coltmercer

[coltmercer]

He wasn’t sure where he was going, just following the sound of his friend’s voice. At least, he thought Quin was his friend. All that nonsense recently had made him question, if Quin was really someone he could trust. Doubt had settled deep in his gut, gnawing at the calm he usually kept. The rancher didn’t like to worry too much. He had his life in order, for the most part. Had his barn, built with his own hands from scratch. Fed and cared for his animals. Kept his boots on the ground. Sure, he could’ve hoped for more, like his sister picking up the damn phone on his birthday. Maybe not spending it alone this year. But october was a long way off, and Colt wasn’t the kind to lean on hope.

What was really bugging him now was that fly in his ear, buzzing and buzzing, making him itch, making him want to dig it out with his nails.

"It’s like a maze in here, Quin," he called out, voice echoing straight through the steel belly of the factory. Still drawn toward the sound of his friend, he kept walking. Pushed a door that creaked a little too loudly. Then, found nothing but darkness inside. What the heck is this place? Stumbling back, flickers of light guided him to a large main room, where his friend was waiting, looking at him like he shouldn't be standing. Was he not supposed to be here?

"Yeah, I’m not cursed or nothin’. Came close though, in my human opinion. But hey —your friend was right." With all her hocus pocus talk. Silence followed on his part, hardly giving more than a raise of his brows, while looking around the damn place. Hands sliding in the pockets of his jeans, all casual, exterior not matching his crumbling interior.

Then, he remembered which friend Quin was talking about. She turned more than friend, by the end of the night. "Mhm, sure did. She was spooked, too. Said a bunch of stuff I couldn't make sense of. Quin— none of that made any damn sense."

It was early in the morning, the sun was still rising, and he had all day to work on the most recent of his little projects, pace around, and do all of the little precautionary things that made anything he used this warehouse for stretch into a full day’s work. Other vampires weren’t a real concern, not when the owner of those whole stretch of semi-abandoned warehouses had been compelled years ago into only giving permission for Reardon vampires to enter, but that didn’t mean other people couldn’t wander in. 

Case in point: Colt, pushing the door open, calling himself the cowboy from the ranch outside town, as if Quin might have forgotten who he was. He straightened from his position, hunched over his materials lain across the table, letting his joints pop before he stood, picking up a towel to wipe the soot from his hands. “I’m in the side room, close the door behind you.” 

It was coincidental that the past few times Colt had wanted to contact him about something during the day, it had been while he was working here. While the main floor had been cleared out for it to be used for clan deals, storage, or whatever else Reardon needed room for, they hadn’t completely removed the metalworking equipment in the side areas. In his time in this city, he found himself spending more and more of his days in the side rooms making whatever he could think of to occupy his mind when worry was beginning to fester into paranoia.

The gala had given him a lot to be worried about. 

Colt being mad enough to never speak to him again after the gala wasn’t at the very top of that list, but it was on it. 

“You’re alive.” Not a question, not a revelation, just a comment as he stepped into the main room, dropping the towel onto one of the nearby crates. “Did you find your friend?”

[coltmercer]

Who the hell was Bingo? Eyes wide as moons, held the barn rafters captive until she was decent. He could hear her thrashing in the hay, wrestling with the blanket and whatever else she had her hands full of.

The door behind him bulged, two rough fingers sneaking through the crack, and a voice followed: 'You in there, Colt?'

He snapped his boot heel against the wood, damn near catching Buck’s knuckles and turning them blue. "Give me a damn second, will ya? A man can’t take a piss around here without somebody pryin’." he shouted back. Never even crossed his mind that’d mean he was pissing in his own damn barn. Goddamn it, Felicity.

"You decent, Flick?" Lord, he hoped so. He had morning chores waiting, not all day to stand here staring at the ceiling like a fool. "What the hell you doin’ here anyway? You remember me tellin’ you not to mess with my barn?" His words dropped to a hush, careful not to carry honesties to the old man outside. Buck was a good hand, but hell if his mouth didn’t love to wander. "I know I told you furry folk I’d help where I could, but this — this is a bit…" Overwhelming? Awkward? Insane? Colt couldn't find the right words. Rough hands pushed back through his hair, with frustration.

"You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?" Worry settled within his dark eyes, and they dipped, slowly to find hers.

Sometimes you just gotta... do the thing. The turn is a misery. It truly is a misery, the lightning-bolt scar dragged up her side reminds her of it whenever she turns, by choice or by full moon's frenzy, it reminds her with the way it burns and seethes, a reminder that, absent Chamomile's hand, she'd be dead.

But sometimes you just drink a jug of Gentleman Jack at The Heron Club in the name of slumming it and black out drunk and wake up with a mouthful of your late father's (now your asshole brother's technically) favorite prized race-horse.

"Oh, shit, Bingo." She says, pawing dried blood and horseflesh off of her stained mouth. God, how far had she...

And then she hears the creak of old wood, realizes that the heather-gray of morning is creeping into the window and she's buck ass naked in a stable at Red-River, if Bingo's presence is anything to go by. "Oh, shit." she whispers wordlessly.

But then Colt's there and things are just so suddenly awkward, with the nakedness and the blood and the hay and the steam curling up out of the poor thing. She gazes at it for a minute, and then, apologetically, offers a smile to Colt.

"This is probably... easy top ten material for awkward morning after conversations." She snatches the blanket and folds it around herself, because he's a good old boy, chivalrous and all, and she wouldn't want to give him a crick in his neck from all the staring at the rafters.

[coltmercer]

Sleep never came easy since that damn gala. Colt was up before the clock even thought about buzzing. Lennon hadn’t made a sound yet, either. Three in the morning — witching hour, his granddaddy used to call it. Whole street sat dark, not a light in any of the little windows. Even old Magda’s place. Old folks never slept a full night, just crept around their houses like restless ghosts. Now Colt felt the same, prowling his own kitchen, fingers pulling blonde out from the roots, all that hocus pocus shit bouncing around his mind like a loose ball on a court.

His tea had gone cold. Phone sat in his hand, with his thumb dragging across the screen, in and out of Reid’s contact. What are you even fixin’ to say, Mercer? Call your ex to tell him you’re spooked? That all this spell slingin' got you jumpy like a kid at the haunted house at the town's fair?

Phone dropped to the table with a thud. But hell, Reid always knew things. Smartest guy in the room, that one. Knew about plenty of things. Could take the edge off just by talking. Colt snatched the phone back up. Hit call. It rang once before he killed it. He scrubbed a hand down his face. Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doin’, Mercer?

