Sigh. The last of the Georgia five, from High Octane, before the vignettes lighten up -- just like the series did. It's piggy-backed off Ham Sandwich from Daisy's Song, and was inspired by the revenuer's ongoing inability to tell whiskey from water.
It was the difference between water and whiskey. Both sufficed for wetting lips, but one burned and tingled and evoked feelings like nothing else on this earth, and the other was just – water.
The morning was moonshine from the moment Jesse announced he'd go to town early and meet the boys in front of the courthouse at ten sharp. With Daisy safely ensconced in the kitchen, the boys chased each other, giggling, into the barn, where whiskey kisses turned to one-eighty proof touching, and ended in—
Luke's reckless jump over a truck stalled in the intersection. Damn, it was a beautiful thing, the way he barely cleared the bed, followed by that wild grin on his face. If Bo had known that their stolen hours in abandoned shacks, unplowed fields and the loft of the Duke barn would bring out this giddy side of Luke he would have – well, he didn't start it in the first place, wasn't the one who shoved his cousin up against the kitchen table and announced how fine looking he was. But given what followed, if Bo had known, he would have spent a lot more time hanging around the kitchen in that blue t-shirt Luke seemed to have developed such a fondness for.
It was a good thing, after they managed to get themselves clean, properly dressed, and skidding up in front of the courthouse, that all their Uncle Jesse did was to comment on how it was about time they got there. If he'd asked what had kept them, Bo didn't exactly have a pat answer planned. It had only been a few weeks since wrestling had become this other thing, and each time it happened he expected would be the last time, so he never got around to what they'd tell Jesse if he asked.
But Jesse's mere presence was the first splash of the water of their current reality, which prohibited moonshine and included probation, both of which meant a trip up those old, dingy stairs to the local office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The echo of their steps was like school, a feeling made double by the oversized windows covered in plastic. Spoke of long, cold winters when they were stuck inside while Jesse did all the "cooking" and delivering.
The office was no better, with its hardwood floors, panel ceiling and right there, at Andy Roach's desk, a schoolmarm. R. Huntley, as Jesse called her, was just as uptight as any teacher Bo had ever been forced to sit still for, and insisted on calling him Beauregard. Then again, maybe if he could pick that bun out of her hair…
He looked to Luke, who gave him that same shrug that had passed between them since Bo first discovered that girls were fun to touch: she ain't nothing I want. You can have her. Funny how the things they did in quiet places didn't seem to affect the things they did in loud ones. She was water to Luke's whiskey, but if a man didn't drink, he'd die.
And by the time the morning worked its way into being afternoon, he got his whiskey and his water, both. Luke and Jesse could call it fuel if they wanted, hell, they could call it mule shit and he didn't care. They were up at their only functional still site cooking up a batch of Duke moonshine, and that was just the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae of a day. He'd take sneaking through the woods to that special little clearing by the creek over walking around behind a mule, fighting to keep the plow upright and a safe distance from his chin, in case the tip skimmed off an underground root. Yeah, whiskey days were the best of all and should always be taken straight up.
Then again, water had a way of seeping its way in where it wasn't wanted, like through roof tops and into basements, and every rare once in a while, up to still sites. That familiar tinkle and clunk on the south trip wire was all the flood warning he needed make him drop the task at hand and go see if he could build a dike.
Got to the source of the trouble to find Luke facing off with a pretty enough blonde ditz with a dry fly on a casting rod. Stomped down his desire to deck one or the both of them, because it was even odds what would bother Jesse more: Bo hitting his cousin or smacking a girl. Besides, with any luck she'd be too stupid for Luke's tastes.
Seemed likely, the way she marched right up to the still and took a sniff of the vapors escaping from the coil. Still, for all that she clearly wasn't bright, Luke caught her on her way down to the ground in a dead faint, and Bo was reckoned that it had better be chivalry that made him do it.
All that pent up frustration made it doubly odd that he and Luke wound up working together to undress her. With Jesse present the process had to stop abruptly after the wig, glasses, badge and gun, but up until that point it was a joint effort, getting the girl out of her attire. And things got even odder when the blonde transformed herself into that very R. Huntley that Luke had not only shown no interest in, but given Bo tacit permission to pursue.
"You think we ought to give her mouth-to-mouth recreation?" After all, Jesse had left them with orders to bring her around, and Bo was conveniently placed to attend to all of her breathing needs.
Luke didn't think he was cute. "You mean resuscitation."
"Oh, maybe. But, uh, I bet I'm a whole lot closer to the truth than you are." Stopped just short of winking at Luke and applied himself to the task.
And his thanks for saving the young lady's life was insult: "You're under arrest," from the damsel no longer in distress.
Followed by injury: "Maybe it's your technique," was Luke's helpful suggestion. Snide look on his face, too. Like he knew what he was talking about, like he didn't much care for how Bo went about his oral recreation. Which was just fine, because Bo had the girl, even if she was about as bland as water.
And moving in with them. Relegated to his and Luke's care for the night so Jesse could slip off to the still without them. In the old metal tub in the kitchen, with Daisy at her side.
Bo was figuring out exactly how to make the best out of that little situation when Luke grabbed him by the upper arm and shoved until they were in their room with the door closed. Hot spots where Luke was touching him, like strong whiskey burning all the way to his stomach.
"Here's the plan." Matter-of-fact tone, hard stare into his eyes. "You do exactly what it takes to get her drunk. Exactly."
"Luke!" You're hurting me, or you said I could or both, ready to foam right back out of his mouth, but there was no time before his back hit the wall.
