbuttons his shirt, tossing it in a heap on the shower floor, then pulling the tank top underneath off.

Grabbing a dishcloth off the counter, Boyd runs it under lukewarm water, wringing it out until it’s just damp.  He pushes Raylan to sit down on the edge of the bed, just as Raylan removes his wet jeans, leaving him in only his boxers.  Cupping Raylan’s chin he forces Raylan to look up at him.  Boyd gently wipes at Raylan’s nose, removing the dried flakes of blood that are still stuck under his rapidly bruising nose and on his chin.

Raylan tries to appear relaxed as Boyd cleans him up, almost lovingly.  When Boyd sets the cloth down, he runs his fingers through Raylan’s hair before pressing Raylan’s face against his chest.  Raylan can feel the rumble in Boyd’s chest as he says, “You know why I had to do that, right?”

Raylan nods as best he can against Boyd’s chest.  Boyd takes the adage of only hurting the ones he loves far too literally.  Raylan learned long ago that he’ll never be loyal enough, useful enough or good enough to earn anything other than violence.

“I had to be sure you weren’t telling tales outside of school.  Whatever the marshals know, I need to know about.  It’s the only way I can keep you safe.  It fills me with a great sorrow to think of you locked away for the murder of Delroy and that Miami hitman,” coos Boyd.

“I know, Boyd,” says Raylan softly.  Agreeing is always easier and Raylan’s too tired for a fight tonight.  He’s too tired for much of anything these days.

“You don’t make it easy to look after you Raylan.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth ever since they became routine.  “I’m sorry, Boyd.”

Boyd moves one hand to his belt, unfastening the buckle.  “I really need one of those marshals in my pocket.  Why don’t you show me your recruitment strategy and I’ll see if I can’t give you any pointers on how to close the deal?”

Raylan lets out a sigh.  He only wishes it was a question like the way Boyd makes it sound.  Raylan undoes Boyd’s fly and pulls down the black pants far enough to give him room to work.  He starts by slowly stroking Boyd’s penis. 

“Unh-uh,” chastises Boyd.  He pushes Raylan’s face down his chest until he can feel Raylan’s breath on his growing erection.  “Do it properly.  No half assing it tonight.”  He lets out an elongated moan as Raylan dutifully opens his mouth and swallows Boyd in.

After Raylan sucks Boyd off, Boyd spends the rest of the night fucking him into the mattress with little prep and even less lube.  Spent, Boyd collapses beside Raylan, burrowing into the pillows and sheets, intent on staying the night.  Raylan wraps his arms around himself and lies perfectly still.  He tries not to think about the ying and yang that is Boyd, how he can go from kind to barbarous.  Raylan lives for the kindness and can live with the wicked but back and forth is what messes with is head and leaves him hollow, lonely and lost.

Chapter Text

In a surprising turn of events, Arlo and Boyd start palling around. Bo and Arlo worked together, hand in hand sometimes.  Bowman employed Arlo, mostly on Bo’s instruction.  But Boyd seemed content to try and manage on his own, in his own way and on his own terms.  It burns something fierce watching Arlo come into the bar all the time. And with a shit eating grin on his face, like the cat that ate the canary.  For the most part he ignores Raylan.  It’s the way he and Boyd get along though- Boyd treating him like a beloved father and Arlo looking at Boyd like a proud parent.

It’s the thing that really guts Raylan, watching Arlo with Boyd- a father son relationship Raylan could have only dreamed of as a boy. Raylan wouldn't want it now if Arlo came on bended knee and groveled for Raylan’s forgiveness. It's sticks because obviously Arlo has the parental gene, he just couldn't be paternal with Raylan and Raylan can't figure out if that says more about Arlo or more about him. It has to be some kind reflection of him because he's the one being forced to whore himself out to survive and Boyd's on his way to being the damn king of Harlan.

“Boyd’s the son I never had,” Arlo tells another patron one afternoon when it’s just the old timers doing some serious day drinking on a Wednesday afternoon.  The conversation isn’t for anyone’s benefit except Raylan who’s tending bar today because Boyd doesn’t want to pay an actual employee to work such a light shift.

Raylan stops wiping the counter down.  “You know Arlo,” he says hat sitting low enough to hide his eyes, “I have half a mind to....”  He stops short staring Arlo down as the old man gets up and stands across the bar from Raylan.