Hands had not been used to stillness. Always stained with dirt, cuts bleeding into his fingers, black and red coming into a river across his palm. Work kept him sane. Sitting still made his skin crawl. Felt like if he sat too long, he’d lose his goddamn mind. So he kicked Buck outta bed before dawn, dragged him along to mend fence posts, feed stock, scrape out ZZ's old hooves.

Then the phone buzzed. Reid.

For half a second, Colt thought about tossing Buck the phone, just to see the old man's face go wide with horror and shock. Would’ve been worth it. Colt answered. Swallowed down the bite of shame in his throat, and whatever was left of his pride.

Next thing he knew, Buck was coming in, dragging Cash with a wounded leg. That damn fool got spooked, then tried to jump over the barbed wire. The wire had ripped into his leg. "Easy, Cash. You’re alright, boy. You’re alright." he spoke, soothingly. By the time Reid showed, the hay under the horse was slick with red, and the gash raw and ugly.

"I’m sorry, Cash," Colt worked on the wound fast while the horse fought against him. Reid dropped down without a word, holding the animal still. Blue met blue. "Move your fingers there," Words of a vet, not a lover. He caught Reid’s cold hand, and shifted it inches north, guiding him where the pressure needed to be. "He must’ve seen somethin’. Snake, maybe. Buck was with him." He risked a glance up. "You didn’t have to come, Halstead. This ain’t exactly your scene."

But it was Reid’s horse, and truth was, Colt would hand the old boy over in a heartbeat if Reid swore to keep him. Would save Colt a lot of trouble.

"It’s Reid, Cash. Look, it’s ya daddy." Colt bent close, murmuring to the horse like it was a kid with a scraped knee. "He likes it when you rub his head there. Calms him down." Colt didn’t answer when he asked if he was okay. He wasn’t. It was obvious by the hay in his hair, and the worried look in his eyes, those deep shadows beneath the blue. He wasn’t okay — and it showed.

For: @coltmercer

He's vanished from Colt's life, once. It'd been for the better, then. To do it a second time is more than a dick move; it's cruelty that Mercer isn't deserving of.

He trudges through the field, boots muddied by wet grass as he crosses Mercer land.

It's not surprising to find the rancher in the barn; he's perched on a wooden stool, a medical kid beside him, open and messy. Bloodied rags are dirtied on the barn floor, and familiar steady hands are tending to a wound on a horse's leg. There's animals kicking up a damn storm, and in the centre of it, there's Cash. A nasty piece of his leg split wide open — Reid darts forward, quicker than he's meant to, so he can better see the commotion.

Cash is kicking back legs and making a whinnying of protest; Colt scarcely misses a tail in the face that lifts his hat clean off his head.

"Mercer." Reid's hands are suddenly on Cash, hushing him quiet; trying to convince Cash to know it's safe here. It doesn't work to ease the steed to comfort, but Halstead imagines pain would do that to anything. Eyes divert from the distressed horse to the rancher whose patience is saint-like: "What happened?" Reid can see it's not fatal, or even critical, but it's wide enough to be more than a fall. It looks like Cash lost a fight with a nail and a wall. Colt's sitting there like he's never going to get a hoof in the face, and Reid's looking at him like he's grown a second head for thinking that.

"You okay?" Sweat beads at Colt's hairline, and Reid remembers the veterinarian has a way with animals that the hunter never did. Hands that work softly on the leg, as Reid steadies Cash the best he can.

[coltmercer]

First Felicity, naked cashing out in his barn with hay in her hair. Now, Anish.

The rancher watched his friend approach, less wolf and more man, with his hands firm on Dolly’s halter, coaxing her into the barn before the storm broke. He figured the chores would keep on piling whether or not the pack came knocking.

"Help, ey?" Colt tipped his head toward the stalls, dry as ever. "Can’t tell if you mean with Dolly here, or with whatever’s got you pacing holes in the dirt." Did he even want to know more than he already did? Wolves, and spell-slingin’, and all that horse pucky. He gave Dolly a final pat on the neck, then leaned his weight onto the pitchfork like it was part of him.

"You’re here," he said at last, steady as the barn walls around them. "So quit circlin’. Spit it out."

closed starter for: @coltmercer where: red river ranch

Just a check in. That's all, then he's on his way - doing his fuckin' job, both for the pack and for his family. That's all, just a quick - Does Colt even know where his ranch sits at all now? Did the gala fry his brain? His mind is going a thousand miles per minute, trying to wrangle thoughts together as he walks up towards the stables. His fingers twitch and twist at his sides.

It's not hard to catch sight of him, doing what he figures are his daily chores or whatever. Even here, he feels out of place. Itchy, even.

"Hey." He grumbles out, to catch the man's attention. "Need some help? Could use a minute of your time."

[coltmercer]

closed —  @bloody-deliverance

Colt wasn’t good at avoidance. Never had been. He liked to deal with a problem while it was fresh — like a bullet wound. Let it bleed, dig your fingers in, then pull the damn thing out. Stitch it. Move on. If he left it to rot, it would only festers. He’d taken an oath to help, and an oath wasn’t something he broke.

It had been a couple of days since the gala, and his phone was silent, lying somewhere in the quiet house. Romy was still tangled in his sheets, slow to wake and barely lifting those beautiful eyes toward the breakfast he’d set on the nightstand. Having her there was good. Took the edge off the lonesome.

But thoughts still found Quin.

Had he made it home? Had he and that mumbo jumbo friend of his figured out the mess of that night? And that talisman, whose neck had it been meant for? Colt didn’t remember names worth a damn, but he remembered enough. Boots on, jacket in hand, he was gone. Left Romy with a strawberry kiss on the forehead and the smell of coffee in the room. Then he turned the truck toward the city.

The truck rumbled down backroads, where the early sun burned through the morning fog like a searchlight. Restless fingers drummed on the wheel without a beat to it.

He parked outside one of those abandoned factories on the edge of town — the last place Quin had texted him from. Guy liked working his blacksmith rig in there. The kind of place you didn’t knock too hard, else the whole damn frame might give.

Colt stood a moment, rolling his shoulders back. What was he even gonna say? Hey buddy, how’d you know about that devil’s work the other night? Words weren’t his strong suit. He was better with stitches, splints, dragging someone back on their feet. But Quin didn’t need that.

He raised a fist, ready to knock, then stalled. "Alright, Quin. You in there, pal?" The door creaked when he pushed it, frame groaning like it hadn’t seen use in years. Colt stepped inside slow. "It’s, uh—Colt. Cowboy from the ranch outside town? I know I ain’t texted you back, but I figured I’d stop by… Thought this was your place, your work?" He glanced around at the shadows, at the half-dead factory, and scratched at his jaw. Hell, maybe I guessed wrong.

