#lw.

He’s fine most days. That’s the line he feeds everyone who asks about his father. Somedays it’s because he really is fine, others it’s because he knows his father wouldn’t want everyone in town knowing what state he’s really in. When he tells Ari that Jim is okay, it’s because he doesn’t want her to worry. Most of the time though, it’s just because he’s too tired to talk about it. For Liza though? She gets the truth of it. As soft as he can make it, but still the truth. “It’s not lookin’ good, Lizard.”

Her accusation catches him off guard, mid inhale. His throat tightens and thick smoke hits his lungs too fast. And before he knows it, Thatcher is doubled over seized by a coughing fit. “Don’t,” he chokes out, alarm clear in his voice. “Just don’t.” How Liza knew something that Thatcher has never once admitted to out loud, Thatcher will never know. A magazine tucked under his bed, discovered by a snooping sister? An app alert on his phone with an icon she recognized? Maybe she could just tell that there was something more they had in common than their last name.

It has always made Thatcher feel closer to her, even if he’ll never admit to it. But it’s also made him just a little terrified of her. “Whatever you think I am, keep it to yourself.” He wants it to sound like a command, but between the anxiety in his chest and the smoke in his lungs, he knows he sounds like he’s begging. “Sorry it’s not as good as whatever wild shit they got in the city. Out here we just gotta make do with what we got.” Hopefully it’s clear to Liza that he’s not just talking about the pot.

“Besides, you took one hit. You gotta give it a minute. I know you’re not new to this.”

The nickname ‘Lizard’ makes her recoil, like she’s twelve again and failing to be taken seriously, just like when Jim takes it upon himself to call her Lizzie just to make her feel small. Usually it makes Liza absolutely feral, but there’s comfort in hearing it from Thatcher right now, while they’re sitting in the still silence of the evening and connecting over their father’s eventual downfall. She makes a noncommittal noise of understanding, subconsciously huddling into the swing and closer to her big brother, as if he might be able to shield her from all the shit that’s going on in their lives. As much as Liza likes to pretend she’s big and bad and needs no one to protect her, it’s nice to think Thatch might be there to do it anyway.

His instant alarm at her innocent comment has her snickering, watching him while he doubles over himself. “It’s been kept, Thatch. Doesn’t make it any less true.” Liza has never felt the need to hide her sexuality, nor has she felt the need to define it. She fucks who she fucks and that’s it, but Thatcher has always treated his preferences like a dirty secret. He’s ashamed, she’s sure, and afraid and Liza would feel bad for him if she didn’t find it so goddamn annoying. She gets it, though — because she’s sure Jim would have a cow if he figured out that his golden boy was anything other than straight and narrow. “But I’ll shut up.” Maybe, but she leaves that part off.

Asa: Get what?

Liza has never been an early riser, but sometimes her end of the night end up being everyone else’s early morning, and at that point she usually just finds it easier to just stay awake. It’d been that way when she stumbled home at the crack of dawn earlier, mascara staining her under eyes from the night she’d before, heels in hand as she did the walk of shame into her father’s house after lugging herself home from a one night stand who’s name she had no intention of remembering. She isn’t proud of it, and the last thing she’d want is one of her brothers or her father or Santino seeing her like this (and she’s not exactly keen on dissecting the reason behind that so early in the morning either), so she quickly makes a beeline for the back door of the house in an attempt to sneak inside and up to her room for a shower, but not before noticing some hands standing around the corral watching someone get knocked sideways by what looks like the most neurotic horse she’s ever seen — and of course, after she stops to get a closer look, she realizes it’s her fucking brother.

By the time Buck finds his way back to the house it’s much later in the morning, and Liza is fresh as a daisy sitting at the kitchen island, the sins she committed the night before washed down the drain like nothing happened at all. “Mornin’.” She’s oddly cheerful as she greets her brother, all smiles as she cuts into a disgustingly syrup-y pancake in an attempt to curb her hangover. And it’d be weird, except her joy is a product of her watching him almost kill himself on a horse earlier that morning before even some of the birds had started chirping. “Watched you try to break that new stallion earlier. You bust a nut too or just your skull gettin’ bucked off that thing?” At this point, Liza swears her brother must get off on getting the shit beat out of him by the animals he rides, and she’ll never let him live it down.

