Courtney Jones wakes up to the sun in her eyes. The same way she wakes up every morning, with the damn sun in her damn—
She bolts upright, panicked, wild.
But the open curtains... They're white, unlike the beige shutters her house in Texas used to have. And dust coverings rest on most of the furniture in the room, a token of the safe houses she'd been staying in the last few months.
And instead of an empty bed smelling like Justin's cologne, the window casts light on Duncan to her left, stretched haphazardly across the bed, asleep. The suit pieces spread around the room are pinstriped and black, not the greys and blues Justin wore.
Courtney gets up and jerks the blinds closed with a snap. She returns to sit on the bed and hold the sheets over her mouth and nose, shuddering, hyperventilating. As sure as her name is Courtney Jones, she tells herself, she is in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She is in a foreclosed estate on the outskirts of the city. She single-handedly robbed a store in Arkansas two weeks ago. She is a criminal and an accomplice of Duncan Clyde. She isn't back in Dallas, Texas. The last four months haven't been a dream.
She fights to breathe deep. Lying back down, Courtney watches Duncan sleep beside her, the windows casting him in strips of sunlight and highlighting every plane of skin. She runs a hand across the muscles of his back and the tendons of his arm. She traces all his scars, some with stories he's shared, some as enigmatic as the rest of him.
Once calm, Courtney gets up again. She wraps the blanket at the foot of their bed around herself in a makeshift dress and grabs a pen and the blank notebook she'd sneaked out of a general store a few days ago. After peeking out of the bedroom to make sure the others aren't up, she walks out to the terrace to get some fresh air. On the porch, she sits cross legged, opens the notebook, and stares at it.
What does she write? How does she prove to herself or to the world that the last few months have been as real as the rest of her life before? She taps her pen against her teeth.
"Mornin'."
Courtney turns around. Duncan is standing at the back door, half-awake and wholly disheveled, not a stitch of clothing on him.
"Morning yourself," Courtney says and adjusts the blanket under her arms.
Duncan snickers. "Don't get modest on my account, doll."
"If you say so," she jokes, letting the blanket sag a little more down her back.
"I do say so," he says, grinning, and sits down behind her.
She leans back into his warmth and tucks her head under his chin, then pulls the notebook back onto her lap and starts writing. Duncan yawns and doesn't say anything as she scratches across the page.
"I didn't know ya wrote poetry," he says when she puts down the pen, looking over her handiwork.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," she answers. "I haven't written any in a long time anyway."
"Why not?"
She shrugs. "I lost the inspiration when I got… well, when I ran out of things to say."
He bites the shell of her ear. "Read me some."
"I haven't written any in a really long time, Duncan," she jokes, "and don't pretend you haven't been reading it over my shoulder anyway."
"I'm half asleep and easily impressed. Go on."
Courtney laughs.
"You've been warned." She clears her throat.
"I left my old home for the city
To play in its mad dizzy whirl,
Not knowing how little of pity
It holds for a country girl.
There I fell for the line of a henchman,
A professional killer from "Chi";
I couldn't help loving him madly;
For him even now I would die."
Courtney stops, setting the book down. "It's very rough. I'm still toying around with that rhyme with 'die', and I think I want to add more of an introduction to it. Not to mention the start of that second stanza has has an extra syllable..."
She feels Duncan lean forward to peck the corner of her lips. "Yer so beautiful."
"So you've told me," she says.
"I mean it," he murmurs. Duncan pulls the blanket away and turns her in his arms to face him. His hands move to her jawline and he presses a kiss to her throat. She closes her eyes.
"I once met a gal from the country," he says, his kisses trailing down to her collarbone, "and she was anything but tame. From the moment she found me, I was dizzy with this dame."
Courtney takes his hands in hers and lowers herself down to the blanket, grinning. "Go on."
Duncan climbs atop her and presses her firmly into the wooden floor with his weight. "Her legs were like highways," he says, smiling mischieviously. "Miles and miles of Georgia peach skin. God stopped listening when I'd pray, cuz she was my new favorite sin. Or somethin'."
"Hmm," she says, running her nails through his hair. "Not bad for a first poem. Your syllable count could use some work."
"Ya better write it down," he mutters, kissing his way down her stomach, "'cause that's the last one yer ever gonna hear coming outta my lips."
"So all those times I catch you writing when you think I'm asleep," she teases, "you aren't working on your poetry?"
"Nope, just my love letters to Mr. Henry Ford for building the dandiest getaway car a less-than-legally employed cat could ask for."
"You and Harold both," she snickers, stretching her arms over her head. "You should consider marrying the man. I would understand."
Duncan lightly bites at her hips. "Would ya now?"
"So long as you don't take up poetry and quit your day job, darling."