[coltmercer]

closed —  @felicityvanbrunt

Still rattled from that nightmare of a gala, where cursed talismans cut his hand and he found out hocus was actually real, Colt tried to get back to his day-to-day life like nothing had happened. Feed the cattle. Mend the fences. Keep the ranch running. People and animals counted on him. What was he supposed to say? That he’d been to some fancy, crazy gathering where highfalutin types tried to mess with his head? No way. That wasn’t him.

He’d been avoiding Quin like the plague. That man knew more than he was letting on, and Colt had a ton of questions he wanted to ask — but how the hell would he even start a conversation like that? Christ, maybe he should just call Reid. Already dialing his number, Colt’s eyes snapped to the clock above the fridge. Perfect. Wake the man at four in the morning. Yep, Mercer, you’ve officially lost your goddamn mind.

The phone rang a few times before he finally tossed it aside on the kitchen table. At the barn, he was halfway through spreading feed when he heard a soft thud — something rattling into the straw behind him. Fucking mice. Never knew what was good for them, did they?

Colt spun, pitchfork still in hand, and froze. Blonde hair tangled with the hay, bits plastered to her face. Bare skin with faint scratches at the ribs. Naked as the day she was born, and looking way more annoyed than embarrassed to find herself there.

"Felicity?"

He grabbed an old canvas horse blanket draped over the tack trunk and dropped it beside her. Shock still held his face rigid, and his body barely moving, eyes so high up they could drill through the roof. "There. Cover up before one of the ranch hands comes in and thinks I’ve lost my damn mind."

The last thing he needed was Buck walking in, thinking he was fooling around with naked girls in the barn.

[coltmercer]

It wasn’t much of a compliment, coming from a past lover. But Colt knew Reid’s humor was as dry as fence posts in July. The rancher knew what he’d seen in the man, same as what Reid had once seen in him. Wasn’t about looks. It wasn’t about hearts either. Colt’s was soft, and Reid had his locked up in armor. Always had. Mercer’d tried to pry a few plates off over the years, but it was rotten work. Got shoved away enough times to quit trying.

"Who wants a busy farmer, Reid? Ain’t got time for fancy dinner dates. Got folks waiting on me. Buck says he needs more money now his boy’s college bound. Then that storm near took the barn roof clean off. Those animals don’t have anyone else but me."

And who in their right mind wanted to chain themselves to that ranch?

Responsibility had sat on his shoulders since he was a kid. He could haul it all without complaint. But sitting here with Reid, the air felt easier. Still smelled like peach and summer rain. Somehow, the man was knocking bricks off Colt’s back without even trying. Didn’t expect to see the same happen the other way around — but it did. His eyes lingered on blue while Reid talked of sisters and half truths, the way they had years ago when Colt pressed a stethoscope to his chest, laughter bouncing between them. Be still, he’d told him, then smacked him on the arm. Thump, thump, thump. First person he’d tried it on when he bought it. Spent a fortune, too.

Now, his hand wrapped tight around a fork, stabbing a couple of peas to death before bringing them to his mouth. Belly was already full. He just didn’t want to keep looking at Reid. Didn’t want to make it strange.

"That’s what they do, kids. Grow up." He hadn’t heard from his own sister in near a decade. Supposed she was all grown up too. Little Mercer would’ve liked Reid. "Leave the nest, as old folks say. But I’m glad she’s alright." He pushed back from the table to stretch his legs. After a moment, he reached for the plate on Reid's side. He'd made a mess of it. "Want me to wrap what’s left? Take it home with ya?" Didn’t seem like a question that needed all that thinking time.

But in the quiet, while Halstead mulled over whether he wanted a bag or was weighing the percentage of happiness in his life, the clatter of dishes filled the space. Crickets sang through the open window above the sink. When the answer finally came, Colt smiled. Trying to be happy. He turned his back, and set the plates to soak. "Ain’t we all?" He could’ve asked where Reid had been. Why it’d taken him this long to show up. But Colt believed in divine timing. Things came to you when you were ready to hold them.

With his upturned smile and a mouth full of chicken, Reid's face says that he is incredibly versed in pushing a little too far. Eyes that glint under the house lights; the same ones that cast shadows over his hands as they move to slice and dice the waffles that Colt's made. The shapes spread up the wall move when the men do, talking to them about a life past; the one that kept beasts out in the rain, and kind eyes safe.

Why's that, Mercer? Reid knows the man is all golden heart. Even when they'd known each other, Halstead killed things in the night; impossible, terrible things. And Mercer saw the good in the lost causes, and the light in the dark. He rescued fouls when they were on death's door, and refused to let the downpour soak even the smallest, most adaptable creature. Colt would sooner lie in the mud and suffer with them, so they weren't alone, than leave something for the dust.

Reid had liked that about him, even if they'd disagree on the finer things about what preservation of life looked like.

He'd never thought about who needed rescuing more; the animals or Colt. But he's thinking about it now, in the quiet of the home. Creaky floorboards and stained oak that tell stories of Colt Mercer, but rarely about those who fleet through his life.

"You're not bad looking, and you're soft as shit." Reid swallows the mouthful of food; it's flavourless and dry, but he doesn't let that bother him. "Why just you?"

It is probably something he shouldn't have asked, and he shouldn't have made it sound so shallow. It's never been that. Not in late nights, with yellow-amber light illuminating a barn, and a bottle of whiskey between them. Not when they talked about the most trivial of subjects, or learned that Colt had been a family man; smart as hell, with all that vet stuff under his belt. Most of it Halstead would never understand, but he didn't mind listening. Almost as much as Colt didn't mind when Reid had tipped the rancher's hat back, or flicked the buttons on a flannel shirt open with one hand.

But he shouldn't have asked something so personal now, because Reid had been one of those who walked away, too. After all, they'd been worlds apart at the crux of it.

He had no idea then that he didn't know the meaning of the phrase.

Look at us now, Mercer?

A swallow of all their history, because they're talking sisters. Fuck. He doesn't know if Belle or Lis have told their woes to the rancher; Reid had never asked. "Yeah. She's... okay, I guess." Lie. Is she? Reid barely knows anymore; she isn't okay underneath it all, and her hospitalisation tells him that. But he doesn't know anything; they've burned bridges he barely knows how to begin repairing. "Older." Obviously. "Doesn't need her big brother so much." Truth? Maybe. Fuck, this is harder than it's supposed to be.

Reid should leave. But he can't find himself able to move, eyes diverting from the destroyed plate of food, shredded to pieces, and picked at in increments to Colt again, viewed through lashes.