“Half a mind to what?” sneers Arlo.  “Come on boy, spit it out” he goads when Raylan stays silent.

 What can Raylan do in a room full of Boyd loyalists?  He’d love to beat Arlo to a pulp, the first domino in the train of Raylan’s horrible life.  Boyd won’t take kindly to it.  Hell, even Ava treats Arlo like family around here.  Shit kicking the old man will only end in a beating Raylan can ill afford. 

Arlo reaches out and slaps Raylan.  His head snaps to the side as the old familiar sting of his father’s hand spreads across his face.

“Cat got your tongue?  Or I guess more accurately would be is your mouth too stuffed with dicks to say anything?”

Raylan stands there seething in silence.  As satisfying as it would be to smash the glass next to his hand and jam the resulting shards deep in Arlo’s chest, and it would be satisfying, it’s not worth Boyd’s subsequent wrath.  Raylan would like to live long enough to dance on Arlo’s grave.

“That's what I thought, son,” says Arlo with wicked glee as he turns to go back to his table.

“No.  Don’t call me that,” protests Raylan, lowly.

Arlo stops, squaring his shoulders as he turns around.  “You’re right,” concedes Arlo.  “No son of mine would be such a whore.  Thank god Francis was lucky enough to die before she saw you grow up to be Harlan’s premier cock slut.”

Raylan doesn’t smash the glass, but he does throw himself over the bar top at Arlo.  They wrestle back and forth exchanging blows until someone hits Raylan with a chair.  Raylan’s too busy flirting with unconsciousness to stop whoever from pulling him off Arlo and dragging him into the back cooler, locking the door until he literally cools off.

 It’s Ava that lets Raylan out.  Arlo’s already gone, back home or to the VFW, it matters not what rock he scurried under.  She’s cross with Raylan and he imagines she’s already been on the phone to Boyd to give him the heads up on Raylan’s acts. 

Raylan’s first task is to clean up the mess he made.  It’s the calm before the storm.  Boyd will unlikely be this mild in his irritation.  A simple job, yet it’s kicking Raylan’s ass. Being locked in the cooler for awhile seems to have taken its toll; Raylan feeling as though he’s coming down with something, making even sweeping feel like he’s hauling coal back in the mines.  That’s all he needs is to be laid up ill instead of working.

Raylan’s gotten really good at predicting Boyd’s moods.  The biggest tell is if Boyd walks into the bar, arms spread wide spouting some prolific bullshit or if he makes a silent shot to the bar and pours himself what will be one of many drinks.  The bad moods are often the result of disagreements with Ava or the law interfering with Boyd’s plans.

Boyd’s slamming back Jim Bean like there’s no tomorrow, cursing the marshal’s service and glaring at the girls.  Raylan knows he doesn’t stand a chance tonight. He lets out a long sigh.  Either he can wait for Boyd to drag him back to his trailer, in which case Boyd will have a couple hours to simmer to a boil, or Raylan can tempt him there now.  Now will be violent and brutal, later will be bloody and creative. 

Raylan would rather get it over with now.  Creative Boyd always makes it seem like he’s abusing Raylan in the name of love which Raylan has deemed its own sort of torture.  He likes his punishment like he likes his booze, straight without any flourish.

“What do you say we get down to brass tacks, Boyd?” asks Raylan, putting his hand on Boyd’s thigh as he sits down next to him.

“Well, isn’t someone enthusiastic tonight,” Boyd replies appreciatively.  He kisses Raylan, right there in the bar, which is unusual, but the kiss is all teeth and blood as he bites into Raylan’s bottom lip viciously.

The shrill ring of the phone cracks through the depressed silence of the early Monday night crowd. All three customers awake from their stupor to look lazily at the bar as Raylan reaches out to grab the phone.

"Audrey's," he says cradling the receiver between his chin and shoulder as he continues to polish glasses.

"Raylan? Is that you?" whispers a small, terrified voice.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, raised by the fear in an all too familiar voice. "Loretta?"

“Raylan,” says Loretta, sadly.  “I’m sorry to bother you.  I just…”

Raylan presses the receiver closer to his ear to try and hear over the general noise of the bar and Loretta’s sniffles.  “Loretta, what is it?”

