I still don't know what these little things are, where they come from and why they pop out when they do. I guess they're my verbal equivalent to photos. They are, each of them, complete. And I won't say this will be my last, because I don't know.
I own nothing but the words.
Cheers!
"Bo!"
The blonde flinched. No one could accuse Luke of whining, but there was a certain up-down-up quality that, if his voice had not been so deep, with less of a growl to it, would certainly resemble a whine all the same.
Not so very long ago, the younger of the Duke cousins might have responded with a grin, and, if circumstances allowed for it, an innocent, "What?"
At the moment, Bo was too busy finishing what he'd started, or trying to anyway, to say anything to Luke. But if he'd been able to, he might have apologized.
His older cousin had always been frustrated by his impulsivity, and throughout their lives the blonde had heard his own name spoken in Luke's you're-a-complete-idiot tone of voice more times than he could count. Sometimes it could anger Bo, the way his cousin came off as so smart all the time, when to Bo's way of thinking, he was just more cautious. But usually, the younger of the boys found it to be hours of fun, annoying Luke like that. A raised eyebrow, a tuneless whistle, an I'm-not-listening-to-you attitude that had taken all his life to perfect, were the best weapons against a bossy big cousin.
Right this minute, though, if Bo was to wish for weapons, even harmless little head-games kinds of weapons, he wouldn't use them against Luke.
The Duke boys took risks like they took showers: at least every other day, and with the confidence that they would emerge unscathed, though when all was said and done, their hair might need a good combing. Those times that Luke tried to hold Bo back were more about avoiding unnecessary hassles than anything. Neither boy had ever been known to be particularly careful, or when it came right down to it, genuinely smart. Luke could dream up great schemes and manipulate others into carrying them out, but no one could call him intelligent when he'd climb out the window of a moving car, then walk to the front of the hood, even if he claimed to have really good reasons.
So it was with the usual abandon that the boys had antagonized some obnoxious patrons at the Boar's Nest a few months ago. Bo and Luke hadn't started it, of course, but they had planned on finishing it. For once it hadn't been about Daisy, who had been off that night. But a few snide words said about Hazzard and its residents had led to a few snappy answers, and suddenly, a brawl. As usual, Bo was right in the middle, and focused solely on the task at hand, teaching a lesson to the interlopers. He didn't have to look to know where his cousin was, he could hear the give and take to his left. He knew Luke was keeping an eye on him, though. Somehow the brunette had always managed to both fight and watch over his younger cousin at the same time.
Bo didn't see it happen, he just heard the scream and what followed. Rosco had seen it all from the corner where he'd been standing, just watching. The sheriff wasn't in the habit of breaking up fights unless there was a compelling reason, like the County Commissioner prodding him to make it stop before the place got destroyed. But as soon as the aging lawman saw the knife come out and slice through the air, he'd pulled out his service revolver, intent on keeping things from getting completely out of control.
The reflexes of a man who would prefer never to have to use them are very sluggish, almost slow motion, when you've just heard your cousin scream the way Bo had. There was anger in the scream, and pain. And when Bo looked, there was blood, a lot of it. This was not the sort of thing that happened to the Duke boys. A bloody nose, a split lip, a black eye, these were acceptable outcomes of a battle like this. Not so much blood, not on Luke's shirt like that, and his face, too.
Finally, Rosco's gun drowned out Luke's roar and Bo's counter-holler. The combatants were pulled apart, and Bo could see that while Luke was the worse for wear, he was probably going to live. In fact, he was mad as heck, and without Bo trying to both restrain and get a good look at him at the same time, he probably would have attempted retaliation against his attacker. The fear in Bo's eyes stopped him.
Brawlers were sorted in various directions, toward jails and hospitals, accordingly. Even the taciturn sheriff had no heart for arresting the Dukes that night, seeing as they had been on the losing side of an unfair fight. Luke wanted to go home, but he hadn't seen himself. There was no way Bo was letting him go anywhere but the hospital, and Rosco agreed; the boys were free to go, if and only if they went to Tri-County.
It turned out the knife had caught Luke's chin, though it might have been aimed for his neck; they'd never know. And the gash, while it had bled a lot, was not serious. With a few stitches, Luke was sent on his way. An unusually pale Bo tried to help him to the car, but Luke shook him off.
"I'm fine, Bo."
The night had passed, and Luke healed. They didn't talk about it, but then, they wouldn't have. They were boys, used to the bumps and bruises of life in Hazzard. But now, every time Bo heard that frustrated growl, the up-down-up of Luke's voice, he winced. And as the fight -- which he'd dived into as recklessly as he always did -- progressed, the blonde found ways to watch his opponent with one eye, and his surrogate older brother with the other.
Bo had learned to worry.