Happy? A whisper of a smile appears, because he isn't sure. How could he be? He's dead. Does he even deserve to be, or know what that's like, after everything he's done? He hadn't thought about it at such a simple level, but that was always Colt's thing, to make complex theories simple for a football brain like Halstead.

No. He doesn't think he's happy. But that train left the station almost a decade ago. Is he content? No. Because he exists every day with a hunger that Mercer doesn't share. Is he as close to those things as he might ever get, now? Maybe.

He catches the warmth in Colt's amber eyes, reflected off the glow of the overhead lighting. He wonders what it would be like if green eyes were at this table too.

Eventually he settles on something solemn: "I'm trying to be." The moment it leaves his mouth, he considers that perhaps he should have lied this time and told the cowboy what he wanted to hear.

[coltmercer]

Rough hands came out of nowhere, clamping down on his shoulders. Colt jerked against the grip, his muscles straining, while the hold on her hand never loosened. Digits locked around Romy's tight, tight, tight — so tight it had to hurt. He didn’t care if it did. He'd kiss it all better later. Letting go wasn’t an option. Not when every nerve in his body was screaming get out, flashing green exit signs behind his eyes.

The men held them still, eyes black and growing darker, pupils swallowing the color whole. Mouths moved slow: You will not remember. You will not speak.

They wanted them to forget? That was the part that made his stomach turn. They were asking the impossible out of him, out of her — like memory was just something you could drop in the trash. He didn’t know how much Romy had seen, didn’t know what exactly had gotten through to her. But he knew she was shaken. He could feel it in the tremor of her hand. In the way her fear had reached for his own and refused to let go.

Once released, Colt ran. Hearts in their throats, they ran like hell through the parking lot. The truck came into view, and he yanked the passenger door open for her before diving in on his side. His chest was heaving, shirt plastered to his back with sweat. His hands shook, but they still found the wheel, gripping it like maybe he could steer the fear right out of both of them. Eyes locked on her, he uttered: "Are you okay?" The locks clicked down. His foot hovered over the gas. "I don’t got all the answers for you, Romy, but I know this— you’re breathin’, I’m breathin’, and we’re gettin’ the hell away from… whatever the hell that was."

They were off. His head still felt fogged from too much whiskey, but his focus didn’t waver. Not until the dirt road outside the ranch crunched under the tires and the barn light swung into view. A steady beacon in the dark.

But he stood there, forehead leaning against the cold top of the wheel, letting his pulse catch up with him. When he finally lifted his head, her eyes were already on him — big, and green, and full of the kind of terror that didn’t fade quick. He tilted his head, to meet her gaze. "…You wanna stay the night?"

It hit her like thunder cracking through glass.

One second, she was pushing through velvet and perfume and people who smelled too much like secrets — and the next, Colt’s hand was around her wrist like a lifeline that knew just when to catch her. She didn’t even see his face at first. She just felt him — that heat, that solidness, the way her body stopped flinching the second he touched her. Her name on his breath wasn’t a whisper. It was a rope thrown across a chasm.

Romy turned, and the world finally slowed. Not enough to breathe properly, not enough to understand, but enough to see him. That jaw she’d kissed. Those eyes that looked at her like she was real even when she didn’t feel it herself. His voice was sharp with something she didn’t recognize — not anger, but something worse; urgency born from fear.

She blinked at his words. Once. Twice. Then her lips parted like she might say something — anything — but no sound came. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because he was right. And the burnette had already made the decision long before he found her. Somewhere between the moment she saw Avi’s eyes flash wrong under the ballroom lights and the vampire who looked at her like she was a snack at the end of a hunt, Romy knew she needed to get the hell out.

The tension in the air— it had all been too much. She wasn’t built for this. She hadn’t signed up for it. Whatever this was, it had rewritten the entire shape of her world without her permission, and she wanted out before it swallowed her whole.

So when Colt found her, panic in his voice, urgency in his eyes — she didn’t resist. Because the truth was, she’d already been halfway to the exit. Romy didn’t ask questions. Her fingers just found his. Clung tight. Tighter. Her nails dug in without apology. She wasn’t drunk anymore. Not even close.

They moved.

Through corridors that blurred. Through whispers that didn’t sound quite human. She couldn’t remember how many rooms they passed or how many heads turned, but she remembered the cold sweat sliding down her back. The dizzy, heart-in-her-throat kind of fear that crawled over her skin like it had been there before. Like something inside her already knew.

And just when she thought maybe they were in the clear, that Colt had done the impossible and gotten her out — they appeared.

Figures in black. Faces like wax. Voices like metal dragged across glass.

“You will remember nothing of this night.”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t have to be. They slid under her skin like icewater, sharp and unnatural and wrong.

Romy’s whole body locked up.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t some hazy, half-drunk misremembered party. There was blood. There were teeth. There were things that made the air colder and her pulse louder and her entire body want to run. And now they wanted her to forget?

The grip she had on Colt’s hand turned iron.

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

She just pulled. Pulled like she was running from something that could erase her. Because maybe she was.

And when they made it out — really made it out, past the last strange stare, past the last flicker of something that didn’t belong in the shape of a human — Romy didn’t let go. Not when they hit the night air. Not when she stumbled a little, breath jagged, her heart trying to leap straight out of her chest. Only when Colt opened the passenger side of the truck did she finally blink again. Like her brain had only just now returned to her skull. She climbed in on autopilot. Sat there, fingers knotted in her lap, trembling so slightly it barely showed.

Her voice, when it came, wasn’t loud. It was barely there at all. But it cracked like something old breaking open. “…This isn’t real.” Her eyes burned. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. “It can’t be real.” Then, quieter still —almost to herself.

“…what the hell is happening?”

[coltmercer]

The youths. How old was this guy, anyway? Couldn’t be older than Mary’s kid. Mid-twenties, tops. Colt was practically a granddaddy compared to him. Still, he laughed. It was the kind thing to do; the fella hadn’t done anything wrong to him yet. "Nonsense, kid. You look like you’re still in diapers."

Probably not the kind of humor suited for a place like this, judging by the look he got in return. Kevin was still holding that hard front, like he was determined not to give an inch. Tough nut to crack, this one. Colt tipped his head slightly, watching him with mild curiosity. What the hell’s his angle?

Then it clicked. Romy. Ah, so this was her friend. Had she been talking about him? The thought worked its way in before he could stop it. If he’d made enough of an impression for her to mention him, maybe she’d mentioned more than he realized. A nervous hand crept to the back of his neck, where fingers rubbed until the skin went warm and raw.

