#WITHOUT MY PARENTS BEING SNARKY ABOUT HOW A SHOVEL WORKS JUST FINE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katehuntington · 5 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part three) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Ash Miles, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Word count: ±5200 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part three: Things are awkward between the Reader and head-wrangler Dean, and her nerve wrecking first day at Gold Canyon Ranch hasn’t even started yet. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage, @coffee-obsessed-writer and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish for helping me. You girls are awesome betas.

Ride With Me Masterlist

Before the alarm even has the chance to awaken Y/N from her restless sleep, she turns it off and rises from her bed. As she hops off the small mattress, she hits her head against the top bunk and lets out a groan. Wonderful, she thinks to herself as she rubs her head and grids her teeth, just what I need at 5.30 in the morning. She flicks on the light, which stings her eyes the moment the rays hit them. For a second she glances around the ten-by-six room, of which most of the space is occupied by the two-story bed and a closet. Oh well, at least she has the room to herself. She would feel even more claustrophobic in the small space that she can call hers for the next six months.

By taking in a deep breath, she tries to calm herself down. Today is the first line of a new chapter in her life, the chapter in which she will prove to the world that she is not just some stuck up rich kid from upstate who is offered all life’s best opportunities by her parents. She does get everything she wants, alright, because she works hard for it. She has worked hard for her degree, she has worked hard to become a pro reining rider. And now she will work hard shoveling horse shit. Y/N isn’t a simpleton; she saw how interns were treated at the livery stable where she boarded her horse, back in Freeport. They tend to end up with all the chores nobody else wants to do; the dirty jobs. Come to think of it, she might have used an intern to clean up her mess every now and then, and boy, does she regret it now. If karma exists, today it will bite her in the ass.

With a sigh, she gets up, grabs a towel, her shampoo and makeup bag, and quietly heads for the shower without waking anyone. The warm water falling on her skin does not only cleanse her body from a damp and restless night, but also her mind. The intern expects today to be dreadful, but she needs to stop being so negative. Maybe you will get to go on a trail today, that would be fun, she reassures herself under the spray. You’ve got Jo to back you up, you will be fine.

You. Will. Be. Fine.

Nevertheless, nerves tighten knots in her stomach again, as it did when she stepped into the saloon last night. What if I won’t be fine? What if the workload is too heavy, what if I’m not cut out for this job? Getting tired of her own brooding, she washes out the conditioner and turns off the shower. After drying her hair, she wraps the towel around her chest and secures it by tucking one hem behind the other, then starts on her makeup.

This is her daily routine, no matter how early she needs to get up for it. Confidence is not her strong suit and looking as good as she can, gives her just enough boost to get by, especially on nerve-wracking days like these. After fixing her eyelashes with mascara, she hears a door creak open in the hallway; sounds like the rest of the crew is waking up too. After tightening the towel, making sure that it’s not coming off on her stroll back to her room, she opens the bathroom door. A young woman with dark wavy hair throws an old coffee filter in the trash. All she’s wearing is an oversized plaid shirt that reaches over her thighs. “G’morning,” the brunette greets friendly. “Hi,” she returns, somewhat hesitant, then extends her hand towards her as she takes a step in her direction in order to introduce herself. "I'm Y/N." “Casey,” the natural beauty replies, shaking her hand. Last night, she was there in the saloon, but Jo didn’t introduce them. Y/N assumed she was a guest, but now that she finds her here in the bunkhouse, she figures Casey must be personnel. While pouring herself a cup, she looks up at Y/N. “You want a cup of coffee?” “Yes, please,” Y/N obliges, appreciating a mug full of warm brew to help her wake up. "I'll throw on some clothes first."

As Y/N turns around to retreat back to her room to get dressed, the door closest to the kitchen area opens. When she sees the man at the door, her jaw drops and she swears to God that her heart beats twice as fast from the moment her eyes capture the person in the doorway. It’s Dean, but wearing distinctively less clothing. His worn-down jeans are the only thing he’s wearing, hanging from his hips, only held by a leather belt with a silver inlaid buckle. Y/N’s eyes glide up, noticing the happy trail running up his abdomen. My oh my, is that body a nice one. Proportioned, toned, and tanned from years of ranch work under the Arizona sun. Broad shoulders, strong arms. In her mind, it feels like she has been taking him in for at least a minute, but thankfully she only needs a split second to snap out of it, not wanting to get caught staring again. It’s only then when she realizes that she herself is draped in nothing more than a towel, exposing almost as much skin as he is. There it is, the first moment of the day when she wishes to be invisible. “Morning, Yankee,” he greets, his voice still raspy from sleep. “M-morning,” she manages to mutter. She then points at her room awkwardly, pressing the towel against her chest, after which she stammers something unintelligible and turns to self-consciously walk back to safety. His eyes burn in her back, and when she turns towards him as she closes the door, a suppressed smile that expresses both amusement and appreciation adorns his handsome face. Y/N only breathes out again when the door falls in the lock behind her. God, could you be more embarrassing? Good job on not making a total fool of yourself! She takes a deep breath and runs both her hands through her hair, trying to push the moment to the back of her mind, then drops the towel and quickly hoists herself in underwear, and after that a pair of dark jeans. Get yourself together, Y/N. Sure, he looks incredibly hot, but he is not the first good looking guy you’ve come across. He shouldn’t have this effect on you, Jo warned you about him, for crying out loud! Lecturing herself, she puts on her bra and a denim blouse, after which she steps in her boots. The shine has worn off, since she kicked through the dirt on her way to the bunkhouse last night, making them a little less conspicuous. Quickly, she blow-dries her hair, straightens it out with an ironer, and glances at the reflection in the small mirror. A nervous and insecure little girl stares back, the image having her sigh deeply and close her eyes on herself. On the corner of the bedpost, her custom-fitted Milano western hat waits. She brought two hats to Arizona, one being a navy blue Stetson that she has had for ages, the other is the black Milano, which her grandfather gave her before debuting at the State Championships. Ever since that win, it has become her lucky hat. She picks it up by the crown, moves it over her head, and then pushes it down on her hair, pulling the front dip down a little deeper over her eyes. There, much better. Just walk out there, pretend nothing happened. You’ve got this. After another deep breath to ground herself, she exits her room and joins the others in the living area. Jo, Benny, and Garth are there too, trying to wake themselves with some caffeine. Dean has settled on the leather couch, also sipping his coffee. He’s fully dressed now, thankfully. She’s not sure if she could have looked in his direction if he wasn’t.

“Hey! Slept well?” Jo wonders, pushing a coffee filled mug in her direction. “Yeah, fine,” Y/N answers, forcing a smile. Not at all, but no need for them to know. A quick glance at the clock above the stove tells her it’s 6.20; only ten minutes until this dreadfully slow day is going to start. “Is Ash up yet?” Dean checks with the rest. “What do you think?” Jo returns snarky. With a grunt Dean gets up, walks over to the door next to her and bangs on it loudly. “Ash!” A loud snore comes from behind the closed door, followed by nervous rummaging. “I’m up!”

With a chuckle, Dean returns to the living room, where Casey stood up from the chair. Wearing the same clothes as she did last night, she walks up to him. “I’m heading off. Breakfast with the girls,” she announces, after which she leaves a kiss on his lips. He answers her and closes his eyes as he does, stalling the motion for a second longer. Then they part and he smiles down on the gorgeous girl. “See you in the saloon tonight?” Dean checks. “You betcha,” Casey replies, staring him down flirtatiously, before she exits the bunkhouse. The wrangler pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, grinning content as he settles on the couch again. All this time Y/N has watched him, a bit perplexed by what just happened. Suddenly it makes sense why Jo didn’t introduce her to Casey; she’s a guest who just happened to have spent the night here, with Dean. When she directs her focus to Jo, the blonde cowgirl mouths ‘told ya?’ triumphantly. Chuckling, Y/N shakes her head. Jo was right, and boy is she glad that she told him to find his booty call elsewhere.