And there was Luke's dangerously quiet voice: "We ain't got time to fight, Bo." Interesting what they did have time for, though. Rough kiss, hard teeth behind it, like the kind of whiskey that could blind a man, made with lye. Fingers in his arm digging in hard enough that each bruise was likely to be punctuated by a half-moon nail imprint just above. Then Luke was gone, not touching him anywhere. Slapping a black handkerchief on a hanger, or maybe that was Daisy's slinky underwear, into his hand. "Exactly what it takes, Bo." And Luke was slamming out of their room.
Bo didn't see either R. Huntley, who turned into Roxanne somewhere around the time she let her hair down, or Luke until it was time to pile into the car and head for the Boar's Nest. Luke drove like a gentleman, leaving the back seat to Bo and Roxanne. Blue eyes in a rearview mirror and Bo didn't have a clue what he was supposed to be doing.
"Show her a good time, Bo," his cousin suggested as he chauffeured them at a demure fifty-five.
Well, fine. Rocks and hard places didn't exist in this situation. Just like Luke's knuckles weren't white with the way he was gripping the steering wheel.
To the letter, he followed Luke's instructions. Made sure the girl wound up with mason jars of whiskey to his water (and at least Luke got to have a couple beers) touched her only exactly as much as he needed to, and never with his lips. And felt those blue eyes burning into his back the whole night until, mercifully, Roxanne's eyes rolled back into her head and it was time to take her home.
The girl wound up exactly where she was supposed to, Daisy's bed, on her stomach, wearing everything except her shoes, and a garbage pail within easy reach.
Bo wound up against the wall of his own bedroom, Luke's fingers on his arms making sure that the bruises left there earlier would be a fine shade of purple, lips dishing out their own sort of a beating and it wouldn't really surprise him if they came out purple, too. He fought back just as hard; it wasn't his idea of fun to sidle up to a girl without any chance for seeing things through. Without Luke's damned jealous eyes—
And that was where it all fell apart. Luke was jealous. Couldn't say he'd ever seen that before, at least not in this context. Scornful, yes, angry, most definitely. Protective on a good day. Never jealous.
He didn't have much to turn this thing around with, mostly fingertips and lips. So he used the former to make small soothing circles on the only part of Luke he could reach, hard elbows. Did what he could with his lips, numb as they were, just to accept what Luke was telling him, about how he shouldn't quench his thirst with water, not when there was whiskey available for the taking. Slowed everything down to a panting stop, Luke's breath in his ear, and face nowhere he could see it. Heavy body still pinning him to the wall, both of them hard and ready to go.
"Loft?" Bo suggested into that wild dark hair that was trying to creep into his mouth.
And just like that, there was only a cool breeze where Luke's body had been. "Not with the girl in the house, Bo."
"She ain't that drunk." They didn't need to baby-sit her, anyway. She was probably far enough gone that they could do it here, if Daisy wasn't due home soon enough.
"We ain't," blue fire, pinning Bo to the wall every bit as firmly as Luke's hands had, "doing nothing until she's gone." Because water and whiskey didn't mix. "So you just," Luke's hand in the air, crude gesture, "do what you got to." And that, apparently was that. Use your hand, cuz. I'm gone.
And he just about was, halfway through the bedroom door when Bo caught him, hand on his upper arm. Luke pulled away from the touch, but turned halfway to favor Bo with a squint-eyed, flat-lipped look. This better be good, that look said. Because I'm through having this discussion.
"Luke," and he was pretty sure he kept his voice from pleading. It was just going to be a question. "Where are you going?"
Got a big sigh in answer, like it was such a burden explaining things to his stupid kid cousin. "To get things ready for the morning." Right, they still had to see the rest of this thing through before they could get rid of Roxanne. Another sigh, enough that it seemed like Luke ought to be passing out from a lack of oxygen. Except he sucked some air in; Bo knew this to be fact because his cousin was suddenly that close again. Soft fingers on his shoulders, gentle lips pressing against his. (It'll be okay.) Just for a second and then Luke was gone, lips and all, out the door.
It was daylight before he saw Luke again, stood side by side with him as Jesse laid out the last part of the plan. Nothing but a cousin, standing stiff at his side, doing exactly what it would take to get their "fuel" to the contest and the revenuer out of their house. Nothing more nor less than that. Watching Jesse leave from inside the barn, same place they'd been yesterday at this same time, but today there would be no whiskey for them. Just more water than he honestly felt like dealing with.
Luke stood behind him, catching what Bo threw at him. Made it look effortless, the way he opened his arms and accepted the weight, no matter how poorly aimed the throw was. Smooth as Jesse's finest, until the girl showed up again.
So they let themselves be arrested, not once but twice. Second time around they wound up in the back of Enos' cruiser, Luke firmly planted between him and Roxanne. Which was fine, it let him rest against his cousin's warm shoulder just like he had the last time they'd gotten busted for running moonshine.
Wound up leaving the girl, Enos and jugs of water in the county jail. At first he objected to the notion, but Luke's simple explanation reminded him. They were ready to be free of all inferior methods of quenching their thirst. He and Luke set off in Enos's cruiser, in pursuit of whiskey. Took some doing, hours of hurry up and wait, getting threatened with prison and driven through the wall of a half-rotted barn. Eventually, though, it was just him and Luke, left on the side of the road with Jesse's black runner and nothing to do until the old man took Roxanne back to town and found a way back to them with enough gasoline to get them home.
Then, finally, there were whiskey kisses, drunken steps into the back seat of Sweet Tilly, an intoxicating rhythm of hands and hips finding their way to all the right places. Potent enough, probably, to get the car running again, if they'd wanted to. For now, though, they were content to settle here, hung over and waiting to be ready for some hair of the dog.