"I know Romy, alright." he said.

Maybe if she’d been his date tonight, the whole thing would’ve been obvious from the start. Maybe then this guy wouldn’t have felt the need to stare him down. Colt didn’t mind shouting it from the rooftops. What he felt for her wasn’t something he was ashamed of. But this was uncharted territory for both of them.

Their hands met in a solid shake, names exchanged without fuss. "Colt," A firm and steady grip. He held Kevin’s gaze, reading him just enough to guess where his mind was headed. "I’m sure that means you’re protective of her, yeah? I know what you’re thinkin’, but I ain’t here to hurt her, Kevin." And wasn't that just plain, old truth. "She’s been good to me. Sweet, more than I deserve, even. I like makin’ her smile."

He's honestly not sure whether Colt is giving him shit for the world's awkwardest compliment, or he's genuinely chuffed by his words, but Kevin tries to give him his best approximation of a reassuring smile. "Can't say I'm all that different. I thought I'd left my partying days behind me. Don't think I could keep up with the youths now," he jokes. "But fair, just figured that stuff like this tends to bring out people you might not typically see, so I didn't want to assume or nothing."

But then the guy, Cole or Colt or something, calls him out on his staring and Kevin lets out a chuckle in a breath. "Nah, just trying to make sure you're the right person I think you are." He'd rather not try and give the shovel talk to some guy who didn't even know Romy. "You know Romy, right?"

He shifts his cane to his left hand and holds out his right. "I'm Kevin. I grew up with her kinda. I mean, I was tight with her cousin and we've seen each other through the awkward phases." Kevin's never altogether sure how to describe his bond with the woman, though she's been a constant in his life for as long as he can remember. "I think she mentioned your name once." Or twice, or maybe a few more times.

[coltmercer]

Paranoia curse. Colt was sure he looked a hundred shades paler than usual. The two of them talked like they were chatting about something simple, like local news, or the neighbor’s loud snoring keeping you up at night. But no, they were talking curses. Like this woman had seen them work firsthand — on a real person.

His eyes dipped down to the cut on his palm, still red and stubbornly bleeding. So, he wasn't cursed. Good to know. What did being cursed even feel like? Like catching a cold? Sore throat and chills? Should he be soaking his feet in warm water? No, whiskey’s what you need.

He rubbed the wound, trying to shake off the creeping unease.

Pembroke head. Daylight jewelry. They were speaking a language he didn’t know — gibberish. None of it sounded familiar. What part of any of this was supposed to be 'well known'? Felt like he’d been dropped straight from Mars and slammed into the dirt.

"What the hell is goin’ on here?"

Hell yeah, he wanted to leave. What kind of a question was that? He’d had about all he could take before his head went pop and painted that fancy floor in a nice shade of brain. Wouldn’t be cute either, just another body for somebody else to mop. "I—I—yeah… if that’s, uh… fine, I’m gettin’ outta here." He sure as hell wasn’t waiting around for the other guy to play chauffeur. Brown gaze cut to Quin and stuck there a second, like he was trying to figure out if this was the same man he’d walked in with or a damn good look-alike. "I gotta find someone, then I’m gone."

All he wanted was to get his hands on Romy and keep them there. Drag the two of them home. Then get the coffee pot going. This night was already in the ditch.

@bloody-deliverance

Thera’s head snapped up her lips curling into a smile at the rancher’s jest, only temporarily distracted. “Don’t worry cowboy, my kind only cracks out the green goo for the coming of Scottish Kings…..and the occasional Halloween party.”

Thera had a love for supernatural media and misconceptions she rarely had time or the company to discuss it with. But she could dwell on old witch tales told over campfires when they weren’t currently dealing with a very real murdered witch. So her face lowered again.

Thera reached for the fading objects thread, coaxed its secrets out with her index finger. “It appears the necklace was laced with a paranoia curse, one placed on it and broken before your friend here picked it up.”

Thera tried to blow on the embers on the dying line. “The werewolves have never played well with the vampires. A lot of the clues lying around seem to be trying to lead back to Pembroke and Surya.” She looked at her vampire friend, “but something tells me a clue like this left out by a werewolf might point to someone wanting us to think it was Surya. I mean,” she shrugged, “his false friendship with Fia is well know. Several of the factions here tonight would know that would be an easy way to incriminate the Pembroke head. Especially with the daylight jewelry coming to light.”

Thera knew Quin would also know that Famory Kanoute would only be to happu to see his false friend fall, as well as many in Mariposa, and if this necklace was any indication. The gathered packs also might have some answering to do.

@bloody-deliverance @coltmercer

[coltmercer]

Plates clanged down on poor Betty, her old wood creaking like an old man’s knees. The chairs squawked too, but they’d barely seen much action, maybe a limb or two for balance, nothing rough. Colt wasn’t one to toss his lovers into the furniture. That was why the barn worked better for messing around.

Well, Romy had seen the inside of his bedroom once, for a different reason entirely, even if he wished it hadn’t been so. He’d show her the barn someday. Maybe after that Betty would see something besides ghosts and busted plates. "Don’t push me, Halstead." a warning wrapped in teasing.

His fork jabbed a pea right in the belly.

"Just me. Always been just me."

Halstead had a way to change that once, could’ve chosen a different path. Real fork in the road, that one. Colt assumed it wasn’t an easy choice. Rancher boy wasn’t worth it. Not as much as legacy was. He never blamed him. There were no fingers to point, none of the ones that once laced his own, driven by tenderness and bent in passion. Nails that found skin, and tore and dug and scratched his name into flesh.

His features clouded with those memories. Even if most of them were fond. He’d cried warm tears before, happy the two of them were, at all, instead of never being.

"How’s little Belle? Saw her at the market last week, but she was in a rush. Didn’t wanna — ya know." he said, rough hands reaching up to tuck a messy blond strand back behind his ear, before settling on the stool across from Reid. Colt buried his guilty eyes in his plate. Why did he feel that sudden urge to ask more? To know where Reid had been, who he’d been with, if the sky had smiled down on him? Had good days and bad? If he thought of Colt on the bad, and sang Cash on the good? I’m a long way from home, and so all alone. He heard it on the radio the other day, while working in the barn. I'm a long way from home.

He’d never been that man before. The one who poked and prodded. Especially not with a bear like Halstead. He’d roar in his face. Colt was familiar with that roar. Liked to think he tamed it once, briefly, maybe. They were never meant to be tamed.

That glass of water to his right helped swallow down the words stuck like chunks in his throat. He settled for something simpler, something that summed up all his worries, all his thoughts.

"You happy?"

That was all he needed to know.

