#outlaw!reader

Jason Todd hated grocery stores.

No, scratch that. Jason Todd loathed grocery stores.

The harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the aisles packed with too many strangers, the squeaky carts with wheels that never rolled straight, the cheap pop music on loop.

It was torture.

It was hell.

And yet, somehow, here he was.

Pushing a cart. In public. In broad daylight.

Like a normal person.

(He was not a normal person. He would never be a normal person. And yet, here he was.)

All because you asked.

Correction: all because you smiled.

That was really all it took.

He could face down armed gangs without flinching, but the second you tilted your head, eyes soft, voice lilting with a “Come with me?”… he was done. Gone. Over. Hook, line, and sinker.

It was like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.

Yeah that smile.

You wielded it like a weapon, and Jason, the big scary Red Hood, had absolutely zero defenses against it.

So now? He was following you through the cereal aisle, scowling at a display of Pop-Tarts like it owed him money, while you hummed happily to yourself, comparing nutrition labels with more focus than you ever showed on an actual mission.

“Which one do you like better?” you asked, holding up two boxes of cereal like you were presenting evidence in court.

Jason blinked. “They taste the same.”

You gasped like he’d just committed treason. “Excuse me? Cinnamon Crunch and Honey Crunch are not the same.”

“They’re literally just sugar in different shapes.”

“Jason Todd,” you said, scandalized, jabbing a finger at him, “you take that back.”

He smirked, enjoying how your nose crinkled when you were annoyed. “Nope. Gonna stand by it.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes and tossing both boxes into the cart with unnecessary force. Jason didn’t comment—just filed it away in his head. He made a mental note that you wanted both.

(He also made a mental note that you’d probably forget the cereal existed after eating half a bowl, but he wasn’t about to call you out. He liked the way you got excited about little things. He’d buy you ten boxes if it made you smile like that again.)

He loved when you got bossy with him. Loved that you acted like you could keep him in line. (Spoiler alert: you could.)

The trip went like that. You bouncing from aisle to aisle, hair swishing, muttering to yourself about prices, Jason pretending to complain but really just watching you.

He didn’t need to talk much. You filled the air with easy chatter—asking his opinion on pasta sauce, complaining about Roy’s weird obsession with off-brand energy drinks, telling him about the stray cat that had followed you two blocks yesterday.

Jason, meanwhile, was on a mission of his own: stealth-snacking.

Every time you turned your back, he slid another pack of Pop-Tarts or a box of snack cakes into the cart.

“Those are not on the list,” you scolded when he dropped in three packs of Pop-Tarts.

“They’re mission essentials,” he said, deadpan.

“For who?”

“For us?? Obviously.”

You gave him the world’s most dramatic eye-roll. “You’re impossible.”

Jason didn’t reply. He just smirked and kept pushing the cart, pretending he didn’t notice the way your shoulder brushed his arm every few steps. Pretending he wasn’t cataloging every little thing you reached for. Pretending he wasn’t quietly memorizing your grocery list like it was a tactical briefing.

Because here’s the thing: Jason Todd could go toe-to-toe with armed thugs without blinking. But seeing you pause in front of a shelf, tapping your lip thoughtfully while you debated between two brands of tea? That was what really took him out.

He was screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By the time you got to the checkout line, the cart was an absolute mess. Half practical groceries, half Jason’s chaos additions. You stood on tiptoe to unload everything onto the conveyor belt, muttering, “Unbelievable,” under your breath when you unearthed a suspicious number of snack cakes.

Jason leaned lazily against the cart, pretending not to watch the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder. Pretending not to notice the way you bit your lip while trying to fit everything onto the tiny counter space. Pretending not to think about how easy it would be to just step forward, brush your hair back, kiss the curve of your neck.

He swallowed hard. Looked away.

(He wasn’t doing that here. Not in public. Not with strangers watching. You deserved better than that. When he kissed you—really kissed you—it was going to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere you could both breathe. Somewhere he could actually say it first.)

So instead he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and let you huff and puff about “irresponsible snack purchases.”

He wanted to help you unload the things onto the conveyor belt, but he knew that was your favorite part.

"What'd you decide on?" Jason asks, flipping a pancake and bringing you back to the current moment.

You can't help but quirk a brow, "He’s already seen me bleed out, Jase. Think he’ll forgive a sub-par gift?"

"Absolutely not. He’s still offended Tim once got him a Batman mug."

That earns a soft snort from you, "noted."