Duncan kisses his way back up to the hollow of her throat. "Ain't planning to, doll." He spreads her legs, smirking. "My day job is way too fun."
Afterwards, Courtney revels in the slow burning pleasure. Unlike her usual messy and fast climaxes, she rides this one for long minutes, even after Duncan finishes and lays down beside her with the wind blowing through his hair. He runs his hands over her hips, stopping every so often and kissing her head.
"Duncan?" she says.
He makes a sound of approval, and she shifts her weight on the blanket to better look at him.
"I know you think Bonnie is a little girl's name, but you know the name doesn't bother me. Everyone calls me that except you."
Duncan yawns and spoons behind her. "Yer name's Courtney," he says into her ear. "I'm callin' ya by yer name."
She rolls her eyes, but nestles into his arms without further argument, using his bicep as a pillow.
"Can I ask ya something?" he says. He takes her left hand in his and holds it up to the sun. "Why do ya still wear this stupid thing?"
He twists her gold band around her ring finger and it catches the light. Courtney withdraws her hand and holds it to her chest.
"It's...good luck," she says. "Last time I ever took it off, I went to find you and you left me in the wind. Now I'm superstitious."
Duncan chuckles, takes her hand in his and twines their fingers. He hums in her ear, "I'm toying with the idea of getting ya one myself soon, so don't get too superstitious."
A mockingbird in a nearby tree makes a sound like a car horn.
"...I'm not sure I want to marry you, Duncan Clyde."
Duncan stops playing with her fingers. He props himself upon one elbow. "What? Why not?"
Courtney scrunches up her toes and looks for the bird, avoiding his eyes. "It's not you. It's just… I've been married once already and it didn't turn out too great for me."
"Peaches, I know yer not dumb enough to think I'd be anything like yer dead fish husband."
"I know, I know," she says, turning to him, "but what would it change between us?"
"Nothing," Duncan says, looking down at her. "We'd be just the same, 'cept it's official."
"Exactly. So it's just a ring you'll probably steal and legal paperwork that can be used to track us. Other than that, it's exactly what we've been doing all along, am I right?" She puts her hands on either side of his face. "Why bother?"
Duncan doesn't answer; Courtney squirms under his gaze. The mockingbird alights on the railing and chirps out an actual melody.
Slowly, Duncan lowers himself back down beside her. "I wanted to make an honest woman out of ya, but I can see I've come too late," he says. The joke sounds forced.
Courtney pushes away and turns to him. "Why does it matter to you suddenly whether we're married or not? Just because Al and Heather have rings and we don't doesn't mean what you and I have doesn't count. And just because Justin and I had rings doesn't mean that what we had did count!"
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry I brought it up, okay?" Duncan snaps.
"Why do you want to marry me anyway?" she demands. "Is doing everything you want whenever you want me to do it not enough for you anymore? You have to own me too now?"
With a groan, Duncan rolls onto his back. "Jesus Christ," he says again.
Courtney breathes deep. She breathes so deep, her lungs hurt from the stretch.
"Look, I just…" She rubs her eyes. "I had a bad start to my morning. Can we not talk about this anymore? Can we just sit here and enjoy the fucking nature?"
He huffs but doesn't move, doesn't look at her. Courtney sighs.
"I'm sorry," she says, nestling against his side. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout."
"If ya say so."
They're quiet for a long time, listening to the wind on the wheat fields as the sun climbs higher into the sky.
"I love you," she says into the skin of his shoulder. He has an angry scar there he hasn't told her about.
"I know," he answers, kissing the crown of her head. "I figured as much."
There's a sound of shuffling inside the house and a muffled clatter. Courtney jumps and sits up, Duncan following suit. She takes the blanket back and wraps herself in it.
"Another day, another heist," he groans, standing and pulling her to her feet. "You ready?"
"Does it matter?" she says, picking up her book and pen.
Duncan pinches his brow, his expression between annoyed and resigned. "If yer being pissy about this marriage talk, fine, but if ya think this is going to be too much for ya, doll, ya gotta tell me now-"
"Could you hold me?" Courtney whispers, stepping up to him.
He opens his eyes, still holding the bridge of his nose. After a beat, Duncan opens his arms and lets her settle against his chest. He wraps her in his arms as she holds the blanket up to herself. She listens to the drumming of his heart as he rubs her back until it slows and hers slows too. The mockingbird sings a final note and flies off.
"I'm ready now."
Author's Note: Courtney's poem is an excerpt from "The Story of Suicide Sal" written by the real Bonnie Parker. Duncan's line about the "dandiest getaway car" is a quote from a letter written by the real Clyde Barrow to Henry Ford. For all you Bonnie and Clyde historians out there, have you spotted any other of our Easter Eggs in MGB? Let us know!