Did I think of you? Reid had kept a stolen hat in a box in an apartment for too many years. He'd only let it go when it sat above a pair of green eyes. And if all those barnyard animals are still around from a decade gone, he could name most of the farm, and confidently guess the rest; Colt's sentimental in ways not even Reid could be. But, did he think about Colt Mercer? Is he asking before or after Reid had died? Halstead doesn't know how to answer that question, but the rancher's always been good at reading faces. He's already got it.

Better then, to ease into the version of them that Reid can remember being: "Oh she's seen you through, has she?" A jibe, because possession is a bad look on any monster. He has to wonder if that's why it creaks a little louder now, or if it's because Reid's senses can almost taste the aged whiskey rotting into the oak.

Reid smiles because time hasn't killed Colt's optimism or the kindness in burnt honey hues. He doesn't look at him like anything other than what he had been. It reminds him of those mossy ones. They're an illusionary flicker in Colt's. Amber. Honey. Moss. Forest. Colours that blend and blur with every memory unburied.

It's no longer instinct that has him picking up a fork; he has to think about it. Plucks it off the table. Colt's right, his is overflowing with half the yard. Reid's is beige.

What would it matter what Reid ate, really? It's for appearances.

He opens his mouth, but Colt doesn't stop. Never allows him to get a word in edgewise. He's always wanting to know the next big step. Reid breathes out a laugh at the same time he stabs at the chicken on his plate. Married? He no longer knows what that's supposed to look like. Divorced? Halstead's smile turns wry, like he has to find a way out of Mercer's probing.

Cowboy, down.

"You really do want to prove there's still life left in Betty, don't you?"

Apparently, it's too difficult to say no. The rancher doesn't mean harm, and Reid doesn't believe that'll ever change; he knows that. Mercer will be used to the avoidance, he expects, too. Reid gestures above them, waves a hand casually. He knows the answer already, but Colt's too good to be left alone in the long run. Reid has to hope there's something he's missing in Mercer's story: "Just you here?"

[coltmercer]

He remembered his eyes. How they glowed in the dark when he moved silently from behind the trees and stared a trembling Colt in the face. His heart a scared thing beating like crazy in his chest. He’d never hurt an animal before. Never even raised a hand. The wolf in front of him hadn’t come to threaten. Colt knew that in the way only someone who’s birthed calves in the dead of winter and cleaned hooves until his back gave out, could know. He’d given his whole damn life to strays.

He remembered falling to his knees and holding out a hand to that black fur, where those eyes like fireflies caught in deep shadow. Hope. That’s what the wolf had been to him. Hope that he wouldn’t be torn apart. Hope that maybe, he’d made a friend instead of an enemy.

Colt let the memory sit there a second before speaking again. "I’d rather see the inside of yours than drag you into mine, Anish." It was rotten work, no doubt. "But I trust you more than any of those folks." He meant it, and he’d hold him to that promise, if it was the last thing he'd do.

Anish purses his lips a little, and scratches at the beard hair on his cheek and chin. Heaving out a sigh, he nods. Just the once. "Yeah, I got ya." No friends, no introductions. Anish is used to that type, doesn't mind being around it. Hell, if he could be at home working on his next project he would.

But he does chance a laugh - some sort of huffed, chuffing thing that's more animal than human. "You've never seen the inside of my world, Colt. Not really." Not that he knows of, at least. If Colt could see pack politics, what forests look like up close during the full moons -- would he shit himself or would he feel the call that some crazy humans do?

"Yeah." Simple, easy. "I'd let you know before it happened if I caught wind. Promise that."

[coltmercer]

That kiss still clung to his lips, even now, as he shoved through the crowds like a man on a mission. He didn’t know where she’d gone, only that he had to find her. As if holding her again might rewind the clock to some easier moment, before he'd known about witches and cursed talismans had passed through his clammy hand. Before the world tipped sideways and stopped making any sense.

He needed something solid. He needed her, because the ground under him was giving way, like quicksand, and if he didn’t keep moving, didn’t find her soon, he swore he’d vanish through the cracks.

Christ, he'd seen some messed up things in his time. Patched up monsters, the kind with claws and fur and watched bullet wounds close up like they’d never been there. But this was something else. Reid would know what to do, wouldn’t he? Colt thought he caught a flash of that sun bleached hair, caught the faintest trace of his scent in the air, but his eyes couldn’t hold onto anything now. Everything blurred. Every face was a smear of color. The rancher tumbled into someone’s shoulder, barely muttered an apology.

And then, his hand found hers, like instinct. He was no fool to believe in fate, but his grip tightened on her arm, like a lifeline. "Romy—" he breathed. "We gotta go. We gotta leave." a new kind of urgency laced his voice. This wasn’t the time for her to dig in her heels or throw that sharp tongue at him, no matter how much he normally loved it. They couldn't stay, not when madmen lurked every corner of this damn place.

His eyes stayed on hers, bright and glassy, begging without saying so. Please trust me. Just this once. "We ain’t stayin’, Romy," he said, quieter now. "Come on."

Romy’s breath hitched — not loud, not dramatic, just a tiny hiccup in her chest that somehow echoed louder than the music in her own ears. His words — that wasn’t even a proper kiss — had no right to land the way they did, low and sparking, like her entire ribcage had just become a tinderbox. Her cheeks were already warm, but now they went full bonfire. She ducked her head for half a second like that might hide it, like maybe the pink on her skin hadn’t just betrayed every dignified thought she was trying to keep.

“You’re too much of a gentleman to make me beg for a kiss, aren’t you?” she murmured, grinning as she tilted her face back up to meet his. The grin was lopsided, sure, but real — and it trembled slightly at the edges, like something that’d been held together too long and had finally started to melt. “Because I won’t, Mercer. But I will absolutely bully you with charm until you take the hint.”

Her fingers curled lightly against the front of his jacket — not pulling him in, not quite — but anchoring herself there all the same, like some part of her still couldn’t believe she was allowed this. Him. Here. Her hand in his, his arm around her, the slow, ridiculous sway of it all. And maybe she wasn’t dreaming, but it sure felt like the kind of moment she’d fall asleep trying to imagine.

And when he leaned in — slow, sure, asking without words — she didn’t run.

She kissed him back.

Soft at first. Then fuller. Steady. Like a thought she’d finally stopped resisting. Like the exhale after holding her breath all night. She kissed him like she’d wanted to, like she’d meant to — even if her heart had absolutely lost its mind over it. Because right then, with Colt Mercer wrapped around her like gravity and music curling quiet around them, Romy was almost positive her heartbeat could outplay the damn speakers.

