Work Text:
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
Galadriel lives by the rhythm of trains on the horizon. Their tracks cut the foothills in half, with dust on one side and more dust on the other. In the distance, wind turbines stand against the cloudless sky, severe and purposeful, and if she hadn’t suffered the season of their construction, Galadriel might be fooled into thinking they were as old as the gnarled walnuts. (They’re not; nothing is older than those leafless black roots.)
“Have you ever ridden a train, daddy?”
Finarfin rolls out from beneath the Ford; he drops a grease-stained rag on the toolbox and grabs a fresh stick from his cigarette pack.
“No, baby. You washed up for dinner like mama asked?”
“Ugh,” but she hops out of the open truck bed, sandals slapping the cement. The skin on her neck is tight from the sun.
Galadriel turns and trudges towards the house. She’s already inside when the neighbor’s pickup comes cresting over the hill.
****
Mama makes her bring over a funyun-crusted casserole two days after he moves into the house next door.
“Hi, mister,” Galadriel stares past his shoulder, the aluminum tray held high between them, “This is for you.”
Calloused, sunburnt hands briefly cover hers as he takes it. Her arms hang in the air a moment after, confused.
“Thank you, sweetheart, that’s very kind of you.”
His voice sounds funny. Something about the way he said heart, absent of the ‘r’ and…thicker, perhaps. Rich and brassy in a way that makes her nose wrinkle. “Where are you from?”
It’s a rude question, surely something that would earn a swat on the bum if mama were present, but the man with the funny voice laughs. Galadriel straightens and finally dares a full look at him.
He is tall. Taller than papa. Taller than her brothers, uncles, and cousins. Broad shoulders, somehow solid and lean at once, with wrinkles fanning from eyes the color of dirty pennies. His nose is burnt (like hers) and his plaid shirt unbuttoned to just beneath his chest. He has hair there, like papa. The same dark copper covers his arms, his long legs dressed in cutoff jean shorts, curling from his nape and sheared close at the sides—
“You have a strange haircut.”
Another laugh, this one louder than the first.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Galadriel. What’s yours?”
“Halbrand.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Such good manners,” He hums, but something about the way he says it makes Galadriel doubt his words. She steps back abruptly.
“Welcome to Tehachapi, Halbrand.”
****
It will take a few weeks to learn he is Australian.
****
Galadriel is three days into her twelfth year when Finrod crashes the truck. Mama just about has a heart attack; Papa and Aegnor bring him in on a slur of moans and curses, and Galadriel goes white at the sight of all the blood. She doesn't linger in the kitchen when they lay him on the table. Outside, the summer bugs shriek over the faded whistle of a distant train.
“Everything alright?”
Galadriel jumps, knees buckling at the fall. She teeters and swivels sideways.
Halbrand sits on his porch, though it’s not really a porch – more like a concrete slab beneath the bowed awning of his ramshackle townhouse with the peeling yellow paint and dilapidated fence. His metal lawn chair looks about as structurally sound as the rest of the property, creaking under his weight when he leans forward and taps cigarette ash between his spread legs.
“You scared me—”
Inside the house, Finrod shouts.
Halbrand’s brows hit his butchered hairline. He points his cigarette towards the lit windows. “Your brother? I saw your daddy bring him around the back.”
“Finn crashed the truck,” Galadriel brushes shaking hands down her stomach in a bid for composure. “His leg’s pretty torn up, but Papa doesn’t think it’s broken…”
Halbrand takes a deep drag from the stick. It’s dark out and there’s no porch light on. The sparks flare bright, painting his face in black and red.
“And the truck?”
Galadriel shrugs and gives her tummy another gentle rub. She feels like she’s going to be sick.
Halbrand nods and stamps out the cig. He stands slowly, every inch unfolding from a coil, snakelike. Galadriel retreats on instinct, but he only turns towards his front door.
“Tell your daddy to come knockin’ if he needs help with a tow, yeah?”
He doesn’t wait for a response before slipping into his house. The deadbolt clicks in time with Finrod’s next scream.
****
“Can I have a sip of that?”
