#cordell walker is absolutely having a Terrible time and he's making Terrible decisions and i support him in it <3

[rootsmachine]

lost somewhere, somehow along the way

(aka yeah i did write walker fic, cancel me) cordell/hoyt, pre-canon, 1619 words [ao3]

Cordell Walker and Duke Culpepper have exactly one thing in common: Hoyt Rawlins.

It’s dangerous, and ill-advised, and just plain stupid. It would take one person poking around too much into Hoyt’s past for them to find article after article from your high school newspaper with your face, your name, your arm slung over Hoyt’s shoulder after a homecoming game.

But Clint needs a wheelman, and he brought it up all casual, but you know it’s a test. Bring someone onto the team, have the robbery go off without a hitch, and you’re in. You stopped asking permission before making decisions months ago, so you don’t let anyone know until the night before, weeks after you first floated Hoyt’s name. The text has barely sent when Liam calls you, and you block his number, turn your burner off instead.

You’ve always trusted Hoyt with your life. It’s more than you can say about any of the morons James could have provided.

/

Twyla’s still asleep when you leave the next morning, and you stick a note to the bathroom mirror for her. She’s nothing like Emily, which is the only way you can manage to do what you’re doing. Lying next to her in bed, everything that makes you yourself fades back into the smallest corner of your mind, and you’re just Duke. This, you make a mental note to yourself, is something you should gloss over in your psych eval after this is all over.

It’s almost an hour’s drive to the address Hoyt gave you to pick him up at. It gives you enough time to relax Duke just a bit, practice what you’re going to say to Hoyt once he’s in your truck. Part of you hopes that he didn’t bother to get your cover down, so you have something concrete to talk about for the drive back. Otherwise, he might be tempted to joke about the summer after your senior year, like he always does.

Hoyt’s jokes don’t usually even faze you, but today has to go perfectly.  As soon as you get back to Twyla’s apartment, Duke has to be absolutely solid, absolutely trustworthy, and absolutely embedded in her life. After all, Duke’s never slept with the wheelman he volunteered for the job. That was Cordell, and today, Cordell has got to be as good as dead.

/

Of course, the address Hoyt gave you was to a bar. He’s sitting alone in a booth, drinking a beer at 9:30am.

“Beau, I thought you’d never make it,” he says when you slide into the seat across from him.

“It’s Duke,” you answer, and you let Duke’s accent come across a little heavier. “Duke Culpepper.”

He laughs, flagging down the sole waitress, who looks none too pleased to be serving Hoyt more booze. “Another beer for me, and whatever your cheapest whiskey is for Duke here. Or does he have another drink of choice?”

“That’s fine,” and a voice that’s probably whatever’s left of your self-preservation instinct reminds you that you have to drive back to Twyla’s, that it’s not even 10am. You ignore it. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Hoyt lets you finish your drink in silence, and doesn’t say anything when you motion to the waitress for a second one. Last time you saw him was at Emily’s funeral, and you’re almost positive you’ll kill him if he brings it up. You know he won’t though -- he knows you better than that.

“So, Duke,” and the name falls easily from his mouth. He’s a good liar, you know this, and Liam can go fuck himself with whatever objections he would have had to this. “I know all about you, but what about me? Who am I playing here?”

“You’re Hoyt,” you answer shortly. “You’re not playing anyone.”

“Hoyt and Duke, though,” he starts, raising his eyebrows at you. You slam the empty glass on the table so hard the waitress jumps a little, glancing over at you and Hoyt like she wants you to get the fuck out.

“Are friends. I worked a job with you back in Arizona, you’re in San Antonio now looking for some work. That’s it.” Your phone buzzes, and you know it’s Twyla without even looking.

“Show time?” Hoyt asks, already pulling out his wallet.

“Show time,” and you try to give the waitress an apologetic Cordell smile on the way out. From the look on her face, it falls more than flat.

/

The job goes smoothly, more smoothly than you had even allowed yourself to hope for. Clint won’t tell you how much he got from the vaults, but from the way he nods at you as Hoyt tears away from the scene, you know you’re in.

