This was written for a prompt from norgbelulah at the summer in Harlan meme at livejournal. Many thanks to LaurieM for getting Boyd to talk to me. -)
-o-o-o Ava o-o-o-
Her shoulder aches and burns. No matter which way she lies, drifting in and out of lucidity, the pain is always there, poker hot. She hears different voices murmuring, laughter even, but the words remain just out of reach. No matter how she strains to hear, her ears won't open enough to let her make sense of anything. Her eyes won't open either. They're heavy, as if weighted down like when she and Jenny Rose used to lie in the sun with cucumber slices on their eyelids like the magazines said celebrities did. But the cucumber slices were cool and pleasurable, even in the blazing Harlan sun, and whatever holds her eyes closed now is searing and the pressure is unpleasant.
Her eyes and ears are closed, but her mouth opens, and she hears herself moan as if from far away. A calloused hand holds her arm. Warm breath falls against her cheek and there's a whisper. 'Sleep, now Ava baby. Sleep.' She feels a tiny pinch and everything fades to black.
He watches her constantly, waiting for the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, unable to concentrate on the book he holds in his lap. He turns the pages and reads the words but the narrative is incomprehensible. He should admit defeat and put the book down but then there would be nothing to do but stare at the four walls of the bedroom and curse Dickie Bennett.
If the Bible is true and desiring a man dead, planning and plotting his death in your mind in a myriad of ways, is the same as killing him with your hands, Boyd knows he is culpable of murdering the man a hundred times over. His internal monologue rails against Raylan Givens as well, for foiling his revenge to serve his own purposes. He should have taken Dickie and left the man hanging. But there's nothing to be done. So he turns the pages and reads the words and waits.
-o-o-o- Raylan -o-o-o-
The last thing he recalls is darkness closing in on the edges of his vision like a movie screen fading to black and hands grasping him, easing him down and down. He's jarred out of the nothingness by strange voices. '1...2...3...up!' He's being lifted, suspended somehow, then something solid and moving is under him. A familiar hand grasps his, and the insistent click of high-heels on hard floor, quickening as he's propelled forward, confirms her identity. He's surprised and grateful that she's here. He focuses all his strength on holding on, but his muscles refuse to cooperate and her fingers slip away as he continues moving.
The light hurts his eyes even though they're closed. An unrelenting beep from somewhere nearby penetrates the haze in his brain, making it impossible to sink back into the comforting oblivion. He tries to turn away from the noise, but a stab of agony makes him lose his breath. 'Shhh. Raylan. Don't move, Honey.' Soft fingers brush the hair from his face and a kiss lingers on his forehead. Then there's a rush of warmth in his veins and he's gone again.
It's Johnny who brings the news. Doyle and Mags are dead. Dickie's in jail, and Raylan, well, Raylan's been shot.
"How bad?" Boyd asks, echoing Raylan's own words of yesterday... Was it really only yesterday?
Johnny shakes his head. "Took him off in the wagon. He wasn't dead. That's all I know."
"Arlo know?"
"Don't know. You want I should head over there and tell him?"
"Yeah, go." Boyd waves a hand. "Give him a ride in if he wants to go."
Johnny snorts. "He won't."
He climbs the stairs and resumes his bedside vigil. Ava stirs, and he feels her for any sign of fever that would indicate infection. Her brow is blessedly cool and he involuntarily says a prayer of thanks. He thinks of Raylan and remembers his bullet, remembers waking up and feeling a purpose, a calling. He remembers where that led and he remembers every shovelful of how it ended. He adds to his prayer a plea that this bullet passes out of Raylan without altering the man.
-o-o-o- Ava -o-o-o-
It's dusk and it's summer and she hears her mama's voice calling to her down through the holler as she runs and laughs, grasping Jenny's hand and stooping down behind a bush, hiding from Bowman and his brothers.
'Ava!' Mama calls again and she reaches once more for Jenny's hand, but Jenny is gone and the Bowman who's chasing her isn't the smiling boy with the chipped front tooth but the drunk and angry shell of a man he became. Fear freezes her in her place. She opens her mouth to scream but no sound comes out.
