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[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

@knivesnothingtoit

The stars are big and bright and beautiful, stretched out over their heads in black velvet. The horses are comfortable, nickering with enjoyment as they eat. The fire crackles, dinner begins to warm in the kettle. 

It’s just beans, but after a long day’s ride, it smells delicious. 

There’s an ease, a comfort that comes from being out here, so far away from society as a whole. Goody can’t hear any wolves or owls out here, only crickets and the sound of the stream a few miles north. 

Not for the first time, he wonders if this is what Heaven would be like for all those good, God fearing souls. Warm, comfortable. Wide open. At peace. 

Billy is watching him over the fire, and his brows say that Goodnight has been staring again. The quirk of his lip says he doesn’t mind the attention. 

It’s taken him a good many years to learn the language of Billy Rocks, to be able to decipher each breath and shift, to see the things that the English language could never give to his lover.

But English has done him a great many favors in his life. Like this speech in particular, as rehearsed as it may be. Goody pulls the carefully wrapped parcel from his bag, handing it over to Billy, who holds it gently.

(Such soft hands, for such a clever, talented man.)

“I realize that in our recovery after Rose Creek, I missed your birthday. Now rather than wait a whole calendar year for that day to come back around, I figured you’d give an old man his sentiment and let me celebrate today.”

Inside the parcel paper is a white porcelain cigarette case, inlaid with a design that looks strikingly similar to the one on Billy’s knives. 

“Happy Birthday, Pischouette.”

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

@godforsakenthing from (x)

“Your old country didn’t believe in my kind.” 

The few hunters he ran across before he met Goody were at a disadvantage. Some walked right past him without a second glance, others were good enough to recognize in him something that wasn’t human. They never knew what, but he was a monster, and that was reason enough to attack.

Billy disposed of them quickly and without hesitation. They died without knowing what killed them.

“But my home...” The night was full of creatures like him, once upon a time. Revered and feared in equal measure. “It was different.”

Not so empty. Not so lonely.

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

@isaidgoodnight from (x)

The echo of that gunshot is still ringing in his ears, the look in his brother’s eyes before the end, forever branded on his own. It’s all he sees. His head snapping back, the splatter of blood and brains on the cement wall.

“저는 배 안고파요.” It’s an absent slur of words spoken to the top of Goodnight’s car, and a brief pause before he remembers the right ones. “I’m not hungry.”

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

‘ i do not exist. there is nothing left. ’

He’s never seen him like this, grief written in broad swathes across his stoic face. Goody doesn’t have to ask what happens. There’s only one thing that could break through all that ice and leave Billy so shaken. 

His brother is dead. 

Knuckles knock against the top of the car. (He knows where it’s safe to talk, where things haven’t been bugged. Not his apartment, not Billy’s. Their phones are tapped. But his car? It’s the safest place in the world.)

“Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”

He can’t fix this. He can’t do anything to erase all that pain in Billy’s eyes. 

What surprises him is that he wants to. 

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‘ to survive you need an edge. ’

  “Or twelve, apparently.”

At least, that was Faraday’s last count. Who knows how many knives and blades Billy has got stashed about his person. It’s a wonder Goodnight can undress him without cutting himself. Faraday is trying to decide whether Billy is the sort of man who might sew razor blades into his hat-rim.

Belatedly, and at a look from Vasquez, Faraday realises that perhaps the joke wasn’t quite as well-timed as it could have been. He clears his throat, shifts in his seat.

     “Right, right. You meant – figuratively. A figurative edge.” He does his best       to look attentive. “But, I mean, the other kind can’t hurt – ” When Vasquez      smacks his head, none too gentle, Faraday lifts one hand to protect it and      the other to strike out at the Mexican in retaliation.

There’s a reason people don’t tell him stuff. This, he guesses, might be it.

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

sofaradaysogood:

Faraday pulls a face at no-one in particular in the darkness, at that, but he swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He’s half-dressed – cold, cold in a bed on his own – and once he’s pulled his boots on, he grasps his gunbelt and hurries after Billy.

    It would be more rational to stay, like Billy’s suggested. He won’t     realise that for another half an hour, at least, while his brain is still     fogged with sleep and preoccupied with Sam Chisholm.

“On foot or on horse?” he asks, in a whisper, as he catches up with Billy.

“On foot.” He points vaguely in the direction he last caught a glimpse of Sam. At least Faraday is awake enough to know to be quiet.

There are no lit rooms, no gas lamps illuminating the street to give Chisolm’s location away. But there are voices ahead — the telling hush of men making unlawful deals in the night. Barely heard whispers, hidden behind the town’s small school building.