“I knew they’d killed him.  I knew it.  I just…” She starts openly sobbing.  “Please help me, Raylan,” she begs.  “I don’t know what to do.”

Raylan’s throat constricts at the pain, anguish and utter desperation in her little voice.  It’s the same plea his soul made when Mags had him strung up in the barn for his lashing.  Before he can say anything, Loretta starts screaming on the other end of the call.  “Loretta?” he demands but the call ends abruptly with no answer.

"Teri, watch the bar," snaps Raylan pointing to their three patrons.

He tosses the cloth in the sink and grabs his hat from behind the bar. Doing nothing isn’t an option, especially when Loretta has no one in her corner.  Heading to the office, he takes the keys to Bo's old truck that Boyd keeps hanging behind the door.  It rarely gets used, so no one will miss it right away.  His eyes drift to the top drawer of Boyd's desk. Boyd keeps one of his handguns in there. If Loretta is really in danger, and Raylan's gut is telling him she is, he's going to need a weapon. He's already going to catch hell for leaving Audrey's and steeling a vehicle in the process, he might as well triple down by taking the gun. Boyd can only kill him once.  Checking the clip, he makes sure it's loaded before tucking it into the back of his jeans.

"I mean it, Teri, watch the bar," he reiterates as he passes back through on his way out.

Teri gives him a dazed look, climbing out of a customer's lap and staggering to the bar like a captain taking the wheel of a crashing ship. "Johnny ain't going to like it," she warns. 

He just waves her off. "Johnny ain't here right now."

The old beater is at the back of the property and Raylan doubts anyone's used it since bringing it back from Bulletville. He snakes a jerry can from the back of one of the customer's trucks and marches through the yard. Climbing in the truck he turns the key listening to the truck groan and whine as it tries to turn the starter over. Saying a silent prayer, he tries again. And again.

The truck roars to life with an impressed upon rumble. Shifting it into gear with a screech and a lurch, rusty from his lack of time behind the wheel over the last decade, the truck speeds off, peeling out of Audrey's.  He doesn’t know exactly where Loretta is, other than she’s been staying with Mags.  It sounds like Mags is enamoured with the girl, but Coover feels a different way according to Ellen May.  Combined that with Loretta finding out the Bennetts killed her father and Coover and Dickie seem like a good place to start looking for her.  Both find new levels of deplorable with the other there to cheer them on.

The truck fishtails as it comes around the corner of the trailer park Raylan's heard Coover and Dickie are shacked up in. It doesn't take long to spot Dickie's rusted pickup that Coover takes to Audrey's. Raylan's getting out before the truck has completely stopped, letting the door slam behind him. "Coover!" He screams pulling the gun out of his waist band and storming up to the front door. "Coover!  Dickie!"  If they don’t have Loretta, they’ll certainly know where she is.

There's no answer or any movement of any kind from in the shabby trailer. Raylan kicks the door open anyways, the stench of weed oozing out before he's stepped foot inside. Eyes darting around the place, he finds there isn't any sign of Loretta or Coover, just Dickie sprawled on the floor.

Raylan kicks Dickie hard in the ribs, bringing the other man to consciousness. Before Dickie gathers his wits, Raylan has his boot heel pressed firmly against Dickie's throat.  “Where is she?” he demands, low and dangerous.

“I… I don’t know. I…” Dickie looks around in confusion at his empty home that’s in ruins.  He tried to stop Coover from taking Loretta.  Not fond of the girl himself, he knows his momma treasures her even if Coover doesn’t.  Hurting Mags’s newest prize if going to earn his brother far worse than a broken hand. “I don’t.  I don’t.  I don’t… Ray,” he stutters under Raylan’s boot.

Raylan tries not to revel in the satisfaction of having Dickie squirming in fear under him.  He’s here to save Loretta- that innocent young girl that the Bennetts are twisting and tormenting.  Not one to give into revenge when Boyd strung Dickie up like a prize for him, Raylan’s entirely alright with ending Dickie if it means protecting Loretta.  No one intervened when they were breaking Raylan down, slowly, painfully.  He’ll be damned if he stands by and lets them do it to Loretta.  “Now listen Dickie. I will finish what was started here.”  He applies more pressure to Dickie’s neck.  It would be so easy just to snap it.