Halbrand’s head snaps up and sideways. The wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he squints into the darkness. He points the lip of the beer bottle at Galadriel. “What’s with the cowboy hat?”
Galadriel thumbs the pink brim. “I got it at the fair. Can I have some?”
“I’m not giving you booze, little girl.”
Not little, Galadriel wants to bite back, toes curling indignantly in her red summer sandals. She’s 14 now, just started high school. She’s gotten her period, she’s switched out training bras for underwire, and she’s learned it feels good when she puts her fingers on herself. Halbrand sizes her up with nameless appraisal, and she rolls her eyes. “Narc.”
Galadriel stands there awkwardly, the crickets filling the silence that stretches long across Halbrand’s dirt front yard. He took out the fence last year, so now the edge of their driveway drops off right at his porch, concrete embedded into the dust. Galadriel eyes the strip. They’re studying WWI in her history class and the weed-tufted boundary between their homes looks like her textbook’s grainy picture of No Man’s Land.
“I didn’t win it.”
“What?
“The hat,” she crosses her arms behind her back, “I mean, it’s mine, but I wasn’t the one who won it, actually.”
“Who did?” Halbrand tips the bottle against his lower lip.
“Celeborn. He’s this boy from school,” and when Halbrand says nothing she blurts, “I kissed him behind the Ferris wheel.”
“Look at you all grown up,” he says it like an insult and she flushes to her hairline. “So, you like him?”
“I did.”
Halbrand stares at her in the darkness, apathetic, and it makes her blush deepen. Galadriel wants him to ask what changed, as if the question coming from his mouth will bring her closer to an answer. Celeborn is nice, and handsome, and very…nice. He pulled back when she parted her lips and chuckled like it hurt a little. He held her hand the rest of the night, but the gesture felt defensive, meant to keep her at a safe distance. They parted at the gates to the fair with a hug and she spent the drive home sharpening the edges of her confusion until it cut her with resentment.
“How old were you when you had your first kiss?”
Halbrand leans back, considering. “Christ, dunno. Ten? I can hardly remember now.”
“Right,” she kicks at the cement, “Forgot you’re an old geezer.”
Halbrand’s laugh is rich and jagged on the way out.
“Okay, well. I’m gonna go to bed.”
Halbrand just nods.
Galadriel turns, put out, not so much embarrassed as irritated by his curt dismissal. The less he pries, the more she wants to peel herself for his inspection, but she has some pride. She’s made it to the stoop of their porch when he calls her name.
“Chin up, cowgirl. There will be other boys.”
****
She is fifteen when he brings home a woman. Halbrand doesn’t have blinds on the windows facing her room, but Galadriel keeps hers drawn most of the time. When his car pulls into the lot and drunken giggles fill No Man’s Land, she opens them a crack.
The lights are dim, just one lamp and the cooktop bulb above the stove, but it is enough to make out the shape of a woman’s back as Halbrand spins her into the kitchen and presses her against the dining table. Galadriel can’t breathe, caught between mortification and morbid curiosity – his hands are massive on the woman’s waist. She can’t hear anything, but the woman visibly gasps as Halbrand bands an arm around her hips and hefts her up. There is more kissing, more large fistfuls, and Galadriel doesn’t realize she’s panting until Halbrand carries his guest out of the kitchen, slipping momentarily from view. She fumbles, pacing in front of the window, but then he’s back, muscling both of them into the bedroom.
The woman’s clothes are stripped in a blur, warm curves that are infinitely plentiful compared to Galadriel’s bony limbs, so much more where she is less. Halbrand drags his nose along the line of her shoulder, inhaling, and Galadriel wishes she could smell what he does, feel what he feels. She wishes she could be the one whose neck he’s biting.
It’s hard to see. Galadriel presses her nose to windowpane and splays the blinds, bending the cheap plastic at an angle that will surely leave them warped, but she needs to know whether the tan on his forearms reaches his chest and if the hair that curls down his stomach is the same reddish brown. She is allowed the hummingbird pulse under her throat and between her legs. Halbrand has hovered at the edge of her life for so long she feels owed this moment where she is the one to scrutinize while he succumbs to the messy needs of his own humanity.