Jason smirks, passing you a plate, "so?" he prods.

You roll your eyes but smile, accepting the breakfast, and pushing yourself to sit up on the counter. You wince a bit as your body contorts against your stitches, and Jason sends you a warning look, but you continue to smile innocently, as you settle and tuck in.

"Well, actually, I was thinking I might make him something," you admit.

"What?" Jason pauses, and for a second, his full attention is off the stove, and on you.

"Lemon lavender shortbread cookies to pair with this specialty blend of earl grey that I found in Chinatown last week," you finally concede.

"You're gonna bake?" Jason’s still staring with an awe filled look.

You were a skilled baker, your grandmother had been a formally trained patissere chef, and since the woman had practically raised you, you'd picked up a few skills of your own. You didn't bake often, it led to nostalgic feelings that often left you... unmoored. But every so often there's an occasion special enough to call for it.

More often than he'd like to admit, Jason's found you baking after hard missions. Tough losses, near misses, trying to make something good in the midst of all the bad cloying to you. He always understood. Keeping you quiet company, and forcing you to stop when your hands started shaking too bad.

"Figured with all the effort Alfred puts into feeding your family, I can make him something in return," you shrug, pointedly focused on your eggs and pancake, ignoring the way Jason was staring at you.

It's that stupid gentle look, that makes you want to spill every single thought you've ever had.

"He'll love it," Jason finally says.

Your lips twitch up, and you let out a sigh, "I could use a sous chef," you hint after a few moments of silence.

"I'd be honored," a warm hand lands right above your knee.

You're forced to look at him then, his hair a curly mess atop his head, eyes soft, his hand is warm, and you can feel the callouses against your skin.

You let it linger… just for a second, and then you let out a breath and roll your eyes, shoving Jason back with an open palm. “Your pancake is burning,” you mutter, and he whips back around.

“Oh, shit.”

...

“You know,” Jason says from his perch on the counter, legs swinging slightly, “for someone who practically begged me to be their sous, you glower everytime I so much as think about touching something.”

You glance at him with a smirk, wrist deep in sugar and flour. And it’s a sight, all big and bulky, in shorts that are borderline sinful around his thighs, and a Wonder Woman sweatshirt that Steph had gifted him last night— which he’d giddily tossed in the wash as soon as you guys got home. His curls look so soft today-

“You really could just let me help you,” he adds on.

You force yourself to stare back down at the dough you’re forming and clear your throat, “I don’t recall begging. And if I remember correctly, the last time you helped me in the kitchen, you nearly burned your eyebrows off.”

Jason grins. “It’s only a fire hazard if you don’t know how to flambe, and I know how to flambe. Plus, Alfred would revoke my kitchen rights if I ever burn down any kitchen. And at the moment, Duke, Damian, and I are the only ones with kitchen rights, and I refuse to lose to them.”

“Well, as long as our intentions are clear, Chef. Now pass me the lavender, will you?”

He reaches over, but after a beat, he shifts, holding it just out of reach, “say please.”

You narrow your eyes, “Jason.”

He dangles the herb like a cartoon villain, “Pleeaaase?” he goads.

You huff, toss a bit of flour in his direction. He pretends it hits him like a gunshot, over dramatic as always, as he tumbles off the counter, clutching at his chest and keeping the lavendar in his grip balanced the entire time.

You roll your eyes, wiping your hands on a rag, and pick up a lemon, “lavender. Now. Or I swear I’ll zest this lemon onto your pillowcase.”

Jason laughs, finally handing it over, “one might interpret your threats of violence as a love language,” he says a playful smirk on his lips.

You hum, focused on measuring, using the back of your spoon to swipe the excess, “one could make that interpretation,” you muse.

“Yeah,” he says so casually you almost miss it, “pretty bold of me, huh?”

You pause your measuring for just a moment. “Maybe just bold enough,” you offer softly.

The beat of silence stretches—not uncomfortable, but charged in that way things sometimes are with him.

“Well, you know me. Never met a limit I don’t want to push,” he shrugs, clearing his throat.

The moment breaks, and you smile despite yourself, “I think that’s the exact warning you gave me when I moved in.”

Jason watches as you knead the dough together with deft hands, sleeves rolled up and brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn’t say anything else. Just studies the way a few locks have slipped loose from the messy bun at the back of your head, the soft crease in your nose when you focus, the calm that settles over you when your hands are busy and your thoughts quiet down. You’ve got some flour on your cheek, but all it does is add to your charm.