In the meantime, Ash has joined them and five minutes before their shift starts, the group of wranglers and workers head out. The moment Y/N steps outside, the heat that lingered despite the night hits her. Dear lord, she hasn’t lifted a finger yet and she’s already sweating. Before she can complain out loud, the intern looks up, instantly captivated by the landscape. Last night the veil of darkness didn’t allow the scenery to be appreciated, but now that the sun steadily rises in the east, warding off the clouds that float at the horizon above the Superstition Mountains, she is fully aware of its beauty. Bright rays of orange and yellow spread their light over their surroundings, draping all that’s in the sun’s reach with gold. Cows and their calves impatiently wait in their large stretched out pastures by the fence, moohing, eager for new hay. The dirt with a speck of red in it crunches under their boots as the smell of the country fills her nostrils.

Suddenly the intern’s first day at the ranch seems a little less intimidating. She can’t wait to be around horses again, to hear them rustle their noses through their roughage and hear them neigh the moment the stable doors open. The way their presence triggers every sense of her to take in as much as she can possibly absorb, purely to enjoy the bliss feeling of belonging. In a year’s time, only a few days passed without spending at least some hours around these majestic animals. Christmas was one of those moments, yesterday was one too. One day without them and she already craves for their touch, their interaction, their companionship. Something called homesickness. Not for Maine, not for her friends and family, but for horses. Home is where the heart is. There’s a lot of truth in those words.

“So, what is today going to be like?” she wonders eagerly, after catching up with Jo. “We start with feeding, turning the horses out, and mucking stables. Dean and I usually ride a couple of horses before breakfast at 8.30. After breakfast, we tack up for the trail rides with the tourists. A few wranglers go out with them, others stay behind to groundwork horses, clean tack, stuff like that. Lunch at 12.00, depending on the heat we take a break and get back to work at 2 PM,” the ranch owner’s daughter fills in. Y/N tries to memorize the schedule as well as she can. Her description of the day helps, though. It offers a grip on the situation, calming the nerves. “The afternoon is different every day. Sometimes we have extra trails, the vet might come in, or clients for the horses that need to be sold. When it’s quiet the workers do maintenance on the property while we train more horses. We feed the animals round at 6.30, dinner is served at 7. Final feeding round at 10.”

The humid air was already pressing heavily on Y/N. Getting through the day without passing out, is definitely going to be a challenge. Despite those circumstances, she catches herself looking forward to this day, something that she couldn’t imagine last night when she retired to bed. She directs her attention to the group again, when some of the workers fan out, heading for the hay barn next to the stables. Within seconds she hears the tractor start and watches Ash roll out the big old machine that pumps black puffs from the exhaust with every strike of the engine. A trailer loaded with hay bales is attached to the rusty tractor, carrying Benny as well, who found a comfortable spot in the back. “Keep up, Yankee!” Jo looks over her shoulder, waiting for Y/N to step to it. Quickly she follows the cowgirl, who on her turn is right behind Dean and Garth. Seems like they aren’t the only ones who got up early to get work done, because Bobby is already pushing the feed cart through the hallway between two rows of stalls, scooping pellets into the horses’ feeders through the bars. Some impatiently kick against the wood in an attempt to rush the old ranch owner, but he’s not in a hurry. Instead, he mutters something to the grey in the left row that is making a fuss. “Mornin’, y’all,” Bobby greets them, somewhat grumpy. “G’morning. What are we up for?” Dean consults with his boss. “Two rides. A slow ride in the morning and a mountain hack in the afternoon,” Bobby fills in, closing the lid of the bucket half full of oats, then turns to his new intern. “What time does your horse arrive?” he asks. “Around 2 PM, the driver would let me know if he would run late, but I haven’t heard anything so far,” Y/N notifies. “The first box on the right is unoccupied. It’s yours for the next six months, but I expect you to work for it,” he says, an encouraging sternness in his voice. “I will, Mr. Singer,” she assures him. “Alright,” Dean interrupts. “Y/N, you’re with me.” The authoritative way he speaks unsettles her a little, but she tries her best to hide it. She’s on his hip from the moment he starts walking through the barn, showing her around. “Tack room is on the right. Wash the bits clean before you hang the bridles away and always fold a cover over the saddle. Put back everything where you found it, otherwise Garth will rip you a new one, he likes the place neat. The cafeteria is over here, we all gather here for breakfast and lunch. Same deal, keep it clean. The coffee sucks, but it will wake you up in the morning.” Dean gives her a short moment to glance inside the small yet comfy hangout, which contains a wooden picnic table for ten, and a small kitchenette. Her eyes glide over the numerous photos on the wall of show horses, the ranch from a birds-view, and many other images, together with won belt buckles, ribbons, and a messenger board. “You’ll find the schedule of the day on there, also important phone numbers, to-do lists, memos, you name it. Check it every morning before you start and every evening before you leave. If a horse loses a shoe or needs special care, write it on the board,” he tells her, after which he retreats back to the hallway.

His flirtatious manors have disappeared after she flipped him off last night, just the way she wanted at that moment. But now that he has this coldness over him on the work-floor, Y/N isn’t so sure if this is what she was after. Is he a sore loser? Is that the reason why he’s so reserved all of a sudden? Or is he keeping personal and business separate? Confused, she follows him as the wrangler heads for the horse boxes. “These are all training horses, some owned by us, some by clients. They are turned out in small groups, except for the stallions, which are turned out alone in the high fenced paddocks. Learn their names and description quickly, we can’t have a mare in a pasture with a stallion, and believe me, you wouldn’t be the first to do such a thing.”

On the other side of the barn, he lifts the heavy bar out of the hinge in order to open the tall doors. Behind them lays several acres of land, split up in pastures and paddocks, their gateways surrounding the outdoor tack up area in a U-shape. In the center, a Joshua tree reaches up to a clear sky. The old specimen must have been here for a while, since it has grown to a stunning height of at least thirty feet, offering shade to whoever needs it. To the right, a round pen is situated together with a large outdoor training arena. The yucca tree as well as the wooden fencing, are illuminated by the warm rays from the rising sun. Y/N tips her hat forward to protect her eyes from the brightness, enjoying the view. It’s a gorgeous sight and she wonders how long it has been like this. The tree almost seems sacred in this setting, an old soul that has been watching over these lands for decades, maybe even centuries. In the far distance, a herd grazes on the slopes leading up to the Superstition Mountains. “Those are our trail horses. We’ve got about twenty of them. They stay out in the fields twenty-four seven and only come in for rides,” Dean tells her, after which he goes on with the tour, pointing out each while naming them in a rush. “Stallion paddocks, pastures, round pen, arena.”