The woman is naked now, legs split around his waist where he hovers at the edge of the bed. Galadriel isn’t paying attention to her. Halbrand’s jeans hang low on his hips, baring more skin she’s never seen before, bones and muscle that have always been covered and forgotten but now he is taunting. He reaches down, palms himself, and Galadriel arches up on her tiptoes because she can’t see—
Halbrand thrusts forward. Down the hall, Galadriel’s mother calls her name, and she drops the blinds just as he looks up.
****
She abandons girlhood in the shadow of the wind turbines, and Halbrand is there, ever watching from his folded aluminum throne. He sees her climbing through the window the first time she sneaks out to meet a boy and mimes a zippered mouth when she demands he tell no one. He sits patiently with an indulgent smile while she twirls her prom dress in the driveway, her mother yelling “Finarfin, honey, where’s the camera?” from the back of the house. He is there when she stumbles up the pavement after graduation, drunk off jello-shots and still wearing her cap.
“You’re stuck with me.”
“Am I.”
“Didn’t you hear? I got into Irvine, but all they offered me were loans.”
He doesn’t say anything when she struts boldly across the lawn and plops indelicately down at his feet. Her shoulder brushes the line of his calf; neither of them pull away.
“I’m stuck here,” she grumbles, fuck-all attitude melting with her buzz. It takes her until the tear is dangling from her chin to realize she is crying.
“You’re not.”
“I’ll go to Bakersfield and get some useless degree and move back in with my parents and die in Tehachapi.”
She rests her wet cheek on his knee and closes her eyes. His hand on her head is a comforting weight, the brush of his fingers in her hair soothing.
“I broke up with Celeborn.”
“Alright.”
“I didn’t like the way he talked to me in front of his friends. Like everything I said was funny in a stupid way.”
“Sounds like a very typical teenage boy.”
“I thought it might get better if I let it slide.”
“You can’t wait for people to be nice to you.”
Galadriel presses her nose to the crease of his skin and inhales. Halbrand smells like sweat and metal and Dial soap.
“I’m never leaving this town.”
She is half-asleep, his hand in her hair pulling her under. She does not hear when he murmurs, “If you did, I’d go looking.”
****
She does leave, though. Not far – San Bernardino is only a two-hour drive south, and her uncle Gil goes up on Saturdays to play poker, so she’ll visit every weekend. Halbrand, for once, is not home when she leaves. Galadriel stands in No Man’s Land and stares at his empty lawn chair until her father honks the horn.
College is nothing like high school, and yet it is hardly as exciting as she’d imagined. The first frat party she goes to ends in some girl, high on acid, cutting open her leg on a vodka bottle and screaming through hallucinations while the paramedics strap her into a gurney. Galadriel wakes up the next day in one of the grimy beds upstairs, her shirt missing but her panties intact. She cannot remember who she made out with, only that he was a bad kisser and she thought of Halbrand the entire time.
He is not there when she comes home that Saturday. Her pride lasts through the second weekend, and on the third she finally crumbles under curiosity over a plate of bisquick pancakes. “Is Mr. Mairon out of town?”
“What?” Mama hums. “Oh, I’m not sure. I think he’s been working at that new power plant they’re building off the 5? There’s a woman who comes by, though. Maybe he’s finally found himself a lady in town.”
Galadriel’s classes are easy, general ed courses she probably could have tested out of if she’d paid for the AP exams. She makes superficial friends and finds a steady hookup in Thondir, a cute and eager boy who comes three seconds after she lets him put it in. A month passes, and then two. She visits less often.
****
“Welcome back, cowgirl.”
Galadriel lets the screen door close behind her with a loud snap; it’s too late to wake anyone. She curls her arms around her middle against the dry midnight chill. November in the desert sneaks up on the ignorant, surprising them with cold.
“Hi.”
