Maverick had seen his fair share of violence. At home with his parents, he’d been on the receiving end of it. Through his care work, he’d helped rehabilitate young offenders just as often as he’d been there to comfort victims of harsher, more violent crimes. Even just last week, he’d watched little Tilly Booker whack Dylan Smith clean across the forehead with a ruler and had woefully groaned at the realisation that he’d have to be the one to explain that away to his sweet Mama just two classrooms over. He was no stranger to a black eye or a busted lip, but that never made it easier to stomach.
The greying Texan was acutely aware of the loveless marriage that Rafferty was trapped in, the other man’s sexuality seemingly an open secret between he and his wife that they both chose to ignore so long as he didn’t act upon it. It made him feel sick with grief for the other man, but it hadn’t been his place to interfere. All the same, he’d never truly believed that Helen was the violent kind. Cold and bitter, of course, but he was loathe to admit that the sight of Rafferty’s injury had conjured up a far more terrifying reality to Maverick. He’d imagined the other man pressed up against a wall in a darkened alley by the scruff of his collar, homophobic slurs being hurled at him while he cowered and took whatever hit came his way. What he’d never considered was that the bruising he was tending to now had been gifted to him under the safety of his own roof.
“Aw, heck. Honey, we need to get you outta here,” Maverick murmured, thoughts scrambled and distracted.
He clumsily let his hand fall to the front of Raff’s t-shirt, trembling fingers finding solace in the creases of his shirt. He knew he likely looked a darn sight worse than Rafferty right now, and he didn’t quite know how to reconcile his own concerns and worries with the sight of the man opposite him now. Was it really fair of him to unload all his problems on Rafferty after so long, particularly now when the other man was clearly going through something of his own?
“Hell, I don’t even quite know where to begin,” Mav confessed, feeling stupid. It occurred to him then that Rafferty likely didn’t know Beatrice at all. When was the last time he’d seen the other man, truly? Had he ever even met her? It pained Maverick to know that he couldn’t answer that question with any certainty.
The guilt of coming to Rafferty over Harlow was swallowing him whole, and the only thing that seemed to ease the noise in his head was the weight of Raff’s hand coming up to grip at his sleeve. Instinctively, Maverick twisted his wrist, curling his hand upward as he wrapped his fingers around the other man’s wrist. The second their skin made contact, his whole body relaxed, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled.
“My sister, Raff. She’s– She was back, she came home to me. Did you know that? Maybe you did,” Maverick rambled, all sense evading him. “But now she’s gone. She ran, darlin’, and I’m real scared it might be for good this time.”
Raff allowed himself a minute to huff quietly in what he hoped would sound like amusement. Maybe more of a dismissal. He didn’t want to waste anymore breath on Mav’s wish to get him out of his own apartment and away from Helen. It wasn’t a reality either of them would see anytime soon, if ever. And what would be the point? Neither of the short-lived causes he’d had for finally putting his foot down and turning his back on Helen were a possibility right now, so who was Raff to push misery on Helen just for him to go and lead a depressing and solitary life on his own?
He thought distantly of Wyoming and the firewatch tower that might still wait for him there. Jack’s voice crackling through his talkie. He doubted the other man would still be around even if Raff did get there though. He could be anywhere in the world, maybe even walking the same streets Raff did and he wouldn’t even know unless he heard him speak.
Pulling his attention back to Mav, he looked down, his heart squeezing itself into a fist when he realised the other man was touching him. Through his shirt, but still.
Somehow, that light and innocent touch hurt worse than the pain pulsing by his eye, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Mav to move his hand. Not when he looked the way he did right now, like all the colour had been drained from the world.
Absently, and he hoped not maliciously - but who could control a jealous heart? - Raff wondered if Mav was here after having some sort of argument with Harlow. It didn’t seem likely; both men hardly came across as a couple who quarrelled, although maybe plenty of people had said the same about him and Helen. But if it was something else bothering Maverick, then Raff didn’t understand why he was here instead of seeking comfort from his partner.
Wouldn’t everyone much prefer to be sad in the arms of a low-spoken cowboy than Raff? He was about as comforting as lying atop a jagged rock.
“Yeah, you mentioned her,” Raff said quietly when Maverick brought up his sister. He remembered Mav telling him that she had come to stay, a plus one in tow. He even remembered her name. “Beatrice, right? And her friend.”
It shouldn’t have caused his insides to twist around so much when he realised Maverick didn’t remember having that conversation with him. Evidently, speaking with Raff was not as monumental to Maverick as it was the other way around. Raff tended to remember everything that Mav said to him, but he understood that desperate sort of inclination to hang onto the other man’s every word wasn’t reciprocated.
“Oh,” he breathed, realising what Mav was telling him. It quickly wiped away his sudden desire to feel sorry for himself.
He realised where Harlow must be now: stomping the streets of the city to look for Beatrice. And, like any good older brother, Maverick had come to Rafferty to ask him to join the search party.
Back in Wyoming, he’d found a few injured animals in need of help, tracking them through the undergrowth and following their droppings with skills that were completely amateur. It was easy to see a path in cracked twigs and trampled-down bushes though. He wasn’t sure he’d have any success finding a teenage girl in somewhere as grey and impersonal as New York, especially if Beatrice didn’t want to be found.
Saying that to Mav would be like kicking an already injured dog. He couldn’t stand the heartbroken look on the other man’s face.
“Alright,” he said, reaching for his coat where it hung off the hook by the door. He busied himself with shrugging it off. “Where did you last see her?”