He heads back inside, expecting the intern to be right on his heels, but she hesitates, still absorbing the information. For a split second he observes, because she isn’t the only one who is taken aback by the view. Her silky hair falls down from under her western hat, the profile of her nose, lips, and chin outlined by the morning sun. The place mesmerizes her, just like it did when he first saw it. In fact, one of the first memories he can recall is sprinting through the barn towards the sunrise, his mom requesting with a gentle voice not to run, because it might spook the horses. He listened and halted in the large door frame, gazing at the enormous tree in front of him. He couldn’t have been more than four years old. Pushing the memory away, Dean lifts his gaze back at his intern and gets back to business. “C’mon, we ain’t got all day!” Y/N snaps out of it and approaches him, clearly not at ease and he regrets striking such a tone instantly. He can’t help it, though. Of course, he needs to be tough on the rookies, he has to if he wants to determine if they are right for the job or not. Ranch life is hard work, not to mention that they are handling horses and cattle weighing a thousand pounds each. A small error can have huge consequences, and since she’s under his supervision, he wants to prevent mistakes at all costs. But is it just that? If he’s honest with himself, is he really being an ass because he’s the boss? Or does he have to admit that he’s still slightly annoyed by the fact that his ego got damaged by this fierce new face? Normally he would shake off a rejection - not that he had many - yet she brought out of balance. Why is that? He gave it some thought, especially the way she responded to him right after she entered the saloon. Those lingering stares they exchanged, the way she got all flustered when he surprised her with his eyes. It didn’t go unnoticed, so the harsh ‘no’ when he went over for a chat still feels like a slap in the face. Somehow, it didn’t add up, because he could have sworn he felt a connection. It occupied his mind to a degree that he was still thinking about the woman who shot him down while having sex with Casey.

Forcing himself to get a grip, he continues to walk down the alley between the stables, footsteps echoing under the high ceiling. Jo and Garth already started preparing the horses for their free time outdoors, strapping protective boots to their legs. Bobby’s daughter takes a bay quarter horse out of his box after which she opens the stable door for a beautiful palomino as well and leads the two horses outside. Iron horseshoes click on the paved grounds rhythmically, soothing like a metronome. “Each horse has its own halter. Some wear leg protection, which you can find in these bags,” Dean continues, taking a pair of overreach boots out of a canvas bag hanging from the stable door, along with a halter. He opens the stall without making eye contact with his intern, focusing on the horse that curiously comes closer to meet him. Uncomfortable, Y/N waits for his next instruction by the door. Should she speak up? This time she reconsiders her words carefully, but she cannot stand the tension that is hanging in the already humid air. “Dean, about last night…” Her voice is so hesitant that it triggers the wrangler to turn and face the young woman, his expression shifting from annoyed to something much more gentle. In comparison to the deliverance of her message yesterday, she seems timid now. “I know I was a little… blunt, when I told you to go find your luck elsewhere. The thing is, that I really need to focus on this job and on my placement here, do the best I can. I don’t want to mess this up or get sent home early. I can’t afford distraction,” she explains, trying to smoothen things out. Observant Dean returns her gaze while he gently pulls the halter over the horse’s ears, securing the snap of the throat lash to cheekpiece. He doesn’t mean to, but a small smirk fights it’s way up to the surface. He’s got to say, he respects her for keeping her eyes on the ball. Bobby was right; she is a go-getter. “Where is this coming from?” he wonders, voice much softer than it has been all morning. “Well, I kind of had the feeling you are giving me the cold shoulder,” she confesses, uneasy.

Again silence, this one at least as awkward as the previous one. How many hours ago have they met each other? Not even ten? And yet, despite being a little insecure about it now, she seems to be able to express herself quite well. It’s an aspect that stands out, one that Dean likes. She doesn’t beat around the bush, that’s for sure. “You might have a point,” the wrangler admits. “But I need to be tough on the interns. It ain’t a cashier job at Walmart, this line of work can get dangerous. Do understand that I’m your supervisor and that it’s my responsibility that you--” Whoa whoa whoa, stop it right there. Rewind and play again. He’s her what now? “You’re my supervisor?” she repeats in shock. Dean nods, confused. “Yeah, didn’t Bobby and Ellen tell you that?” She shakes her head and buries her face in her hands as the embarrassment washes over her like a tidal wave. She cannot believe she wasn’t aware of this! “N-no, they didn't…” Y/N stammers. First, they forget her at the airport and now this? God, this place has communication issues! “I’m so sorry. What I said, that was just downright disrespectful,” she apologizes, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, shrugging it off. “Can you get Argo? He’s in the box next door.”

She nods, not entirely at ease just yet. Nevertheless, she steps to it, takes the halter and splint boots, and enters the stable to the right. Not being in the same box offers time and space to revise strategies, because she doesn't feel like the conversation has come to a solid end. Good grief, she feels like such an idiot. For someone who takes the job seriously, it was a pretty dumb move to talk back to the one person who is going to be her guide and mentor during this placement. He barely said a word before she treated him so rudely! He came up to ask if she was looking forward to her first day, for crying out loud! She has got to say something, anything to make it right. Before she can continue, though, the wrangler beats her to it. “Look, I might have come on a little strong. I didn’t mean to put you in a compromising position. If I did--” “No, it’s fine,” Y/N insists. “I think last night went down a little different than we both anticipated.”

The wrangler keeps a hold of her gaze for a second and then nods, deciding to settle with that. She’s right; they both could have handled the situation differently. It’s good that they cleared the air, though. He usually enjoys bossing rookies around, but with her, he’d rather take a more gentle approach. “I’m gonna take you thinking I’m a distraction as a compliment, then,” he comments jokingly. Y/N looks up from her work as she puts the halter on the chestnut, chuckling lightly. Dean smiles at her response, her little laugh lifting the weight off his chest. Their eyes lock as they observe each other through the bars separating them, both very well aware of the slightly different vibe in the air. Dean - who was left somewhat disoriented after her decline - seems to have found his footing again. She can see it in the small crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, in the dimples of his cheeks when he smiles. Damn, that smile. And there it is again, that sparkle. A shimmer in his eyes, like holding a beautifully cut emerald gemstone against the light. “I was warned that you can be very distracting,” she returns, correcting him. Jo walks past to fetch more horses to turn out, glaring at the pair as she passes by. Dean catches her ‘what the hell are you up to?’ stare, which he replies to by raising his eyebrows and intensifying his trademark smile. “Let me guess. Jo told you all about how I spend my evenings?” he replies to her comment, almost a whisper to prevent his cousin from listening in. “And your lunch breaks,” Y/N adds, well aware of the value of the intel. He cringes at that, then chuckles, busted, as he clasps the lead rope to the halter, after which he bends down to strap the overreach boots to the lower leg just above the hoof. He never thought the day would come, but his experience with women isn’t exactly working in his favor right now. Is he keeping his hands busy trying to hide the embarrassment? “Seems like I’ve built myself quite the reputation,” the cowboy concludes.

She watches him through the barred wall, considering if she should say something. After all, she doesn’t want him to feel ashamed. What he does in his own time is none of her business. So what that he sleeps around? That doesn’t make him a bad person. Why should she even care? And yet, she can’t deny that when Casey kissed him back at the bunkhouse, jealousy tucked at her heart. “No, you haven’t,” she reassures, trying to take away his embarrassment while pushing down her own thoughts. “I promise I won’t jump to conclusions anymore, okay?” “Alright,” Dean agrees to that. “And you’ve got my word that I won’t treat you differently from now on. Despite that you were busting my balls yesterday.” Finally at ease, she smiles, glad that they both find the memory amusing now. When she looks up at him again, the curved line of his lips evens out a little. “Despite that - and please don’t take this the wrong way,” he adds on a more serious note, the short pause hanging between them, the moment intensified by his kind eyes, “I believe that you’re somethin’ special.”