In an instant, she’s joking about her heel and, fittingly, murder. Santino can’t help but laugh, feeling like all his insides are suddenly glowing and golden-colored. “How do you know this is my main home? I might have many...” He argues in response, his brows quirking upward in amusement. “This could very easily be the murder home or whatever you’d like to call it. Also, the heel is just too easy. Come on, Liza.” Laughter weaves through his words, the apples of his cheeks burning as he leads her up to the front of his house. It’s nothing fancy, nothing that could measure up to what Liza Ward truly deserves, but it’s enough for now. He hopes a pot of coffee will suffice for the lackluster nature of his living situation.

He plucks his keys from his back pocket and carefully pokes his housekey through the lock. And, in classic Santino fashion, he holds the door open for Liza. “After you, mi querida.” He says warmly, nodding to the inside of his home. His keys are placed on the table beside the front door, Santino closing it once he’s also inside. He removes his jacket soon after, hanging it from the hook near the front. “Kitchen’s to the right.” He says, padding behind her before circling into the kitchen. The pot was settled on the counter, right where he left it before heading out to pick Liza up.

“I can’t remember if you’ve ever been here before. Is that bad?” It has been over a decade since they were alone together so, in hindsight, the question was justified. “I bought this place around when I came back from New York. Mi madre insisted on decorating the place.” Which is why it looked so homey on the inside, truth be told. After pouring Liza a mug, he places it gently onto the dining room table before sitting opposite of her. That same nervousness from earlier rises to the surface once more. “What’s it like being back, hm?” He asks, though a part of him feels she may not want to discuss it. He might’ve asked out of instinctual politeness, knowing his own mother would shake her head at him if he allowed the question to go unasked. “You don’t have to answer. I’ve got a cigar with your name on it if you prefer that instead.”

Sometimes Liza thinks her fondness for Santino stems from his unflinching ability to keep up with her. It doesn’t matter what crazy antics she gets up to or what absurd thing comes out of her mouth, he’s always right there in step with her, looking at her with that smile of his that makes her feel like she could do or say even the most outrageous thing and he’d still look at her the same way he always has. That undying support of his sometimes makes Liza want to be a little bit better of a person, just to feel like she’s earned it — and at the same time, it’s admittedly what makes her reckless at times when she feels as though she doesn’t deserve to be seen the way he sees her. But no matter what she does, Santino’s faith in her is seemingly unfaltering, and it’s apparent when he laughs and jokes with her, when he leads her to the house and when he opens the door for her like the gentleman he is. No matter what, it’s always there.

The house she steps into is warm and inviting, mirroring the man who lives in it. Liza’s sure it’s his presence that makes it that way, though, and anywhere he put roots down would give that essence off. She marvels at the place as she makes her way to the kitchen, taking in every little detail because surprisingly enough, this is her first time here. “I haven’t yet. But it’s nice,” she says simply, no jabs or jokes like she’d usually give. Coming from Liza, nice is probably the highest compliment in the world. She runs her fingers over a picture frame holding a picture of his family that she’s grown to love too just before taking a seat at the dining room table, letting Santino serve her coffee like the gracious host he is.

She’d be content to just sit in silence and soak up all of the warmth Santino can give her for as long as possible, since she’s practically starved for it, but it’s unsurprising that Santino wants to ask about her and how she’s doing. Liza bristles slightly at the question — because the answer is fucking terrible and she’s had to keep that to herself every time almost anyone else has asked her how it is being back in Montana. But there are no secrets with Santino, and if she wants to let out all of her feelings about being home, he’s the person to talk about it with. “It fucking sucks,” she starts, something between a scoff and a laugh leaving her and honestly, she feels relief finally letting that out. 

Charlie: *mouth full of donuts* . . .no.

Lucy: Then what's that white powder on your jeans?!