When they parted, just barely, she didn’t move far. Just enough to tilt her head up and rest her forehead lightly against the base of his jaw, her breath catching there like a held note. Her voice slipped out somewhere between awe and affection, hushed and a little shaken. “God, you’re gonna ruin me,” she whispered, a laugh caught in her throat like a secret. “In the nicest, most unfair way.”

And then — because she was her — she added under her breath, “Also, you totally just out-romanced the fruit display. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

[coltmercer]

He surely was a superstitious man. His granddaddy taught him all about hanging a horseshoe the right way up, so it’d catch and hold your luck. Never walked under a ladder either. Old Billy did once, and dropped dead not long after. His boy too. Colt’d had nightmares for a week over it. Kids in this little town even made a game of it, back then. Every time you heard sirens, you had to grab hold of something red and hang on until the sound stopped, or else bad luck’d find you before morning.

Mercer grew up on stories like that, sitting at his grandma’s kitchen table while she and his grandpa talked about strange things that didn’t belong in daylight. And that’s where they should've stayed, wasn’t it? In the stories. Not out here walking around, breathing the same air he did.

Not a sound came out of his mouth as he trailed after Quin like a lost pup.

Was that… a real witch? Didn’t have yellow fingers like that old charlatan at the fair. Didn’t smell like turpentine and whiskey either. Delicate digits found his cuts, and the rancher winced — looking her over once, twice, then what must’ve been a hundred times. Staring long enough she was bound to call him on it.

Girl seemed lovely. Rosy cheeks and raven hair. All Snow White-type, not some wicked witch of the west. Those were green, right? "I, uh—Christ. That’s… good news, right? You don’t gotta cut my hand off and toss it in some big bucket full’a green goo or nothin’, do ya?"

The faint twitch of a smile on his lips was at full odds with the tight mouths on the other two. But hell, that was just his way of keeping his nerves from eating him alive. Getting a little laugh out of himself. How else was a man supposed to cope with the idea he’d touched a real, honest-to-God cursed trinket? Clearly not the way Quin did.

So he closed his eyes, dragged in a breath, and tried to picture her. The woman who’d tossed the necklace like it burned her. He remembered her voice first. "She had… dark skin. Dark hair. Black eyes." Dark eyes opened again as he went on, painting her piece by piece, even down to the outfit. Until it was clear as day whose face he was drawing: Kiera Rees.

@therawend @bloody-deliverance

It would usually be a delight to see Quin hurtling towards her out of a crowd, the look of panic in his eyes would be nothing new. But it was the addition of the panicked colossus cowboy behind him, as well as the atmosphere of murder that had seized the party, that caused Thera’s eyebrows to draw together.

“Quin what is…..” A talisman was thrust at her, as well as a hand that was faintly cut and covered in splotches.

“No sire you are not dying, your hand is scrapped but nothing a little anointment couldn’t fix.” Thera didn’t have any of her medical supplies with her, but as she caught a glimpse of the broach she had sold Quin days earlier, she knew the vampire would be able to send his human date her way if he needed medical assistance later on.

Her attention then turned to the talisman in her hand. It had the faint thread of dispersed magic around it, in this moment it was to faint for Thera to fully grasp onto without indulging in further craft. “The object was cursed but it seems as of recently that enchantment has been broken,” she turned it over is her grip and ran her fingers along the carvings before arching a brow at Quin, “Pembroke?”

//@bloody-deliverance

[coltmercer]

Calling his suit not the worst was, in Colt’s book, about the highest compliment a man could hope for while wearing a fifteen year old outfit. Made him grin like a kid who’d just been handed a blue ribbon at the county fair. "Thanks, buddy. That’s real sweet of ya." the kind of warmth that showed up in his voice whether he meant it to or not.

Was that boy being sarcastic? Maybe he was mocking the rancher a little. Hell, what about him screamed fancy party guy? Not a damn thing. Colt almost laughed at the thought. "Naah, I’m more of a stay-at-home kinda guy. But my buddy’s got this real fancy… work thing here, and he did almost drag me here by the ear to keep him company."

Still, he couldn’t help glancing sideways at Kevin, a curious flicker in his eye. "You sure we haven’t met?" he asked. "Feels like you been starin’ holes in my back for a good twenty minutes. Thought maybe I left hay in my hair or somethin’."

He only recognizes him because he made Romy show him a picture, but he doesn't know all that much else about this Colt Mercer. But Kevin took his duties as a well-meaning albeit overbearing older brother figure seriously, and especially given the city they lived in, he wanted to vet this guy. So far, everything about him seemed too good to be true, and he had to make sure that it wasn't some kind of trick.

He's not that subtle as he watches the other man, and so far, he looks more out of place that Kevin in a way. So when Colt catches him staring and strikes up a conversation, he at least feels like he should try and not weird him out more. "Thanks," Kevin replied, ducking his head at his compliment. "Yours isn't the worst," he offers. "Sometimes being flashy works, obviously," he adds, gesturing at his own outfit. "But there's nothing wrong with a black suit. It's stayed a classic for a reason." Kevin remembers the journey of learning to be more adventurous with his wardrobe, and it didn't happen overnight.

"You not really a fancy party kind of guy?" he asks. If he remembers correctly, Romy mentioned he was basically an honest to god cowboy. "I mean, did you get dragged by the ear by someone?"

[coltmercer]

"Hell of a thing to tell a man after you drag him into this, y’know," Hands rose up to bury in blonde. Eyes gone wide and glassy. Everything around him felt blurry, and dizzying, and — Christ, now Quin was wrapping that damn thing in his tie. All careful, and cautious, like it really was cursed.

He stayed close on Quin’s heels, but his words kept tripping over themselves, his voice a little hoarse. "You—you believe it then?" Frantic eyes dipping down to the wrapped-up jewel. No longer just an accessory, but a weapon. "That she wasn’t just… spooked outta her mind? That this ain’t just… some story folks tell to make their hair stand up?"

A shaky laugh slipped out of him, at the mention of finding a witch. Well, it didn't sound like a laugh. More like someone trying not to choke on the thought of witches, and cursed talismans cutting up his palm. "A what?"

The rancher glanced down at his palm again, at the faint red blotches blooming through the napkin, and flexed his fingers. They didn’t feel quite like his anymore.

You're going crazy, Mercer. Keep it together.

His voice dropped low, as if quieter might make the words sound less ridiculous. "...Tell me this ain’t somethin’ that’s gonna come back on me. Tell me I didn’t just put my whole damn neck in a noose pickin’ that thing up."