Surprised by his words, Y/N stares back at him. It’s not a joke, is it? Nor is it innocent flirting. She barely knows the guy, but she can tell he’s being sincere. Unlike yesterday, Y/N accepts the compliment, because this time she truly believes it’s not just a way to seduce her and lure her to his bed. He means it, and something tells her that he hasn’t said something like that to many girls before. That’s what she wants to believe, at least. The flustered smile that his words ignites should give him even more confidence than he already possesses, but it does the opposite. With any other girl his eyes would remain fixed, letting his gaze do the talking for him. He would have let his content smile grow larger, he would keep his head up, stand straight with his shoulders back, not a speck of insecurity to be noticed. But not with her. With her, he averts his attention to the horse next to him, gently running his hand through the gelding’s mane, unable to keep his posture. Why does he do that? He was doing just fine the first time they locked eyes last night. Hell, he stared for so long, that she didn’t know what to do with herself. He was in control, until he settled down on that barstool next to the cowgirl. Until she told him ‘no’. Until she took the reins.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

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vagrantblvrd · 5 years

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No Future Past Tomorrow (1/1)

Summary: These are the things Ryan knows about soulmates:

1. Everyone has one. (Except for the people who don’t, but no one talks about that.)

2. There’s a whole industry built up around it. (Because capitalism.)

3. Everyone gets their happily ever after. (Except for the people who don’t, but no one talks about that either.)

Notes: Prompt fill for @queen-bitchiest who wanted Myan and soulmarks and then Things Happened. :D?

(Read on AO3)

These are the things Ryan knows about soulmates:

1. Everyone has one. (Except for the people who don’t, but no one talks about that.)

2. There’s a whole industry built up around it. (Because capitalism.)

3. Everyone gets their happily ever after. (Except for the people who don’t, but no one talks about that either.)

There are other things Ryan knows about soulmates.

The fact some people are born with their soulmate’s name written on their skin, and some gain a soulmark later in life. Some have ugly black smears on their skin where their soulmate’s name is supposed to be because life isn’t like the movies and sometimes people miss their soulmates. (Born too soon or not late enough. Maybe the life is more unfair than you thought and they die young, leaving you with their name blacked out and this ache in your chest for what could have been.)

He knows being soulmates doesn’t guarantee happiness and love because his parents were soulmates and they hated each other. Fought just about every damn day of his life he can remember, loud shouting matches and hurled dishes and crockware. Slamming doors and cold, heavy silence that filled the house like smoke in a burning house.

This bitter anger and resentment to them about the lives they could have had cut short because of their soulmarks.

Fate and Destiny and their kid who tied them to a shitty little town in the south because that’s what you do when you have a kid. You sweep all your hopes and dreams into the gutter and hunker down to take care of the little shit, because that’s how it goes. (Or maybe they were wrong, but the damage was done years ago and Ryan gets to carry that with him wherever he goes.)

For the longest time he thinks he’s been lucky enough to dodge that bullet. No name indelibly inked into his skin meant to guide him to his soulmate, and it’s -

It’s a relief, because even after his parents die in a car accident when he’s a kid he still remembers the anger in their voices. The way they twisted something meant to be a good thing into something so ugly. (How terrified it made him, checking again and again and again just to make sure he didn’t have one.)

But then he goes into the foster system, gets bounced all over the place because he’s different.

Quiet and solemn, and no soulmark – a freak - even though it’s widely accepted that most soulmarks don’t appear until puberty at the earliest.

It’s an excuse, flimsy as it is, for people who can’t, won’t understand the ten-eleven-twelve-why bother keeping track year-old kid who they let into their home. Look at him and his situation and think about how kind, compassionate it will make them seem to others, taking him in out of the goodness of their heart. (Poor little orphan without a name on his skin, so tragic.)

Making a token effort to get to know him before realizing kids are work, and Ryan, strange little Ryan more than they imagined. (Kindles that little spark of anger, deep in his chest he inherited from his parents, each new set of foster parents who take him in adding fuel to the fire.)

Puberty hits, and when his soulmark doesn’t appear it gets harder and harder for the social workers to place him into a suitable home.

(No one talks about it, but there’s a bias towards those who don’t have a soulmark.)

When he’s fourteen, there’s a program, and he’s sent to the Midwest.

Somewhere with corn, or something like that, he doesn’t care about the details. (Doesn’t expect to be there long.)

He gets placed with a family that has another foster kid like his staying with them. Precocious little brat with dark hair and dark eyes and all these questions about the world and how it works.

The moment he meets them, Ryan knows he has no place there in their happy little family, but they bring him into their lives anyway.

Give him his own room and let him settle in at his own pace and he’s just so tired after being moved from place to place for so long he doesn’t have energy to be angry about things anymore.

Their little boy watches Ryan with wide eyes, uncertain about this stranger taking up space in his home, and Ryan doesn’t blame him.

Keeps his distance and careful not to infringe. Doesn’t want to scare the kid or risk getting attached because Ryan knows something this good can’t last, but the little brat has other ideas once he gets over his initial wariness.

All wide eyes and this hopeful little “Ryan, Ryan, come look at the stars with me tonight, please?” one day.

He’s only allowed to stargaze if there’s someone there to keep an eye on him, so Ryan knows it’s more self-interest than anything else, but he gives in anyway.

Ryan’s a feet on the ground sort of person. Life lessons and just the way things go, but he does some reading, learns about things he has a passing interest in if at all just so he can sit on the back deck with the brat and point at the constellations.

“That’s Orion.”

He starts with an easy one and bites back a grin when he gets a withering look and a snarky little “I know that one already, Ryan. It’s in my book,” and moves on to Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Tries not to laugh when the brat crosses his arms and pouts at him because Ryan promised to teach him the ones he doesn’t already know.

“Alright, alright,” he says, resists the urge to smooth the brat’s hair down because it’s always this wild mess, chaotic as the thoughts and ideas crowding his head. “Why don’t you tell me the ones you know so I know where to pick up?”

The brat gives him this look like he thinks Ryan’s just humoring him. There’s hurt in there because he’s so damn smart, but no one seems to realize just how smart he is and for whatever reason thought Ryan would be different.

After a moment he sighs and points out constellations from the book he’s shown to Ryan. Big hardcover with beautiful pictures of the night sky and beyond and more consideration for someone’s interest Ryan’s seen so far in life.

He knows it can’t last, that it’s too good for him, but goddamn does he wish it could.

========

Ryan’s sixteen when he sees it.

Almost misses it, glancing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror after a shower. Blood freezing in his veins when he does, hand shaking as he wipes condensation off the glass and leans closer to see better.

Bold black script curled around the back of his neck spelling out a name, and there’s no conscious thought to it when his fist goes through the mirror.

He can’t even put a name to the emotions he’s feeling as he stares at the shattered glass, fragmented images of a wide-eyed teenager staring back.

His little brother (not-brother, not) knocking on the door to ask if he’s okay and their foster parents (not his) shushing him while they try to coax Ryan to open the door.

Worry and concern and Ryan closes his eyes and focuses on getting himself under control because this – he always knew it wouldn’t last. (Broken, wrong.)

========

Ryan knows what it takes to be a problem.

Being himself worked for a while, but then came this program and Indiana and this mismatched family that somehow worked.

But now -

That anger he could ignore, shove down deep, it’s back.

All those memories of his parents and all their arguments. The yelling, the fighting. The resentment. Anger so bright it hurt to look at.

He remembers their funeral.

All the adults offering him their condolences because it’s what you do in that kind of situation. Brave smiles on their faces and telling him he looked just like them, spitting image. All the ways he was their child, took after them and the fear he felt taking root because they didn’t know. (His parents saved the fighting, the anger, for home. Played happy family where others could see.)