“You’re staring,” you murmur without looking up, you always seem to know when he’s looking.

“I’m observing,” he counters, not bothering to move his gaze away.

You glance up at him, amused. “Well, observe that if this batch comes out wrong, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he says, hopping down from the counter to grab the baking tray. “But only if I get to eat your tragic failures.”

“Bold request,” you scoff, scooping dough with practiced hands, “I would never subject your delicate sensibilities to my failures,” you add.

“I don’t think you could make something I wouldn’t eat,” Jason snorts.

You flick a bit of zest at him. “Wanna help me roll these out.”

“See? You do need me.”

“Maybe,” your lip quirks, always, you think privately. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

Jason grins again, pulling off the sweatshirt before coming around the counter.

“Too late,” he winks, reaching for the rolling pin and giving you a gentle shoulder bump.

...

When the oven timer dings, you nearly rip the mitts off the hook.

You’d spent the entire time while the cookies were baking over-analyzing your process. You’d washed the dishes wondering if you’d over worked the dough, or if you’d let it chill long enough.

Jason watches from his spot on the stool, sipping the last of his coffee as you open the oven with more intensity than is strictly necessary. Wincing a bit at the ominous little creak the door gives, he was going to have to take a look at that later this week. A blast of warmth escapes as you pull the tray out and set it down carefully on the trivet.

You stare at them, lips tugging down.

Jason waits, watching as your wring your fingers together, waiting for them to set for a few minutes. The kitchen smells downright delightful with the notes of lemon and lavender in the air, as you eventually start moving the shortbread's to your cooling rack. Though Jason notes your frown has not yet dissipated.

You continue to stare, expression unreadable as you take one of the cookies and snap it in half. There’s a bit of a snap, but it looks clean and crumbles in your fingers as you stare down at it.

He can see it on your face that you’d already made a decision as you half-heatedly bring a piece up to taste.

He leans forward, “Well?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “They’re absolute rubbish.”

Jason blinks, “What?

You point at the tray with the sort of resigned despair usually reserved for funeral eulogies. “The edges are too brown, the texture’s wrong, the lavender’s too subtle…”

Jason snorts, already reaching for one. They look and smell incredible, like the ones you’d see on an add or a professional’s blog, picture perfect, he thinks, stuffing the cookie in his mouth. “oh fuck,” he says around his mouthful of shortbread, “they’re delicious.”

You swat at his hand as he reaches for another—he dodges easily, plucking more shortbreads off the rack anyway.

“Jason, they need to cool before—”

He takes another bite.

Your eye twitches as you cut yourself off.

He chews slowly, eyes closing just slightly. “Oh, no,” he says, mock-serious. “You’re right. These are trash. Burn the kitchen down, you’ll never recover.”

“Stop it,” you huff.

“I’m doing this for you. You can’t possibly let these exist. I’ll eat them all. Every last one. No one has to know, don’t worry.”

You throw the closest thing you can at his head— an oven mitt. He catches it easily, still munching on another cookie.

“They’re not balanced,” you argue, hands gesturing as your frustration mounts. “They’re meant to melt, not—crumble like regret.”

Jason blinks, then grins. “Is that what they taste like? Regret? Huh. I always assumed it’d be less lemony.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I should’ve started with the lemon sugar, and I should’ve zested over the sugar bowl, that way the oils would land on the sugar. The flour was off—I used the metal scoop instead of weighing it. Rookie mistake,” you grumble, glaring in betrayal at the cookies on the rack.

Jason finishes a fourth cookie and speaks around the bite. “Babe. I would eat these off the floor.”

You stare at him like he’s got two heads.

“They’re incredible,” he promises you.

That earns him a scoff and he frowns watching as you reach for the bowl again, muttering something about “adjusting ratios” and “fixing the butter-to-flour balance.”

Jason stands, crosses the kitchen, and places a hand lightly on your arm, just as you’re pulling out the scale.

“They’re really good,” he says, quiet this time. “You’re just panicking ‘cause it’s Alf.”

You sigh.

“That’s the problem,” you mumble. “Alfred will know the difference between a sub-par shortbread and an excellent one. I refuse to put a shitty shortbread in front of the British Butler who can make a perfect tea service in less than an hour and still have time to polish his shotgun to gleaming perfection.”

He squeezes your arm gently, looking at the clock, “so we make another batch. We got time,” he says gently and you nod, taking a breath. “But we keep this one. For scientific purposes,” he adds on, reaching over for another cookie.