@therawend @bloody-deliverance

“This is real. It was a bad idea to bring you here.” Stating the obvious by way of an apology. He would have already ushered Colt out and send him away if he didn’t have the present issue of having potentially cursed himself touching strange jewelry left behind by witches. Or... Surya was the name of the Pembroke clan leader, wasn’t he? What sort of curse would a vampire order to put on a necklace?

“What woman? Are you sure she said Surya?” He asked as he undid his tie, ripping it along one of the seams so the fabric was wide enough to wrap around the cursed thing without touching it, wrapping it a few more times for good measure before handing it back. The damn thing had already left cuts along Colt’s palm, but it still felt like a bad idea to let him hold it without any protection. This is why he avoided dealing with witches. Always a curse, or a scheme, or some sort of strange blood ritual where they ended up wasting all of the blood anyways. “I can answer your questions later, but there is a bigger issue now. If it is truly cursed, we will need to find a witch.”

He picked up a glass of water and some napkins from a waiter’s tray, dunking the napkin and holding it to Colt to dab onto the cuts before straightening his posture to look around. There was one witch he knew wouldn’t turn down someone asking for help, one who he already owed two favors to. The thought of adding a third debt made his skin crawl, but if this thing was truly cursed, there was nothing to be done. A flash of orange across the ballroom, and there she was. Thera. He gestured for Colt to follow, and began to push a path through the crowd. His friend could continue his questions on the way across the room, but he was going to get his own answers now.

[coltmercer]

You still got that scar, under that hat?

He nodded. Were they gonna sit here and compare traces now? Traces of who they used to be. Reid didn’t look like he’d changed much, not at first glance. But Colt figured his heart was different now. Time does that to a man’s heart. Hell, his own wasn’t the same, either.

So, what value did scars really have? Skin shed, and new sunspots showed up where there weren’t any before. Hair fell, and hair grew back. Eyes paled over the years, or got red, or yellow around the whites, depending on what vices you’ve picked up along the way.

Scars didn't mean much when everything else kept changing anyway.

They were just a couple hitchhikers, carrying all their memories in one small bag. Wasn’t much else to grab. How long had they lived? Long enough to know better. But not long enough to have more than a handful of good moments and a mouthful of bad.

And now, sitting here across from him in the dim light, Colt kept looking for the boy he used to know — the cocky, sharp-edged hunter with that godawful laugh, but all he saw was a stranger wearing him like a second skin. "You thought of me over the years, I gather?" Did he remember how he got that scar? Must be, if he was asking about it. Best not to go there, though. Best to leave the knot on that bag of memories tight. It was cinched for a reason.

A heavy hand came down on the table. The poor thing groaned and wobbled under the weight, but still stood, carrying plates and that old jar of honey on its back. Now that was something Colt could never give up. Oak. It kept memories, etched into every crack. His fingers brushed over the scars in the wood, familiar. "It works just fine," he muttered. Then, a little louder, addressing the table as though she were listening: "Don’t pay him no mind, Betty. He’s gone and lost his respect for you, thinking you were dead. We’ll show him, girl. You still got plenty of life left in you."

Food was heated up proper and plated. Two plates, one stacked with greens and all, the other stripped bare of anything leafy. Picky as ever. Over his shoulder, Colt shot him a quick glance when the stool behind him groaned under weight, just like old times. "Christ," a dry huff of a laugh, “—still allergic to anything green, I see."

He didn’t wait for an answer before he kept talking. It was easier to fill the air with words than let it get heavy too soon.

"You married, Halstead?"

Pretty boy like him was never short on somebody to warm his bed. Never much one for sticking, though. Colt liked to think maybe that’s what went wrong between the two of them. But like a man’s heart, that sort of thing tended to change over time. Boy turned man, and that temporary warmth on the other side of the bed didn't cut it anymore. You woke up one day with an ache you didn’t used to have — for somebody to wake up to, every damn morning.

He hadn’t noticed a ring on Reid’s hand.

"Divorced?" A little dig, maybe, but not unkind.

"Yeah." That's what happens when death claims rights to the perks of living. He becomes the stony version of his demise. Unmoving. Unchanging. Maybe his hair's longer, maybe it isn't. Maybe he's too afraid to look, now. Perhaps he's holding onto the details of Mercer, the same way the rancher is. "You still got that scar, under that hat?" Hairline. An inch wide. When I put you into the wall? Reid's lost one of Colt's hats last year, on Halloween. Its sentimentality had been overwritten then too, replaced with green eyes beneath the rim. He could have claimed another cowboy prize anytime he liked, had he been less resigned to the shadows for years.

Mercer may remember who Reid had been more than he does. Cocksure, controlling and with a blind adoration for the hunter cause. He knows he was those things, and Colt's casual dismissal for what he imagines he knows has happened is a gratitude that Reid hadn't known still existed.

Mercer doesn't want to hear the truth, so Halstead doesn't air it.

Just the menu, then. Chicken and waffles. Staple. Country cooking in that old barn kitchen that he recalls Colt flipping breakfast cakes in every morning that they would wake up with hay in their hair, and a new bruise to nurse. More often than not, a whiskey-induced headache to kick. Reid's answer to a lot of those issues had been tussling on the breakfast counter, showing off, showing up the rancher in his own place. Friendly. Meant whatever it needed to mean. But Mercer never wanted the needle on his skin, and Reid was a hunter with no signs of changing.

Funny punishment, irony is.

Reid's laugh is honest, "Table got wrecked, man." Don't know if honey's the right word for it. "You were always right about that." Honey. Spilt OJ. Some other careless thing that stained the oak something off-coloured. Then, to keep it light — "Honey's good. But don't go out of your way." What does it matter to a dead man? He's just eaten some poor farmer's son. An old black tee hides the evidence of it.

There's a moment of pause at Colt's doorway, a second where he wonders if he should stop the cowboy before he offers him his home. But Mercer doesn't falter, invites him inside, and Reid's boots cross the threshold right behind him. No guilt he allows out of its box. Halstead waits to hear some wife, or husband — heartbeats sleeping above his head, at this hour. But there's nothing. Just him and Colt.

It smells the same. Dust, grain and a variety of feed. The afterthought of burnt coffee sunken into the wood. Halstead can't help it; he reaches for the walls with one hand, as though grounding himself to a place where only the hunter version of himself had ever stepped. Returning as this feels like an insult to the brothers, and to Mercer.

Eyes flicker away from old photographs, framed and cracking. To the kitchen, where Mercer heats a griddle. Smiling, Reid sits himself on one of the stools, opposite the rancher: "Keep the green stuff and the veggies for your animals, Mercer." a beat, "Dolly might get jealous."