'Ava.' Someone speaks her name again, low and soft, and a hand strokes her arm and grips her fingers. "It's all right, Baby, You're safe. I've got you." She holds the hand and listens to his voice, warm and familiar, and the fear subsides.
He waits until she's had the next dose of medicine and he knows she'll sleep for nearly all of the afternoon. A contrite Devil is standing guard with Johnny despite the absence of any obvious threat. Ava's manager from the beauty parlor, happy to have a use besides fixing casseroles that remain uneaten in the icebox, sits beside her to keep watch. He hates to leave her, but there's someone else he wants...no, needs to see.
-o-o-o- Raylan -o-o-o-
He's squatting in the dirt near the front steps arranging the last of the sticks and stones into the perfect miniature fort. The whole of the late summer afternoon has been spent on the structure. The other boys abandoned him for the swimming hole an hour ago, but now he's finally satisfied. As he reaches to carefully position the first plastic figure in the perfect spot, a heavy boot comes down, crushing the day's efforts. Looking up, he sees his daddy's sneer, eyes narrowed, daring him to cry. He balls his hands into fists and swallows his misery at his own helplessness, adding it to the hard knot of anger ever-present in his belly. Someday...
His memory flashes forward to a Harlan jail cell and he feels the rush as his fist connects with Arlo's face again and again. He wonders if any beating would ever be enough to unknot his fury. He groans in frustration and a warm hand pries his fist open, slim fingers entwining with his. 'I'm right here, Raylan. I'm not going anywhere.' This time his muscles obey and he clutches her hand and doesn't let go.
-o-o-o- Boyd -o-o-o-
The door glides open soundlessly and Boyd eases it closed behind him. The lights are low, heavy drapes at the windows pulled closed against the afternoon sun, and the only sound is the steady high pulse of the monitor, annoying and reassuring at the same time. The man on the bed lies completely still and it takes him a moment of reflection to realize that he's never seen Raylan immobile. It's disquieting, and makes his gut clench uncomfortably.
A chair is pulled close to the bed and curled within it is the woman from the funeral. The ex-wife...Winona, if Boyd recollects correctly. One hand rests on the sheet, fingers curled around Raylan's. The blanket has slipped from her shoulders and Boyd carefully replaces it. She doesn't stir. There's a book open on her lap, dangerously close to falling on the floor. He eases it closed. Loathe to fold a corner and mar the page, he uses a tissue from the box on the bedside to mark her place and sets the book on the floor softly. The title takes him aback and he studies the two of them with dark eyes, first the woman, then Raylan. A slow smile crosses his face, changing its contours. Well. Life does go on.
He pulls the book he's been reading from his pocket. While it sealed his faith at that time, his Biblical knowledge was not a sudden epiphany from Raylan's bullet. The chaplain of his army unit was a tall, hawk-nosed Harvard divinity school graduate, with a badly receding hairline and a manner as gentle and tender hearted as his appearance was harsh. He saw Boyd's unabashed envy of his vast collection of reading material, and gave him generous access. He'd worked his way through Barth, Lewis, and Tillich and reveled in late night into early morning discussions and friendly arguments with the chaplain. But he'd never gotten around to Bonhoeffer. When he left for home, the chaplain had pressed the book into his hands, telling him it was the most important book he'd ever read. He'd thought it lost, in the years since, but had come upon it in a box of things long stored away and picked it up. He's not sure he's made much sense of it, in his addled anxious state of the past few days, but he desperately desires to believe this much; there is grace.
Grace. It's the only thing that explains what he has found with Ava, what Raylan has evidently rediscovered with his ex-wife. None of it is what's deserved. None of it can be earned. All that is left is to be grateful and act accordingly. Whether or not the road either of them have chosen will allow that is something else altogether. But still, there is grace.
He holds the book in his hand for a moment. He knows full well it isn't the kind of book Raylan would read, if Raylan reads books at all. Still, it was given to him and it feels right to pass it on. He tucks the book beside the pillow where it will be easily seen, lays a hand briefly on his friend's shoulder, and makes his exit. It's a long drive back to Harlan and he wants to be there when Ava wakes.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-