One of them is all too familiar.

Billy glances at Faraday, studying his face for signs that he’s heard them too. Satisfied, he steps into the alley between the school and the boarding house, out of the moonlit street and into the dark.

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

poorlikeness:

He has heard the whispers in the darkness, as much as he tries to turn a deaf ear to them. Goodnight fears the dark and the things in it. During their ride to Rose Creek, he had chalked it up to a rich white man who feared the wilderness for what it was. 

But he’s heard the stories now, about the war. About the death. And Vasquez knows that Goodnight Robicheaux only fears his own darkness. 

And his compadre was the only thing that kept it at bay. 

For a moment, jealousy tightens his throat, and he yanks too hard on the lead. Jack answers with a toss of his head, meeting aggression with aggression. It forces Vasquez back to the present, back to stillness. 

I’ll pray with you. 

He doesn’t know if Billy answers to the same God as him. But it doesn’t matter. This was his friend reaching out, trying to soothe him the same way he’s trying to soothe this demon horse. 

“Thank you.”

He takes a moment to blow out a breath, to try and ease some of the weight of anxiousness on his chest.

“Later? When it’s quiet, we can go to the church.”

“Whenever you want.” He nods, and carefully climbs off his perch on the bullet ridden barrel to join his friend at the fence. 

Goodnight would probably lament that he’s not able to join them at the church, but Billy knows it will not keep him from praying for Faraday. He knows for a fact the town preacher has been praying as well, as he assures them of the fact every morning, when he joins the children on their visits.

Part of him wonders if he’s half expecting to be asked to speak the rites of passage for their friend’s soul. 

Billy watches Jack trot around for a few minutes before the pain in his throat becomes too much, the burn of not-yet-healed wounds in his gut and chest making it impossible to lean against the fence comfortably.

“You got fire?” His hands shake as he brings a cigarette to his lips. A barely noticeable sign of weakness he hopes Vasquez will have missed. He’d rather not make the walk back to the saloon until the opium does its job.

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sofaradaysogood:

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘m awake.”

Grudgingly. He runs his fingers through his hair, one side of his face screwed up tight against the injustice of it all. His hand falls back to the covers heavily, and he takes in the hand resting ready on blade.

     “…maybe I should come with you,” he suggests, sotto voce. “In case       you find yourself in a killing mood.” To help or to hinder, it’s not quite       made clear.

Billy gives him a look, not particularly amused or patient. 

He doesn’t like the thought of leaving the rest of the group alone —particularly Goody or Vasquez—, but whatever Sam’s motives may be, he wouldn’t leave them open to an ambush. Probably.

“I’m always in a killing mood.” Billy glances out the window one last time before swiftly walking out of the room. If Faraday wants to come along, he’d better hurry up.

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sofaradaysogood:

Right, right.

He does his best to goad his brain into gear, wakefulness digging in like the points of his spurs. Billy will pay for his complicity tomorrow, when he’s tired and snappish and sharp, causing trouble with his mood.

    “When,” he corrects himself. “How long ago’d he leave?”

“Almost ten minutes.” Billy watched the general direction Sam took once he left the building before waking Faraday. Fortunately, he was headed away from their horses. Given the late hour, he shouldn’t be difficult to find.

“You awake now?” He’s got his hand on one of his knives as he steps up to the window, peering out into the dark street. No sign of Chisolm or anyone else.

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

@knivesnothingtoit told you I’d write it

The bar is about as white trash as you can get. The jukebox is tinny, playing old Alan Jackson songs and Garth Brooks. Goody’s beer is sweating where it’s sitting on wooden coaster. Everything about the night is lazy, the kind of soupy slowness that only Louisiana can bring.

This isn’t the frenetic motion and sound that comes with New Orleans. This is muddy bayou comfortable, even if the fabric of his t-shirt is dark with sweat between his shoulder blades.

He hasn’t been home in a long damn while, and he’s got no intention of driving the twenty miles west that he’d need to go to see the massive house, still crisp and white against the endless blue sky.

Too many questions out that way. And nothing he can answer.

What exactly do you do for a living, Michael? I get drug dealers killed and ruin shipments of cocaine, all in the name of Uncle Sam.

How come you’re not married, Michael? Because no woman has been able to weather my waking up screaming each night. And…

And.

His and is walking through the door right about now, a sore thumb in a sea of white men with his golden skin and ink dark hair. Billy Rocks is gorgeous in a way that none of these men will ever know in their wives or mistresses.