“Wait! Raylan, wait.  Raylan!”

“You’re gonna tell me where they went if it’s the last breath you ever draw,” warns Raylan.

“I tried to stop him, Raylan,” sobs Dickie.  “I swear to god, I did everything I could.  I swear.”

Raylan says, “Okay,” lifting his foot only to stomp it down on Dickie’s bad knee. 

“Raylan please.  Please let me, let me just… just let me go after him.  Let me go after him.  I can take care of this, Raylan,” begs Dickie, seeing the fiery determination in Raylan’s eyes that promises Loretta’s going to be safe no matter the cost.

“No.  I’m gonna take care of this now.”  Raylan steps down again on Dickie’s knee.  “Where?”

“He said something about taking her to see her daddy.”

“Where?” he demands again, the last of his patience evaporating.

“It’s… up at the mine.”

“Where?” spits Raylan losing what little restraint he has. 

“Up in the mine shaft.  The Garner mine shaft.”  Raylan grabs one of the guns next to the overturned coffee table, before disappearing out the door in a flash while Dickie screams, “Don’t you hurt my brother, Raylan!”

The truck comes to a halt next to Coover’s abandoned truck.  Raylan’s heart beats faster at the prospect that he might be too late.  “Coover!” he howls into the dead of night.  Grabbing a flashlight and gun he grabbed from Dickie’s, he starts making his way up towards the opening of the mine shaft.  “Coover!”  God help him if he’s harmed one hair on Loretta’s head.

The beam from the flashlight catches a loch of blonde hair, then a hand, and finally what looks like sleeping beauty tucked away in the leafy arms of the forest.  Raylan runs over, hand reaching out for a pulse.  It strongly beats under the pale skin.  Loretta doesn’t stir under his touch; a dark red gash marring her temple, the only sign of violence. 

Raylan bends to scoop her limp form up and carry her back to the truck only to feel Coover tackle him as he lets out an enraged snarl.  Raylan lifts the gun in his hand but can’t get a clear shot as Coover practically picks him up and slams him into the nearest tree.  The impact jars Raylan’s bones and rattles his teeth, the gun slipping from his grasp.  With no weapon in hand, Raylan elbows Coover in the face.

Dazed for mere seconds, Coover tightens his large hands in Raylan’s jacket, slamming him against tree trunk after tree trunk like a human version of bumper cars.  The struggle takes both men to the shaft opening and with one huge shove, Coover sends Raylan stumbling through the shed doors.  Coover’s on top of Raylan right away, pushing as Raylan struggles to keep from tumbling over the edge to the dark death waiting below.

The all too familiar ache of taking a beating is setting in.  Raylan’s arms are starting to tremble with exertion, but he can’t afford to crumble under Coover.  If he does, not only is his final resting place going to be a mine shaft in Kentucky but Loretta’s too.

“Coover.  Coover stop it!” Loretta shouts pointing Raylan’s discarded gun at him.  “Stop!”

Coover turns, his hand still tangled in Raylan’s shirt.  “You’re dead girl,” he says with a lecherous smile as he sees the gun that’s far too big for her small hands that she’s daring to point at him.

Loretta freezes, tiny hands clutching the cold steel.  She can’t let Coover kill Raylan.  And Coover needs to pay for killing her daddy.  If she wants to survive the night, she needs to fire the gun.  All the reasons in the world to tighten her finger around the trigger yet she can’t seem to make her hand move.

“Coover,” hollers Raylan, freeing Boyd’s gun from his waistband and firing as Coover turns to look at him.  The bullet lodges in Coover’s chest, a look of surprise on his face before he pitches forward, tumbling over the edge and disappearing into the deep dark underbelly of Harlan County.  Raylan lays there, panting hard and staring into the abyss.

He looks back for Loretta, but she’s gone.  Slowly, Raylan gets to his feet, ignoring the ache in his back and the thrum still running through his muscles that haven’t yet realized they’re no longer fighting off Coover.  No one will be fighting off Coover ever again. 

It’s not hard to find Loretta.  She’s about halfway back to the truck but her sobs can be heard all the way back to the mineshaft.  Raylan remembers what it’s like to be that young and have your whole world destroyed.  He doesn’t say anything as he sits down next to her.  This time, it’s him who hugs her and doesn’t let go.