And now there’s a name on the back of his neck like a collar, a chain, heavy and choking and why? Why now?

He thinks about it, what it means to be his parents’ kid.

The bitter anger and resentment because they’d found their soulmate, and it ruined them.

Worries what will happen if (when?) he finds his soulmate because he doesn’t want that kind of life, can barely manage to get through the one he has now.

Thinks about his little (not-brother, never his) brother and how he doesn’t want him to know what Ryan really is.

He gets in fights.

Bigger, stronger than the other kids and he’s got anger behind it.

Gets in fights and ignores his foster parents when they try to help (all wrong, because they care) and people take notice.

Worry about Ryan’s little brother, the other kids the foster parents want to bring into their lives and it’s -

It’s a goodbye in the middle of the night because Ryan’s brother (not-brother) is still so smart.

It’s Ryan and the bag on his back and all these words choking him because it was nice, for a little while. (A year, two, and long enough to think maybe his parents were wrong about everything, so of course it wouldn’t last.)

It’s Ryan and the money he’s saved from little jobs here there. Lawns mowed, sidewalks shoveled.

Small things to help out, make him less of a burden and gently refused because no, honey, no, that’s not what this is about. (A bank account that will never be opened in his name, but that’s fine, it’s okay. No paper trail.)

Ryan leaves, promises to write his brother but knows that won’t last either. Harder to disappear if someone has your address.

He keeps up with it for the first month, lets it trail off until he stops writing altogether and swallows the guilt and regret down deep. (More fuel for that anger deep in his chest, blaze waiting to catch fire.)

========

Ryan doesn’t stop moving once he starts.

Just goes and goes and goes wherever he can, however he can.

Hitches rides with the lost and the lonely on their way to somewhere. Friendly truckers looking for someone to listen to the stories they’ve told a hundred times before.

Has a few run-ins with assholes and creeps who see a kid on their own on the side of the road and get ideas. (You’ve got such a pretty face and it’s so lonely on the road kid, what d’ya say?)

Ryan’s never broken anyone’s jaw before but he can’t say he regrets it.

He starts carrying a knife after that. Cheap little thing he picks up at a gas station somewhere in Nebraska with a bald eagle etched into the handle.

Tacky as hell, but it saves his life enough times for him not to mind as much.

Ryan grows his hair out to keep people from asking about the letters on his neck, want to know whose name he carries around with him. Starts dyeing it black when he ends up in one of the Dakotas and he catches a segment on the new. Police sketch of someone with his face wanted for aggravated assault of a good samaritan who picked up a hitchhiker. (Calls in an anonymous tip, tells them they should look a little deeper into their good samaritan’s story and they might know why someone broke his fucking jaw.)

Life blurs together after that, Ryan slipping deeper and deeper into the wrong side of life and that anger in him grows and grows and grows with everything he does just to get by until he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.

========

Los Santos -

It’s a cesspool.

It’s wild and mean, plays for keeps.

Ryan’s still a kid when he gets there, nineteen going on twenty and tired down to his bones, but the anger keeps him going.

He’s got scars now, souvenirs from fights and scuffles and the work he’s been doing. Playing muscle for assholes here and there for a handful of cash before he moves on.

Hair long enough to pull back into a ponytail, cover up the name branded on his skin to the point he can almost forget about it. Still dyes it, although it’s more out of habit than anything else. (Bigger and better crimes he’s wanted for and the memory of his first kill still haunting him.)

Easy to lose himself there, carve out a little niche for himself.

Works for the same guy for a while. Old cranky bastard who shows him the ropes here in Los Santos, calls him a Vagabond when Ryan offers a little bit about his past.

Places he’s been, things he’s seen. (Gets called a Vagabond, and it sticks.)

Realizes, when people don’t take him seriously – still got a pretty face, still breaking jaws and worse, because he’s got all these knives now, and his aim is nothing to sneeze at – he needs to do something about that.

The mask is a joke at first.

Ryan with a few extra bucks burning a hole in his pocket wandering along Vespucci and a little shop that catches his eye.

It’s fall, and there’s a horror movie playing in theaters and Ryan figures why not?

He wears it the next time someone hires him to handle a problem of theirs, some asshole in La Mesa who owes money and no intent to pay it back and send a message, would you? Louder the better.

Ryan gets incredulous laughter and hurled insults, the asshole just gets dead.

And then the rumors start, because it was a foggy night out. Someone remembers seeing a skull mask, and there’s a monster out there cutting people down, better watch your back or you might be next.

He wears the mask when he’s working after that, and the face paint happens later. People stop laughing when they see him coming because Ryan gets better. (Watch out or the Vagabond will get you.)

========

Years pass and the anger settles into something Ryan can finally breathe around.

He learns to pick his jobs, pay attention to the power plays in motion. The way the city moves and breathes, crime in its blood and rotten to its core.

Isn’t surprised when Ramsey comes looking for him to build up that crew of his. (He’s not the first.)

What is surprising is the way he goes about it.

No expectations, demands.

Just a simple offer, and Ryan?

He’s curious. (Bored.)

Agrees to that first job, and the one after that and so on until he’s in too deep to back out.

Likes the way Geoff runs the crew, the way they give him grief for everything he does but stand with him every step of the way.

It’s...fascinating.

Different from anything he’s seen in Los Santos.

Shouldn’t work at all, but somehow does and there’s a part of him that wants some of that for himself. (Little house in Indiana and the night sky spread out above him, stars shining down and a voice naming the constellations.)

So he stays on and gets to know the others.

Geoff and Jack with their hands full keeping the others in line.

Michael unapologetic about everything he is and this look to him like he would go toe-to-toe with Ryan if he even thought about fucking them over.

Gavin with his everything, so damned annoying and painfully brilliant. (Smart and clever and more capable than he lets on.)

Ray, who comes and goes as he pleases and deadlier than Ryan any day of the week.

Jeremy and his everything that included garish color combinations and a cowboy hat, because why not?

Lindsay who is just this side of terrifying, because she’s the most chaotic person Ryan’s met in his entire life and then some.

A whole slew of others Geoff reassures him he’ll meet at some point because they’re assholes and like knows like, and other flattering things.

It’s the closest thing to family Ryan’s had in a long time and he knows it can’t last, but he’s tired of roaming the streets of Los Santos like a specter. (Wants somewhere to rest once in a while.)

========

Geoff’s a meddler.

Claims he isn’t, but he’s not as smooth as he likes to think he is. Pairs Gavin and Jeremy up on jobs every chance he gets and rationalizes it away by saying Jeremy keeps Gavin focused. (He’s not wrong, but it’s not the only deciding factor involved.)

“They’ll figure it out eventually,” Michael says, wry twist to his mouth as they watch Gavin and Jeremy argue about the best way to hotwire a car.

They’ve got overwatch while the other idiots get the car Geoff wants for the upcoming heist. Dull little soccer-mom car, won’t draw any attention and slow as hell.

Older make and model, and a snap to steal.

Or would be, but there are a lot of hand gestures and squawking from Gavin. Snarky quips from Jeremy and this headache right behind Ryan’s eyes, because they’re two of the densest, oblivious assholes he’s ever met.

“You’d think,” he says, and leans against the railing to watch the show play out.

Gavin’s got a name curling around his ribs, snug up against his heart.

Ryan saw it once, covered in blood and Gavin making these pained noises because a cop got lucky and they almost lost him in the back of a stolen van. Jack barking orders and Michael pale-faced and grim, Jeremy driving like a bat out of hell and fear Ryan hadn’t felt in a long, long time crowding his throat because he liked these idiots.

Jeremy doesn’t have a name.

