Disclaimer: Justified ain't mine. Sadly. Comments welcome.
Author Note:This was written for norgbelulah's excellent Summer In Harlan fic meme at LiveJournal. The prompt for this story was: Boyd, things he never thought he'd say.
Truth or Dare
It isn't the words in themselves so much - they are things he knows, after all, the tools he uses more than his fists or a gun; words are old friends and familiarity and safety - no, not really the words but the person to whom they are said.
He never thought that he'd threaten his daddy, that he'd end up warning Bo that he would put an end to his business, to him, if he didn't stop.
He never thought that he would call on God and his strength and mercy and talk of faith and redemption and hope and mean it.
He didn't think that he would become the man who would call a lawman and rat out a friend, or a sort of friend, even if it had been for Dewey Crowe's own good.
He never thought that he would tell Ava that he loves her.
He had thought it, God knows, over the years. Sometimes he could taste the word on his tongue, feel it in his mouth and the need to say it would be almost too strong. He couldn't stop himself from looking at her, from standing close enough to her that her perfume would fill his head and he could feel the heat rising from her body. But he could stop himself from telling her. He could keep that word to himself, his secret hidden under layers of hardness and lust.
No, he never thought that he would get to tell Ava that he loves her.
And he certainly never imagined that he would tell her that he doesn't.
She stands with her back hard against the closed front door and her mouth is tight and thin and her eyes glitter under the harsh glare of the overhead light.
'So,' she says, 'you don't love me.'
The weight of his bag is heavy in his hand. He can't think what he has in there that could weigh so much; nothing could match the weight of what he is doing now, of taking the steps that will take him out of her door, away from her, for good this time. Perhaps this is the heaviness that he feels, the weight of his heart and his soul bleeding through his body, dripping down from his fingers.
'I don't,' he says, keeping his voice low and firm and he hates the bitterness of the words.
She takes it in, nods slightly, pushes herself away from the door and walks towards him, gets close, so close that he feels her heat, feels the haze of her scent of vanilla and amber and lily-of-the-valley.
'Say it.'
'I did,' rougher now, 'I told you. I don't.'
There's a twist to her mouth and the glitter of her eyes becomes sparks that dance and flare. 'Say all of it. Say all the words, Boyd, look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me.'
He had steeled himself, made his preparations, but he finds himself wholly unprepared for this, for her, for the way she holds her face close to his and demands the lie.
'I-' He takes a breath, grasps the bag tighter and tells himself that he will push past her if he has to.
She is so fragile.
And so strong; and so fierce.
'Ava...'
'I am so tired,' she says, 'so damn tired of people making decisions about my life for me.'
'I can't stay, Ava, I can't bring to your door more trouble than I have already.'
'Maybe you should try asking me, then. That's polite, ain't it?'
'Polite?'
She smiles slightly. 'Polite. It means courteous, civil.' Her head tilts, considering him. 'Gentlemanly.'
He hesitates, still, and she is unrelenting, still.
And then he says the words that he has rarely allowed himself to think, let alone say. 'I'm scared.'
Her fingers close around his, pulls the bag from them and she lowers it to the floor. She rests her hands on his shoulders. 'Well, I'm not.'