They’ve come a long way from the shell shocked, blood spattered Korean without a lick of English who they left him in an interrogation room with at Quantico. Goody always plays the good cop. He’s got one of those faces.

And in time, he earned Billy’s trust, just like he earned every other case’s trust.

The difference is that he wants to keep that trust, the kind of loyalty he once felt to the Central Intelligence Agency stirring in his gut. It’s a dangerous thing to feel for a man like him. He’s supposed to be dead inside. That’s the only way you did this job.

Billy takes the bar stool next to him, a quick smirk at the edges of his lips, but otherwise he ignores him.

It’s better this way.

Because no one suspects it when Goody takes the elevator up to the fifth floor and Billy is waiting in the shadows. They hit the hotel room door with the force of two bodies, lips and teeth and frantic tongue.

Billy kisses like he fights.

Dirty.

Goody’s cheap linen shirt is discarded once they get the keycard in the door. It’s tossed over the end table, his belt yanked free of his pants and chucked over the lamp. It’s a battle to get Billy to let him pull his shirt off, revealing an expanse of warm caramel muscle that should be illegal.

“Lord have mercy.” It comes out a prayer, and Billy just laughs.

But he’s not laughing when Goody hits his knees, belt unspooled only enough to yank down Billy’s zipper, to shove a hand into his boxers and pull his cock out, swallowing the half hard skin down like a man starved.

Billy’s quiet in the bedroom, even as he stumbles backwards, hands on the air conditioning unit for leverage as Goodnight clamps hands down on his hips and takes him deep enough to yank a wet gag out of him.

Warm fingers brushing his cheek, and Billy murmuring ‘don’t hurt yourself’. It doesn’t stop his hips from rolling forward, lazy and sinful.

Billy is his church, and Goodnight worships with everything he’s got, lashes dark against his hollowed cheeks. There’s a desperation in him when he’s down here that he can’t find anywhere else in his life, a need that burrows through his shell of indifference.

When Billy gets close, his breath hitches and speeds up. Goody doesn’t need the warning, doesn’t care if he gets one or not, salty heat against his tongue and he moans at the feel of it, Billy shuddering where he’s pushing into his slack mouth, one hand in salt and peppered dusted hair.

Goodnight doesn’t let him return the favor. He never does.. He likes this thin thread of tension. (Too afraid to break it, to say something he shouldn’t when he’s lost in the throes.)

He leaves the hotel first, no looking back and a meandering path through town, just in case he’s being followed.

You gotta be careful, when you’re being this reckless.

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sofaradaysogood:

Vasquez.

Vasquez, who’s sleeping three beds over. Vasquez, whose absence has made his bed feel cold. They sleep near each other, usually. Close enough that it’s only a matter of rolling over, of a few inches to one side.

Faraday hates to be cold. They all know it. That’s the excuse he keeps ready on his tongue, defiant, and has never yet had to use.

He sits, still rubbing at his eyes.

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know yet.” He sighs, rolling his eyes. Perhaps he should have woken Vasquez instead, Faraday is notoriously slow to wake when not under immediate threat.

“Keep an eye on them.” Billy stands back, waiting for some manner of confirmation from the Irishman. He can’t leave if Faraday’s just going to fall back asleep the second he walks out the door.

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sofaradaysogood:

Something something Chisholm something.

Faraday hand comes up to rub clumsily at his eyes, fingers doing their best to dislodge the heaviness of sleep. Amazing how quick you can get used to a person. Not so long ago, someone waking him up unexpected would’ve found the business end of one of his ladies in their face. 

But Billy is familiar, now, and though there’s insistence in his tone, it’s enough to rouse Faraday’s urgency. 

“’S a small town,” Faraday mumbles. “No-one here. We don’t need watch. ‘S fine.”

A belated frown works its way onto Faraday’s face, but he’s not coherent enough yet to frame the question out loud: do you ever sleep? Ever?

Billy sleeps plenty. But he’s also a very light sleeper, and Sam is not as quiet as he thinks he is.

“I follow Sam. You keep watch for Vasquez.” It’s not the first time Chisolm’s used their bounties and reputations to his advantage — no doubt a sound strategy in his mind, as he always has everything perfectly under control. Billy’s not about to take that chance.

At least he can trust Vasquez’s safety will be enough incentive to wake Faraday up.

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sofaradaysogood:

@knivesnothingtoit

Faraday is not an early riser. Given the choice, he’ll sleep until noon without stirring.

He’s not generally given the choice, and that’s a damn shame. Which is why he’s sullen and drawn and his conversation is limited in the most part to unhappy noises. The sun ain’t even up yet. He hadn’t drunk enough, the night before. Sleep had been uneasy and riddled with the ominous sort of dreams that aren’t quite nightmares, but which keep a man from restfulness.