Drunken confession from him after they got Gavin stabilized, Michael asleep in the chair next to his bed and Jeremy’s hands shaking and Ryan at a loss as to what to say to make things better, so he listened. Leaned all about the angry black smear across Jeremy’s shoulder blade, the phantom pain he gets in the cold sometimes.

Gavin’s got a name and Jeremy doesn’t and it’s been a hell of a ride watching them dance around one another.

Makes Ryan uneasy, but no one else seems too bothered about the potential for disaster.

Michael doesn’t seem too bothered, and Ryan’s willing to trust Michael’s judgment when it comes to anything involving Gavin.

========

Michael tinkers.

Turned a room in one of the lower floors into a workshop where he cooks up explosives he uses on heists. The jobs Gavin or one of the others comes up with from time to time.

At the moment he’s got a row of rubber duckies set out on one of his worktables and a series of sketches on what looks to be a bar napkin.

“Look,” Michael says, when he catches Ryan’s totally non-judgmental reaction. Pauses when he realizes there’s no good explanation for any of this. “…Fuck off.”

Ryan hmms as he puts the napkin down, pokes one of the duckies on its beak.

He’s...not bored so much as restless, and Michael’s good company when Ryan’s in a mood like this.

Will either focus on what he’s working on and leave Ryan to his own devices -

“Fucking what the fuck?” Michael mutters to himself, because he has a row of rubber duckies and drunk sketches to go off of. “What the fuck?”</i>

- or he’ll talk to himself like a lunatic and provide Ryan with hours of entertainment.

They’ve come a long way from the early days. Time when all Michael had to go on about Ryan were the stories and rumors that have turned the Vagabond into one of Los Santos’ very own cryptids. Always looking for signs Ryan was about to turn on the crew, just another bloody story to add to the rest.

“Should I ask?” Ryan asks, because he’s an asshole and Michael is hilarious when he gets like this.

Determined to turn some harebrained idea someone had into a reality, and going by the fact rubber duckies are involved, this is Gavin’s doing.

Something he saw somewhere once, or heard a story from a friend and wouldn’t it be wicked, Michael, if we did something like that? (Stars in his eyes and Michael more of a pushover than he’d ever admit.)

Michael shoots him a glare, but since he doesn’t yell at Ryan to get the fuck out of his workshop, Ryan figures he’s good to stay and heckle.

Gently.

“Go to hell, Ryan,” Michael says, but there's a smile curling his lips and this warm sort of amusement in his voice and Ryan chuckles at it, because he never gets tired of hearing it.

Gavin and Jeremy aren’t the only ones dancing around one another, but this – them – is a little more complicated.

Ryan’s old hangups and Michael’s everything.

Brash and loud, fearless in all the ways Ryan isn’t.

Someone’s name on his skin that got burned away years ago because this life isn’t kind and there are real monsters out there, far worse than Ryan. (Got a tattoo to cover up the scar tissue because he got tired of looking at it, but it doesn’t bother him.)

Shrugs it off as unimportant when someone brings up the matter of soulmates and soulmarks, the string of letters everyone looks for – excited and hopeful or terrified – that’s supposed to lead to their happily ever after.

”The way I see it,” Michael had said the one time Ryan heard him talk about it so bluntly. It’s bullshit, you know? Like what. Some fucking mystical force slaps a name on you and that’s it? You spend your life looking for some asshole you don’t even know and everything's supposed to be rainbows and sunshine? Fuck out of here with that.”

Not the most eloquent way to put it, but Michael had been drunk at the time, working to put Jeremy under the table thanks to one of Gavin’s bets, and honestly, Ryan doesn’t even know with this crew half the time.

He and the others never ask Ryan if he has a name, don’t ask if he’s still looking. Don’t really talk about the whole thing unless it’s a hypothetical of Gavin’s or alcohol has loosened their tongues, and even then, even then it’s different.

A courtesy, almost, for the ones like Geoff who’s covered himself in tattoos to camouflage the lack of a name inked into his skin. Jack who smiles politely and tells no lies. Gavin who guarded his name like a dragon with its hoard until that was taken from him by a lucky bullet. Jeremy with a grin on his face and no name marring his skin (just an angry black smear where one used to be), but like hell does he let it hold him back.)

========

The name on the back of Ryan’s neck isn’t uncommon. The last time he checked (years and years ago) there were at least four million people in the US who shared it.

Have to be more now, the world being what it is and people being who they are.

He’d have a hell of a time trying to find someone in all of that, spend who knows how many lifetimes looking if he even wanted to.

(Part of him scared as hell at the prospect even now. Memory of his parents and the misery they made of the own lives, let bleed over into his all these years later so damn vivid.)

He’s happy here in Los Santos when he never thought he could be again.

Has a family in every definition of the word that matters, people he cares about. (Who care about him.)

It’s not a perfect life because he can’t see a good end in store for himself, but he’s learning to take what he can get for as long as he can and be grateful for it. (Just a little longer and he’ll have it down.)

========

He stumbles on the two of them by accident. Headed down to the garage to look for his phone that must have fallen out of his pocket during the getaway chase portion of the heist earlier and ducks around a support pillar when he hears voices.

Quiet, serious, the way they rarely are.

Jeremy and Gavin and -

“I love you.”

Jeremy, heart in Gavin’s hands and a million reasons why this thing between him and Gavin’s shouldn’t work. (Fate. Destiny. Call it whatever you want, there’s something to it people can’t fight no matter how hard they try because Gavin’s got a name that isn’t Jeremy’s and Jeremy’s lost his and this is why, this is why.)

There’s a heavy silence, and Ryan closes his eyes. Tips his head back and wishes like hell he wasn’t here to bear witness to this.

Gavin say something too low for Ryan to hear. Jeremy answers.

All Ryan hears are the crickets. (It’s summer and the little bastards are everywhere.)

“Gavin - “

There’s a shuffling sound, scuff of shoes on cement.

Gavin paces sometimes, too much going on in his head and all this energy to him that has to get out somehow.

“What.”

Short, sharp bark of sound from Jeremy and this quiet little laugh from Gavin.

Ryan leans around the pillar to look, and sees the two of them staring at each other.

Gavin’s biting his lip to keep from laughing like he clearly wants to, mischief and joy and something else written in every line of him. Jeremy’s staring at Gavin, open, vulnerable, and this smile slowly spreading over his face and Ryan’s missed something here.

“I - “

Gavin doesn’t get to finish whatever he was about to say because Jeremy's pushing forward, disbelieving laughter. This look on his face that equal parts exasperation and fondness and something like love. Hands coming up to frame Gavin’s face and Ryan decides he can look for his phone later, give the two of them some privacy.

========

“I told you,” Michael says when Ryan gets back up to the penthouse. Knowing grin on his face and Ryan’s phone in his hand. “And here, you left this in my Adder.”

He tosses Ryan’s phone to him, jerks his head to the game console because Ryan’s...jittery.

All the things he said he was past rising up to cast doubt on everything he thought he knew. (It can’t be that simple.)

“You want to do that rematch now, Rye-bread? I know your ego was bruised when I completely destroyed you last time, so I promise I’ll go easy on you.”

Cocky, arrogant, and this little curve to his mouth because he gets it, he does.

Knows how messed up Ryan is over the name branded on the back of his neck and how all these assholes go against everything Ryan thought he knew like it’s nothing.

“Like hell you will,” Ryan says, luckier than he deserves. “I’m going to make you eat those words.”

Michael snorts, gives him a look like he thinks Ryan’s an idiot (he’s not wrong) and won’t be walking away from their rematch the winner. (Reply hazy, try again.)