Halbrand sits in his chair, cigarette burning between his teeth. Even in the dark, she can see the dust clinging to the back of his neck and crusting the ends of his hair. The power plant is at the apex of construction; judging by his heavy jacket and the film coating his cargo pants and boots, Halbrand just got off work.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Galadriel shakes her head. Halbrand takes a drag. Her breath puffs like the smoke he exhales through his nose.
“How’s school?”
“Fine. Boring. How’s work?”
“Fine. Boring.”
She is furious with him.
“Mama says you’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Your mama is nosy,” he drawls after a beat. “She’s got a good heart, though.”
Galadriel stomps across the drive, across his lawn, right up to the edge of his cement slab. Halbrand arches a brow but says nothing.
“You never said goodbye.”
“Was I supposed to?” He jerks his chin. “You’re back, anyways.”
“Fuck you.”
Halbrand smiles and it is all canines. “My, you really are grown up.”
Another step and she’s between his knees. Galadriel pulls the cigarette from his teeth, puts it in her mouth, and sucks hard. He laughs at the hacking cough that follows.
“I’ve been grown up,” she grimaces. “You just aren’t paying attention.”
“Aren’t I?”
She drops the cigarette between them, stamping it out on the cement, then boldly palms the arms of his chair. Halbrand lets her get close enough to taste the salt coming off his skin before he tilts his chin back. Her lips catch the underside of his jaw, and they both freeze.
“What are you doing, Galadriel?”
It is humiliating, but she does not back down. Even if her voice is shaking.
“I’m done waiting for people to be nice to me.”
Halbrand laughs low, just at her ear, and it is a vicious sound. Neither of them have moved, but the space between them seems to contract.
“Oh, sweetheart. I am not nice.”
He stands, and she stumbles. He is there to catch her with a hard hand at the nape of her neck.
Halbrand is too tall to kiss on her own. The best Galadriel can do is push up on tip-toes and wait for him to fold. He does not, and she is left suspended, mewling when the fingers in her hair curl and pull her head sharply back.
Nose to neck, he inhales. “You smell like nighttime.”
She turns her chin, and this time he lets her slide her mouth over his. It takes a moment to register the kiss because he does not play much part in it. Galadriel presses, lips wet and open, but he is unyielding. Not like that time with the woman; he was all hunger, grabbing and biting and drinking it in. Galadriel moans in frustration and fists his collar to pull him close even as she leans back.
“Halbrand.”
This time is different; maybe his name does the trick. Halbrand snares her bottom lip between his teeth, making her gasp, some kind of guerilla tactic to get her mouth open and his tongue inside. Now he is kissing her like she knows he can, except watching it through glass and darkness could not have prepared her for this.
He is large. The hands that span her ribs and lift are thick as mitts. There is a furl of panic at how easy it is for Halbrand to arrange her against him, the toes of her shitty slippers barely skimming the pavement. From a distance, the embrace must look passionate. It is more sinister up close.
“Bad idea,” he rumbles even as he turns them towards his door.
Giddiness makes things hazy. She’s not paying attention to anything but his mouth, feet tripping over the threshold. They hit a chair a few steps into the living room but he keeps moving. The air is stale and dry in the way unbroken spaces are. How long has it been since he was home last? Whose bed has he been sleeping in if not his own? These venomous thoughts tunnel and twist, but everything goes white when he drags her into the hall and shoves at the door to his bedroom.
Halbrand tosses her inside. Galadriel pitches forward, stomach dropping at the bite behind his chuckle. It’s dark for a moment, but the lamp he flips on floods the small room in muddy yellow light, and she is looking at his room from the inside. It is furnished the same, with a lumpy full mattress on a metal frame, but this close she can make out the dent in his lone pillow and the stains on the polyester bedspread. Halbrand stalks closer, and the back of her knees hits the edge when she instinctively retreats.
“No,” he smiles, eyes flaring. “You stay.”
Galadriel freezes, the tension in that last word hitting her spine like a cattle prod. Halbrand clicks his tongue, hand catching her at the nape, and she pleads with her eyes but he is right. She wants this, has wanted this since she can remember wanting, even if the sticky turn of her stomach makes her skin clammy. She’s nervous, sure, when his palm slides to her shoulder and pushes back the collar of her open sweatshirt – afraid in fact, but not enough to run. Where is there even to go?