It’s also why he doesn’t realise Billy was talking to him until a good four seconds after he’s done speaking.

        “ —– what?”

“Get up.”

They’ve taken rooms for the night, a small town that Sam Chisolm had directed them to with little to no explanation besides a charming comment about them all deserving a good night's sleep. 

Given Red Harvest’s general dislike for sleeping indoors, and how much more careful they have to be when surrounded by civilians and lawmen — it’s not a particularly convincing reason.

“Chisolm just left.” The sun won’t rise for another couple hours. Whatever business Sam has, it couldn’t be done in the light of day, and it had to wait until he thought them all asleep.

“You have to keep watch.” He can’t follow after the man and leave the rest of them unguarded.

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isaidgoodnight:

He’s been married four different times. And four different times he’s stood on an altar in a church in his dress greens, and made promises in front of his family and friends, and the Lord God himself to have and to hold, until death does them part. 

A part of him never meant it, and he’ll carry his regret for lying to those women for the rest of his days. 

But it settles in his chest, that one last piece to make his puzzle into a whole when he speaks. 

“We stay together. No matter what.”

He doesn’t need a church or expensive flowers, or even the Lord. This is a vow he damn well intends to keep. 

The fear in his chest settles into something not so sharp, not so painful. In the days to come, when the cartel inevitably reaches this ranch, they will stay them together.

But it’s easier to fight with nothing to lose. The fear of loss can lead one to distraction, and even a second of that can have deadly consequences. But Vasquez will be there too, watching Goody’s back, and that makes breathing a little easier.

“Always.” Billy lets go of Goodnight’s wrist to find the steady pulse at his throat. And with a helpless smile, seals this reckless vow with a kiss. This ridiculous man who is too kind for his own good, haunted by ghosts and guilt that should have no claim on his heart. 

His Goodnight.

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isaidgoodnight:

“They won’t.”

And if they do…well, there’s an open gun cabinet in his guest bedroom, and a rifle tucked up against the wall next to the bed. Goodnight has kept watch before, and it’s all too easy to fall into those habits again. 

God help the man that tries to come through that door to take Billy from him. 

“Now you get some sleep, you hear me? It’s time for you to rest. We’ll figure everything out in the morning.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“If I bring you some pain medicine, will you take it for me? Lord knows you need it.”

Billy sighs, knowing he won’t convince Goody to leave tonight. They have a few hours yet — the few men he left behind in that warehouse will drag their feet before admitting to the boss what happened (the mark of a dog who’s seen many before him put down for much less). 

“No.” He’ll agree to sleep, but no medicine. He needs the pain to keep him alert. If they’re found, they’ll need to move quickly.

“I’ll sleep a few hours.” After that, they’ll leave town. Leave Goody’s house. With a sigh, he squeezes the man’s wrist, an apology in his tired eyes. Guilt will be an uncomfortable weight in his chest for a long time.

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isaidgoodnight:

Proof of life. 

He’s read more than his fair share of books, especially while he was holed up in Germany, waiting to be cleared back to active duty. And when he tore through all the fiction he could find, he started in on non-fiction. Psychology books, those were his favorite.

It was a strange feeling, to understand the clinical reason for the foolish things you did. 

He raises his hand, placing a kiss to each of Billy’s knuckles.

“We’ll be fine.”

You don’t know that.

Billy bites his tongue, watching Goody while his chest threatens to crack open with dread. He doesn’t want to lose this; this gentleness he’s found in soft blue eyes and calloused hands.

He eliminates the thought with a slow breath, and turns it into a vow.

“I stay with you.” Whether they live or die, Billy’s fate is tied to Goodnight’s. In life and in death, “No matter what. Wherever you go, I go.”

[knivesnothingtoit-blog]

poorlikeness:

“Six years is not enough.”

He’s never managed to find the time to look up that word, and he’s not sure he could spell it if he tried. But there is enough heaviness to it that he knows it means something. 

They’ve never been so good at words, he and Billy. Their language was violence, and he’s rocked by the tenderness of his friend’s touch. 

“We will find a way. I swear to God, I will not let them come and take this all away from you.”

“Or from you.” 

The words feel awkward on his tongue, and he’s not entirely sure his meaning is understood, but his hold on Vasquez’s bloodied hand tightens. Billy doesn’t want to give him a chance to talk his way around this.

“You have a lot to lose too.” His sisters, and their children. Faraday. “We watch each other's backs.”

Don't be reckless.