========

Every so often Ryan will catch Michael rubbing at his arm. The intricate tattoo over scar tissue, an old hurt that never healed right. It acts up when the weather changes and less tolerant of everyone’s bullshit.

Snaps and snarls a little harder, finds somewhere to go to ground until it passes.

Usually Gavin’s the one to seek him out, pull him out of his head and whatever thoughts sent him spiraling somewhere dark.

Provokes him until Michael’s yelling, real anger to his voice as he spews out all that ugliness that’s been left to fester too long.

Tonight -

Gavin’s back with the Roosters because he owes Burnie a favor or two, and Jeremy went with him as backup. (Gavin’s good, and God knows Burnie would never let anything happen to him if he could help it, but shit goes wrong and they all know it.)

Geoff took Jack with him to negotiate a new truce with the Fakehaus crazies, and it’s just Ryan in the penthouse with him.

Watches Michael head up to the roof, wound tight and hurting and Ryan is so beyond not qualified for this.

He still takes the stairs up there, steps out onto the roof to find Michael leaning against the low railing staring out at the city.

Ryan looks up out of habit. (House in Indiana and stars as far as the eye can see.)

Los Santos isn’t the place for stargazing. Too many lights, pollution, but every so often they shine through clear enough he can forget all that for a little while.

Michael glances at him when Ryan settles next to him at the railing.

Doesn’t tell him to fuck off, so Ryan figures he doesn’t mind him being here. He doesn’t know what to say to make things better (he never does), but Michael’s hurting and Ryan -

“I used to go stargazing with my little brother,” he says, only trips a little over that last word. Realized he’s a bigger idiot than he thought. “Fucker loved them.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, but Ryan knows he’s listening. Head tilted towards him the slightest bit, tension easing out of his shoulders.

Ryan’s told him about his brother before, one of the few still alive who do. Moment of weakness or whatever you want to call it. (Close call and everyone reevaluating their lives, people, things, they’ve left behind and why.)

Ryan points out a constellation, picks an easy one.

“That’s Orion,” he says, echoes of a better time even if he had a hard time recognizing it then.

He doesn’t know how much Michael knows about constellations or if he even cares. Decides if he’s not telling Ryan to shut the fuck up about them, it’s not hurting anything.

Ryan knows more of them than he did when he was just a dumb kid scrambling to keep up with the stupid smart kid brother of his. And he talks, and talks and talks and talks until his voice feels a little rough, sounds hoarse.

Points out constellation after constellation and the stories behind them, myth and legends and all that.

Rambles for a few when he thinks he spots a planet. Might be a satellite though, or maybe something else? It’s been a while since he looked this shit up, cut him some slack he’s not an astronomer, okay.

Michael snorts, shoots him this look. Soft smile and fondness to it that kicks Ryan in the heart, has him ducking his head.

“You fucking nerd, Ryan,” Michael says, the way he always does, and it means something Ryan’s always been a little afraid to put a name to.

Ryan shrugs, because Michael’s not wrong. Gives Michael this look, and doesn’t say a damn thing about it when Michael moves closer, shoulder brushing his and points to a little cluster of stars just over Chiliad.

“The fuck’s the deal with those ones?”

========

They say there’s this bolt of lightning moment, zap and you know when you meet your soulmate. Sparks or something like that, Ryan doesn’t know.

He’s never felt it, never expects to.

Thinks back to the first time he met Michael in a dingy warehouse down by the docks. Geoff in his suit, smug grin and so damned confident he could win Ryan over. Jack beside him, Ray watching through his sniper scope on a roof a few buildings away. Gavin watching him keen interest and a glint in his eye Ryan hadn’t learned to dread yet.

No Jeremy at the time, just those idiots meeting the big, bad Vagabond to have a little chat.

Geoff and his spiel, hopeful lilt to his words and a business card - “Call us if you interested, big guy. We could use someone like you.” - and tip of an imaginary hat as he left, the others following.

Michael walking up to him while Gavin watched, little grin on his face because he’s always been a menace. (The three of them alone, and Gavin having Michael’s back like it was never up for debate.)

“Look,” Michael had said, scowling up at him. “I don’t have a problem with you working with us, but if you even think about fucking us over? Don’t.”

Not a threat so much as a promise and it’s stuck with Ryan since then. In the back of his head when Geoff sent him out Michael to keep people in line. Let their rivals know the Fake AH Crew wouldn’t tolerate all the little insults thrown their way. Hold a refresher course to remind them.

Later on when they got paired up for other jobs, heist preps. Geoff telling them with this long-suffering look to him they were just about the only people he could trust not to fuck things up.

Because Jack on his own is solid. Throw Gavin into the mix and you get a taco truck where you wanted a box truck and those idiots laughing it up. (Geoff, no listen, Geoff, it’ll be brilliant.)

And on and on and on to the point they just. Worked well together, didn’t get sidetracked the way Gavin or Jack or even Geoff himself. Or at least not as much. (The times they did, though. Fantastic.)

Even when Jeremy joins the crew and Ryan finds a kindred spirit in him, because who doesn’t appreciate a little chaos now and then? There’s just something to working with Michael that Ryan likes.

It’s easy.

Michael gets him, knows Ryan’s a disaster and compensates for it without saying a word.

It’s not really a lie, because Michael will bitch about Ryan being a madman, but that’s more for show, because he’ll already be in position to cover his back or his flank. Take out whoever is trying to sneak up on Ryan without thinking about it. (Ryan does the same for Michael.)

And -

There are over four million Michaels out there, so what are the odds the name on the back of Ryan’s neck is meant for this one?

========

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Michael snarls, hand in the collar of Ryan’s jacket as he hauls him down, presses a wadded up shirt against the gash on his neck, something fragile under the anger. “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

They’re in a bolthole the crew uses when things turn to shit on them. Old building that’s falling apart, sign on the front claiming it’s slated for demolition any day now.

Michael’s looking a little wild-eyed, bottom lip split from a stray elbow and blood all over his hands as he keeps Ryan from bleeding out. (It’s a scratch.)

Ryan rolls his eyes because it’s not that bad. Got a little too close for comfort maybe, but the guy with the knife was an idiot who had no clue what he was doing.

Didn’t even have proper throwing knives, and the balance was all wrong. Dumb luck he hit what he was aiming for.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ryan says, taking the hint when Michael grabs his hand and presses it to the shirt against his neck while Michael turns to dig through the first-aide kit. “Maybe something about saving you life? It was a blur.”

Michael stiffens.

Slowly lifts his head to glare at Ryan, the kind that would have killed a lesser man, or maybe someone smarter than Ryan, whichever.

“Ryan - “

Michael’s always had this confidence to him, like he wouldn’t stumble no matter what. Would just keep going and fuck whatever – whoever – gets in his way. Places to be, things to do, and fuck you if you think you’re gonna stop him.

Right now...not so much.

Right now he looks – he looks scared. Like the ground under his feet is suddenly treacherous, unstable, and he doesn’t know where is safe. If he takes the wrong step, everything crumbles, and he’s lost. He’s covering for it with bluster and anger and it hurts to see him like this.

“Hey,” Ryan says, nudges him with his knee. “I’m okay, Michael. I’m alright.”

Bleeding like a stuck pig, and he’ll have one hell of a scar, but it’s better than what could have been. (That spike of fear that settled in his stomach when Ryan saw that fucker going after Michael – it’s still there. Rolled over into this ball leaden and heavy in the pit of his stomach because Ryan’s never been good with what would have beens.)