His palm is rough, dirt under the nails he runs lazily down her sternum to where the zipper splits. Galadriel is breathing so tight her head swims; she is not wearing anything under her hoodie.
“Do it,” she stammers. “Just – c’mon.”
His finger dips lower. “Look at you, girl. Begging for things you know nothing about.”
I know. I know some. But I want to know more, and I want you to show it to me.
He moves decisively; one moment she is covered and the next her sweatshirt is open, off, falling to the floor around her, a rash of goosebumps rising as cool air and humiliation hit her naked skin. Halbrand looks at her but gives nothing away. His eyes are opaque, fingers skimming the swell of her small breast.
“On your knees.”
It’s clear he is testing her with every expectation she will fail. In the brief moment of hesitation that follows, a smug look twists the corner of his mouth, and it’s enough of an insult to harden her jaw and pull her to the floor. Halbrand is carefully controlled, the easy way he widens his stance nothing but certain. But there is something building behind his eyes.
“You look good like this,” he hums, tenderness smoothing the edges of his mockery. Halbrand drags the back of his fingers across her cheekbone, and Galadriel reaches for his zipper with shaky hands.
It’s not her first time. She tried once, with Celeborn, but it didn’t last long. He seemed flustered, torn between enjoying himself and keeping composure. In the end, he’d pulled out of her mouth abruptly and insisted she finish him with her hand, under the covers in his parents’ den with the lights off. Galadriel couldn’t place her disappointment – it’s not like she’d particularly enjoyed the experience, and it didn’t bother her that he never asked for it again.
Halbrand is…not like Celeborn.
At first, he does nothing, and the silence compounds the shame of holding him inches from her face, hard and long and curving upward. She can taste the tang of his sweat, not dirty so much as heady – he is a man, hot to the touch and heavy where she grips him—
“Open.”
Halbrand doesn’t wait. Galadriel yelps, chin pinched between his fingers and pried open, tongue unfurling on a reflex he takes full advantage of to work himself into her mouth. A steady and insistent press down and back, filling, forcing out a choking breath, making her lungs burn and her fingers clamp his hips, making her retreat except she can’t – his hand has moved from her chin to the back of her head, holding her there.
“Breathe,” he demands just as he starts to pull back out. The swollen head rests on her bottom lip; she inhales but it comes through shuddering. “You done this before?”
“Not – ” the words die in her stinging throat; not like this. He cups her, palm wide at the base of her skull, and part of her hopes he changes his mind. But there is a different anxiety slicing at her tummy, a deeper shade of the ennui she’d felt at Celeborn’s rejection. If he stops now, she won’t be disappointed, but devastated.
Galadriel doesn’t give him a chance to do the right thing. She leans forward, clumsy in her eagerness, and takes him as deep as he will go. Halbrand grunts, the first real break in his cool self-possession, and the swooping satisfaction of that brief admission turns her strain into triumph.
“Careful,” he rasps even as he pushes deeper. His thumb traces the line where their skin meets. “Look at this mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so quiet.”
Galadriel wants to glare, but her eyes are watering, and whatever look she gives him only makes Halbrand smile. Without warning he’s gone, pulling all the way out, hands catching her beneath her arms and tossing her bodily back on his bed. Galadriel sucks in ragged breaths that cut off abruptly when he takes hold of her ankle and starts tugging at her sweats. Stripped to her underwear and shaking all over, Galadriel watches wide-eyed as Halbrand undresses at the foot of the bed.
It is suddenly painfully real. What she just did. What is about to follow. Another flare of her flight instinct and Halbrand must sense it because the look he levels her, cock in hand, pins her to the mattress like a butterfly stuck through with a needle.
“Take them off,” he jerks his chin at her plain panties. “Show me.”
It’s awkward pulling her underwear down her legs, the angle leaving her open and upturned as she tucks her thighs briefly to her chest. Halbrand gives himself a lazy stroke, gaze dark and hooded, the muscles of his arms rolling slowly beneath burnished skin. Galadriel pushes up on her elbows.