You meet Twyla at another bar, and she throws her arms around you, kissing you hard. She tastes like bubblegum, you process distantly, and vodka.

“Too bad Crystal’s gonna be back from her hearing next week,” she says, glancing over at Hoyt, who’s watching you more intently than you like. “Otherwise, we might just have more work for you.”

“Ah,” he says, his smile big and fake, “I’m just glad to help out an old friend,” and he smacks you on the back. “Next round’s on me, yeah?”

By the time Clint comes inside, still talking to Crystal on the phone, you’ve lost count of the number of shots you’ve done, and Twyla is practically sitting in your lap. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy, and you realized probably four drinks ago that two of the three people you’ve ever slept with are sitting at this table. Sober, this realization would make you want to drink, but the tequila Twyla keeps buying makes it almost funny.

Clint leaves early, casually dropping that the babysitter had to go home before it got too late, which makes you remember with a sickening twist what exactly will happen to his and Crystal’s kid if you do your job right. Duke doesn’t have kids though, so you just squeeze Twyla’s hip and make some halfhearted joke about letting the old folks head home. The room feels too small, too warm, and it’s easy for you to blame it on the alcohol.

The bar’s bathroom is dirty, and smells like old cigarettes, but it’s quiet and empty, and no one’s there to watch when you fill up the grimy sink and hold yourself under the water until your lungs are screaming.

When you come up, wet and gasping, Duke’s face fits seamlessly over your own again, the cracks smoothed back over. Someone makes a noise by the door, and you spin around, hand already going to the gun tucked in your waistband.

“Calm down, cowboy,” and it’s just Hoyt, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with that same intent look. “Your girl sent me back, wanted to make sure you weren’t puking your guts up like a high schooler.”

“A man can’t piss without the third degree?” you snap, and Hoyt holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Don’t shoot the messenger. Twyla says you’re a lightweight,” and yeah, that is part of this cover. Supposed to keep you from drinking too much and losing control of the situation.

In another lifetime, you would have dragged Hoyt into one of the empty stalls, and done whatever you wanted to him. With him. It’s how this started, drunk in a bar that overlooked your fake IDs, fresh off Emily breaking up with you post-graduation, and your best friend the only one who understood.

But: you’re not him anymore, so you carefully dry off your hands and let the bathroom door slam shut behind you.

/

Twyla offers to let Hoyt sleep on her couch, but he shrugs it off. Logically, you know the less time Duke spends with him the better, but there’s some selfish part of you that doesn’t want to give up the familiarity just yet.

You walk him to the bus station, and don’t let him tell you where he’s going next. You know you’re already in a fuck ton of trouble with James for the way everything’s gone down, and you need plausible deniability when Hoyt continues down the path you know he’s on. The bus station is empty, which is the only reason you let yourself sit on the hard, plastic bench next to him.

“Duke,” he says and his voice is soft, in a way you’re used to him using to talk to your mom, and everything feels wrong. “Call me if you need a hand again?”

You nod, clap him on the shoulder. Twyla’s probably already wondering where you are, and you stand to leave. Hoyt’s not done though, and he grabs your wrist as you start to leave.

“Don’t lose yourself in this, Cordy,” and you’ll let the name slide, just this once. He lets go almost as quickly as he grabbed you, and you’re left disoriented, wondering if it even happened at all.

The walk back to Twyla’s is cold, or maybe you’re still drunk, or maybe high off the adrenaline of the job. Whatever it is, the walk is cold and fast and you pretend you’re too drunk to have sex with her when you finally crawl into bed.

You drape your arm across her waist instead, tuck her head under your chin, and make yourself push Cordell far, far away.

/

Three weeks later, Clint will ask if Hoyt’s available to do another job, and you’ll lie, claiming he’s been caught violating parole in Oklahoma, and you can see if any of your other contacts are available. You’ll call James for the first time in almost a month to check in, and you won’t feel anything at all.