Michael’s breathes out through his nose, hands clenching into fists before he shakes it off, reaches for that anger of his and shoves his fear down deep.

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters, low and tired in a way that resonates in Ryan’s bones. “And I fucking hate you.”

Ryan doesn’t laugh, because he’s pretty sure Michael would actually kill him for it, but -

“Stop smiling, you fuck.”

========

There’s a moment when Michael's fingers brush up against Ryan’s name as he’s cleaning the blood away that Ryan thinks maybe, but it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

========

Things are weird after that.

Weirder?

Michael’s not avoiding him, but he sure as hell isn’t not avoiding him..

A couple of weeks of awkward go by before the others have enough.

Gavin sighs whenever he sees Ryan, like he’s the stupidest person he’s ever met, fucks sake, Ryan.

Geoff tells him to get his shit together because he’s too old to keep doing this, whatever the hell that means, and Jack?

He laughs.

Like an asshole.

Jeremy looks shifty, mumbles something about idiots and blind as fuck and we were never this bad, which is both mystifying and a little terrifying.

Ryan’s an idiot, but even he’s not that dumb.

========

Probably?

========

Fuck.

He is.

========

Michael does one of three things when he’s in a Mood, as Gavin calls it.

Twisted up and angry, touch of fear wrapped up nice and neat so you wouldn’t notice it right off.

1.) Go to one of the dive bars the Lads are always sniffing out and get shitfaced drunk and someone will drag him home to let him sleep it off. (If he finds a fight before then, all the better.)

2.) Find one of the races around the city that are always happening somewhere. Throw himself into it until he stops thinking and starts reacting, burn it all out and leave it scattered behind him on the asphalt or dirt roads outside Los Santos.

3.) Gear up like he’s going to war and find a fight or start one himself.

3. a.) When it’s really bad, he’ll take it out to one of his testing grounds. (Places Ray used to practice his sniping and joke that the explosions and gunfire coming over the hill made for soothing background noise while he kept an eye on Michael.)

Ryan goes down to Michael’s workshop first, because he’s got a hunch.

The rubber duckie explosives he’s been working on for the last however many months are gone. So is the pelican case Gavin had made for them with the rubber duckie-shaped cutouts in the foam inserts.

He thinks about for a while, wanders over the whiteboard set up on one wall and Michael’s notes regarding how much firepower he packed into the damn duckies. Uses them to whittle down the places he would have gone to fuck around with them under the guise of testing them.

Realizes he’s gone to his testing grounds in Blaine County because no one gives a damn what happens up there, which is fantastic.

========

Really.

========

Michael sees him coming a mile off, and Ryan assumes he hasn’t completely fucked things up between them when he doesn’t have to dodge exploding rubber duckies as he gets closer.

Parks next to Michael’s Adder (shiny and chrome), and makes his way over.

Cautious about it, because Michael’s an asshole like the rest of him and he has one of his rubber duckie explosives in his hand, this look on his face Ryan’s never been able to read.

“Hey, asshole,” Michael greets, eyes darting to the bandage on Ryan’s neck before skipping off again.

He’s got another week until it comes off, and a few more after that until the stitches come out.

“Michael,” Ryan says, takes in the carnage he’s missed in the time Michael’s been out here.

Torn up ground, blackened bits of rock and scattered debris. Stack of paper targets pinned under a grenade to keep them from flying away in the wind before Michael can use them. (Maybe Matt has a point about their flippant disregard for silly little things like safety.)

“Douchebag,” Michael says, corner of his mouth ticking up at the look Ryan gives him. “What do you want?”

Ryan sighs, because, yeah, okay.

He’s an idiot, but Michael knew that going in. He’s had ample time to appreciate how much of a dumbass Ryan is in all the ways.

Just needed a little time to file this latest offense away, add it to all the rest and determine if everything that goes along with it is worth it.

No reason to worry, no.

Not like Ryan’s heart is on the line here, stupid and hopeless and in Michael's care for the longest time.

Michael snorts, tosses the rubber duckie he’s holding to Ryan and laughs when he flails before he catches it.

The loud, ridiculously infectious cackle he gets when something is just so damn funny he can’t help it. Apparently Ryan fumbling one of his explosive devices is one of those things, which is good to know.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan says, because why.

Michael’s still cackling, but it’s quieter now, trails off to a chuckle and then this crooked little smile on his face. Warm and fond and the way Ryan’s hear-rate kicks up at seeing it has nothing to do with near-death experiences via rubber duckie.

“Big bad Vagabond scared of a little rubber duckie? Man, if people could see you now.”

Ryan rolls his eyes because Michael's never been intimidated by Ryan or his overblown reputation.

Thinks it’s hilarious that just about everyone in the city buys into it, always finds ways to give Ryan grief over it.

“Well, I mean,” he says, holding the damn thing up to eye-level to study it. “They don’t have the full story.”

Probably for the best they don't, might take the shine off the reputation the Fakes have spent so much time building for themselves.

Michael rolls his eyes, points at the duckie Ryan’s holding.

“You're fine, you big baby. That one’s just a rubber duckie.” He kicks the pelican case at his feet, and the lid pops open, revealing its contents. “These on the other hand, will kill a motherfucker.”

Ryan looks at the rubber duckies in the case.

Knows Michael came up with a color-coded system for them, varying levels of deadly, and they’re arranged in the case accordingly,

Ryan looks at the rubber duckie he’s holding.

Back the case.

Gets this little itch, just so -

“For fuck’s sake,” Michael says, and snatches the rubber duckie Ryan’s holding to hand him one of the ones from the case. Pristine white and pretty as hell. “See if you can get it past that boulder with your shit aim.”

Ryan slides a look at Michael.

He has fantastic aim, thank you very much. It's just that sometimes he gets a little excited, doesn’t take the time to focus so much when you give him a big shiny gun or something that will make a big boom.

Michael smirks, like he thinks Ryan won’t be able to throw the damn duckie that far or with anything approaching precision.

Which, fair.

It’s a rubber duckie, weighted down with a fair bit of explosives and far from being aerodynamic in any way.

“Betting against me?” he asks, like there’s any question.

Michael shrugs, loose and easy, and punches Ryan in the shoulder. Hard, of course, wouldn't pull his strength for this one.

“Ryan,” he says, definitely lying. “I would never.”

========

Ryan shows Michael one night.

Pulls his hair away and lets him trace his fingers over the name on the back of his neck. Tells him all about some dumb kid with shitty parents growing up in the south.

Feels the tremor to them as Michael rests his hand over the back of Ryan’s neck and tells him about a really bad day he had once back in Jersey.

Assholes who wanted to teach him a lesson because some scrawny idiot of a kid crossed into their territory without realizing it. Brought out a blowtorch and then it was all screaming and pain and tissue damage where a name used to be.

Lets Ryan pull him close, laughs through what sounds like tears when he tells him what it the name was. Four little letters and one hell of a journey to get where they are.

Fate or Destiny or whatever you want to call it puts that name there, sure, but it’s what you do with it that matters, and that’s a hard lesson to learn.

Some people never figure it out, lets it turn them angry and bitter to the end, others?

They don’t get a guarantee for a happily ever after, no. They get the chance for something good, and there’s something about that Ryan likes better.

Feels like it’s within reach when nothing was before, and he’ll take it for as long as he can keep it.

#myan #jerevin #ragehappy #fahc au #prompt fills #queen-bitchiest #implied/referenced torture #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced dubcon #Kings of Nowhere #vagrant fic #(nothing graphic but i wanted to give a warning just in case #please let me know if i missed something)

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