You roll your eyes and huff, “Fine. You can have the regret cookies.”

Jason grins like he’s won something, “I will cherish every one.”

...

Jason watches you from the other side of the counter, arms folded, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as you mutter under your breath about lemon/lavender ratios.

“You know, I don’t think you get this focused when you’re patching me up after a mission.”

You don’t bother looking up, “That’s because you bleed on my throw pillows.”

“For someone who usually bakes to decompress, you’ve gotten awfully worked up,” he counters.

“I am not worked up,” you argue.

“You’ve elbowed me out of my own kitchen, threatened me with a dough hook, and you’re vibrating.”

“I just want them to be right,” you say, exasperated, as you finally move your gaze from the dough and back to Jason. “Alfred deserves—I don’t know! More than mediocre cookies with a lopsided bake.”

Jason rounds the counter, gently plucks the zester from your hand, and bumps your shoulder with his.

“They’ll be perfect. He’ll love ‘em. Because they’re from you. He woulda’ loved the first batch.”

You blink, a little thrown at the sudden calming effect his words seemed to have. “Stop being sincere, you’re throwing off my mania,” you huff as you grab the zester back.

“I’m sorry our years of friendship are conspiring against you,” he mocks.

You spare a few seconds to glare at him before shooing him back out of the kitchen again.

...

You’re staring down at the empty mixing bowl, hands on your hips, jaw clenched. The second batch of dough is sitting in the fridge, chilling. The first batch rests nearby on the cooling rack, half-eaten, because Jason has no self-control.

But you aren’t laughing. You’re tense. He sees it in the way your shoulders curl in, in how your eyes are bouncing from the recipe card to the bowl to the oven thermometer like the world might end if you blink wrong.

Jason walks over, slower than usual, and leans a hip against the counter next to you.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“This was supposed to be easy,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the bowl. “Just a simple family recipe. I’ve made it before. But now everything feels too much or not enough, and the butter’s too soft, and the lavender might be stale, and what if he hates them, or worse, what if he’s polite about them?”

Jason waits a beat before gently reaching out, doing his best not to laugh in the face of your frankly ridiculous panic, instead focusing on brushing flour off your cheek with the back of one knuckle.

“Okay. First of all, the lavender’s not stale, you and I both tasted it. Second, I am not polite and I’ve eaten half of the so-called disaster tray. Third…”

He takes your hands, flour and all, and wraps them lightly in his.

“Take a breath.”

You blink, “I am breathing.”

“You’re panicking and calling it breathing.”

You glare at him, but your hands stay in his.

“Jason,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, just as softly. “You want it to be perfect. You want him to feel seen. To feel appreciated.”

You nod once, too fast.

“But he already does. These cookies? They’re just a bonus.”

You sniff and blink too quickly, “You’re annoying when you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” he corrects, then tilts his head. “But I’ll accept annoying if it gets you to stop looking at the flour like it personally betrayed you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he squeezes your fingers once before letting go.

“Now,” he says, nudging the bowl with a grin, “what say you and I tackle the Not-Rubbish Batch together?”

You finally smile, small but real. “Fine. But you’re on sprinkling duty.”

Jason mock-groans, already reaching for the sugar, “Shoulda’ known this was a trap.”

The scent in the kitchen is exactly right. Lemon bright and warm, lavender soft in the air. You slide the last tray out of the oven with more care than Jason’s ever seen you use on anything but him.

He sidles closer while you plate the best dozen, tilting his head to admire them—and you.

“What’s the verdict, O judgmental one?”

You arch a brow at him, tired but satisfied, “they don’t look horrible,” you relent. Jason smirks, and your eyes level into a glare, “Don’t say ‘I told you so,’ it’s smug.”

He shrugs, amused, leaning down to you a bit, “I am smug. You’re just—”

You shove a cookie into his mouth before he can finish. “Here. Chew on that instead of your ego.”

Jason takes the bite, still grinning, even as he mumbles, “Worth it.”

...

The biscuits are secured under the seat of Jason’s bike, along with his gift, wrapped with clean folds. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, your helmet resting against his back. You’d left the kitchen a little worse for wear than you’d prefer. You’d caught Jason’s wince at its state, but promised you’d clean up once you were back later in the evening.

“Stitches?” is the first thing he asks as you both pull the helmets off.

“They’re good,” you promise.

He squints at you.