“I said show me.”
He knocks apart her thighs with the back of his hand, curling over her to get a better look. Galadriel is red from head to toe, knee shaking against his palm where he keeps her held wide, staring at her there like it’s his right. Shame and delight and confusion and need churn her belly, sloshing at the back of her throat when he drags a blunt fingertip up the seam of her wet cunt. Why does she like how defenseless he makes her feel?
“Oh!”
Halbrand rolls onto the bed, gripping her by the hips, flipping roughly and throwing her over him. But he doesn’t settle them chest to chest, eye to eye. Galadriel whimpers as he lifts her, sprawled out and so comfortable hefting her up, up, until his stubbled chin scrapes her softest skin. Galadriel jerks, a single violent shiver, when his tongue lashes out once to tease.
“H-Halbrand?”
She can feel his laugh, low in her stomach, his hold on her ass secure and strong enough to lean into completely. His tongue moves slower on the next slide, indulgent and thorough.
“Settle, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He does, but she can hardly relax like this, every lick and curl winding her into a tight, heated coil. Galadriel bites the inside of her cheek when he catches her slit with the tip, a little flick that plucks at her pleasure like a string, reverberating until her entire body hums with the feel of it. She wants to move, but she’s mortified. She can feel the mess she’s making of his chin where it smears against her inner thighs.
“I see you,” he whispers against her, almost angry. “Trying so hard to stay still, and for what?”
“I…”
“I know you want more, but you’re going to have to ask for it.”
“P-please…?”
Four quick flicks high up followed by a probing thumb between her cheeks, a delicate touch in the space between, and Galadriel nearly slides off his face. Halbrand chuckles, one arm banding around her waist to keep her in place, pulling back slightly to look at where his fingers have begun to tease her. He’s found skin she didn’t even know she had, a smooth strip just beneath her entrance, and he gives it a gentle rub before shoving his middle finger clean inside of her.
“That!” She chokes, spine snapping. “I w-want that!”
And so he gives it to her, deep strokes that twist and hook, pumping slides interspersed with taunting licks and satisfied grunts. Halbrand is weaving her pleasure so tight it will shatter, all the careful seams he’s knit tearing until she flies apart in a frayed mess. He growls as much against the shiny rise of her swollen folds.
“You’re going to ride my tongue, Galadriel. To the end. You’re going to rock these hips and you’re not going to stop until you come all over my face. Do you understand?”
She nods, babbles, slurred words like yeah and uh huh and please, please, puh-huhhh—
When she breaks, she does it smiling.
It’s blurry after that. Galadriel is half-way dreaming, her bones full of cotton, jelly limbs arranged without resistance beneath him. She has no space in her mind for worry when he nudges, bare, at the slick crease of her body. He slides in, a long, unbroken thrust, and it’s a relief. She sighs against his collarbone, lips quirking at the harsh breath that ruffles her temple, his gritted teeth pressed to her brow bone as he sets in without discussion.
“Look at you. Look at that smile. You like it, hm? Making a fool of me with this sweet, greedy little body?”
She nods, head lolling, mouth slack when he stabs at the top of her channel.
“Fucking Christ, Galadriel. You always have to get your way.”
The words are reprimand, but all she hears is praise in the calm he forces behind them. Halbrand hisses, a snarl like brittle metal, bending just to the breaking point. He says something else, words buried in her neck that sound a lot like God, I love this, but her ears have started to plug and ring. She can feel something rising from a deep well, foreboding and inevitable. She scratches at his back as if that will somehow stave it off.
“That’s it,” he presses her head into the mattress and pounds—
This time, when she comes, she’s no longer smiling.
****
Thanksgiving dawns with a hard freeze and the distant whir of the turbines. One house is loud, the other quiet and lightless. A family argues in the kitchen, shouts interspersed with laughs as the window above the stove fogs up. A back door slams at dusk, but the front stays shut until we’ll after dinner.
She makes her way across the yard at midnight, a half-eaten pan of fun-yun casserole gone cold in her hands.
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