You roll your eyes, and pull up on the side of your brown leather jacket and the white sweater you had on underneath.

Jason smiles at your easy agreement. His fingers skim your side causing your nose to scrunch.

“Cold,” you mutter when he glances up at your expression.

“Sorry,” he says, though he’s still smiling at you as he pulls your gauze to the side.

“You know, some might consider this an invasion of privacy,” you note, looking down at Jaosn’s hands as he analyzed each stitch.

“One could make that interpretation,” he teases, throwing your words from this morning back at you.

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“They look good,” he finally decides, pulling your sweater back down.

“Can we go inside now?”

“Yes, lemme grab the gifts,” he nods, lifting the seat.

You hold your helmet in one hand, decorated with constellations, painted on one night when you couldn’t sleep. Your fingers trace over the constellation of Orion, eyes flickering to Jason.

“Hey,” you say suddenly.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“I’m really proud of you, you know?” The words slip past your lips, while your mind lingered on thoughts of the warrior the constellation was named after.

Jason freezes, one hand holding the gifts, and the other about to push the motorcycle seat back down. He turns his head, and you see the flush peaking at the tips of his ears. You can’t help the fond smile that takes your lips as he slowly pushes the seat. He turns back to you, clearing his throat and tugging a bit at his collar.

“I-uh…” he starts but cuts himself off.

“I mean I’m proud of you pretty much every day,” you add, realizing where he was stuck. “But today? Today I’m proud of you for being here, even though I know you’ve spent more time at the manor in the last week that you have in the last three months.”

Jason drops your gaze, and then he turns to look at the Manor itself.

He shakes his head, and runs a hand through his hair, “Family, right?”

“Right,” you nod, looping your arm around his.

His lips quirk on the ends. Not quite a smile, but it’s enough for you to see him, Jason. He turns to stare at you. “Let’s do it,” he finally says, and begins walking forward, pace just slow enough for you to match.

...

You’re welcomed in by Stephanie, who does her best British accent, dressed in a three-piece suit, and emulates Alfred’s posture and mannerisms to the best of her ability.

“Steph, thats a nice suit,”

“Thanks. I stole it from Tim’s closet like a month ago, and took it to a tailor.”

You can’t hide the snort this time around. It gains you a roll of the eyes from Jason and a bright beam from Steph.

“It’s kind of freaky,” Jason murmurs low to you, behind her back, as she leads you forward.

“I fear we’ve underestimated her,” you concede.

Jason snorts, “doubtful.”

You hide your smile behind your hand as you both arrive in the kitchen.

She leads you both into the kitchen where you find the rest of Jason's siblings seemingly hard at work. It’s a full ensemble. Dick’s on a counter pulling out the nice dishes and plates, Tim’s moving what must be the catered meal (you wouldn’t trust any of them in a kitchen…. maybe Damian… maybe), and Steph slipped out of her Alfred persona and was crouched in front of the oven.

“Quite the production,” you say softly.

“Well, none of them should be trusted to make more than a bowl of cereal,” Jason reminds you and you can’t help but quirk a smile.

“What about her?” you ask, nodding your head at Stephanie.

“Steph’s got an exception.”

“Oh?”

“Brownies.”

“She can bake?” you ask with a small smile.

“No.”

“Jason.”

“Only brownies, nothing else.”

“Your family never ceases to surprise,” you snort.

He sends you a dubious look but shrugs, before handing you the gifts and moving to help. Jason moves easily in the kitchen. You can almost imagine the teenage version of him trailing after Alfred.

You hold Jason’s gift and the small tins that make up your own as you watch. Its only a moment later when you feels someone come up behind you.

“Hello, Damian,” you greet softly.

“Tt. There's no feasible way you could have known it was me,” he argues, stepping in line with you.

“Process of elimenation,” you smirk.

He rolls his eyes, though eventually peers at the gifts in your hands, shooting you a questioning look.

One you choose to ignore, to his annoyance and your joy.

“How is your injury?”

You tilt your head, “It’s fine, your brother is just overly cautious.”

Damian snorts, and looks offended a second later for allowing such a sound, much to your amusement.

“Todd is rarely cautious, overtly or not.”

“Guess I’m just special then,” you shrug.

“Perhaps so,” is what Damian finally offers up.

You had meant it, in part as a jest, but Damian doesn't argue and your eyes flick back to Jason who's arguing with Tim about proper serving dishes, and you know it’s true.

"High praise from the peanut gallery," you mutter, smiling.

...

Dinner’s less chaotic than most gatherings. Alfred insists on a proper meal, real silverware and polished glasses. The table is full—Bruce at the head, the rest spread out, You're sat beside Jason, across from Steph.

You sit and listen as everybody exchanges stories. Jason stays on the edge of a few conversations, as if he’s afraid to jump in. Part of you recognizes that he may have never heard a few of these stories, that he hadn’t been there.

You let your knee bump his whenever he gets a little too quiet. His knee presses against yours as his shoulders relax. It’s halfway through a story Dick’s telling, about how Alfred has always shouldered more than necessary, and to his credit, he’s doing a good job of talking around what was being shouldered at the time this story took place. Picking and choosing his words carefully enough, but everyone in the room could read through the lines. After someone had gone away.

Your knee presses to his again, and this time as it pulls back, his hand drops to it. Warm and calloused as he holds your knee in place. You blink, turning to him slightly, and when you see the tense line of him, you purposefully look back to Dick. Letting Jason ground himself, with a hand on your knee and your attention elsewhere.

...

It’s not until the meal is done, and dishes are picked up when you manage to catch Alfred alone in the hallway. Everyone has started migrating to the sitting room with their cups of cocoa. Stephanie, Jason and Duke arguing over peppermint sticks versus marshmallows versus whipped cream.

You gently hand him the tin of cookies, and the other of tea. "Lemon Lavender Shortbread," you tell him softly, almost shy. “I thought they'd pair well with this blend of Earl Grey I found.”

Alfred peers down at you over his glasses. Opening his the shortbread tin.

You hesitate before adding, “they were my grandmother’s recipe.”

There’s a subtle ease in his shoulders as the gentle scent hits him, “I assure you, I shall thoroughly enjoy them."

You smile, a little nervous as he closes the tin. You nod, preparing to go join the rest, but he stops you with a gentle, "Miss (Y/L/N).”

"Yes?"

He smiles, rare and genuine. "It’s no small feat to become part of this family. They can be quite loud and appear daunting, and sometimes, despite the number, they can be lonley. It is a kind thing, isn’t it? To be seen, to be known?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“It is, I think, my only wish; that they should all find someone who will know them.”

You stare at him, a few moments longer, “You’re a little too insightful, for my mental stability, Alfred.”

The olderman offers you an amused smile, one hand gently squeezing at your shoulder, “it comes with time and age, my dear,” before he walks away.

Jason is waiting for you on the couch by the time you make it over there.

“All good?”

You turn to Jase, eyes tracing over blue-green eyes, the white streak of his hair, the small scars that litter his face. The bump on his nose from where he’d broken it too many times for it to ever be straight ever again.

“Yeah, Jase. Alfred liked my gift.”

Jason offers you a bright smile, the charming boyish one that warms you from the inside out every time he turns it on you.

“Told you,” he smirks, bumping your shoulder.

Yeah, you did.

...

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

dc taglist: @batarella @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here @seamlessepiphany @ye-olde-trash-panda @snake-in-a-flower-crown @11om

“go right, mama,” barry mutters, following behind you as he hooks a finger around one of your belt loops, his glazed eyes running up and down your body.

“fuck, fuck, fuck-” you cry, head falling back on barry’s shoulder, his lips attached to your neck as he pulls and pushes you back and forth in his lap, up and down until your brain goes foggy and your legs feel numb. your thighs shake, breath hitching as he pulls out of you. he kneels before you, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed. before you knew it, his face was buried between your legs, his tongue moving expertly over your clit. “oh, oh fuck!” your back arches off the bed, hands grabbing onto the sheets as barry pins your hips down, keeping you from squirming under him.

“shh, baby,” barry begins, pulling out from between your thighs to look up at you. “want the people in the room over to hear us?” you shake your head, your right hand running down the back of his head, rubbing over his buzzed head before you push it back down. two of his fingers slip into your cunt as he groans, sucking on your clit with just a little more pressure than before. “come on, mama, give me one more,” barry moves to kiss your thighs, his fingers pumping in and out of you as he sucks on your skin.

“shit, barry,” you whine, hooking your legs around his head as you take a drag of the blunt you were supposed to be passing with him. you exhale, hands rubbing at the top of his head, almost as if you were rewarding him. “thank you, baby.” you smirk, laying back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling as barry kisses his way up to your chest.

“one more time, yeah?”

taglist!! @amterasuu @tinythebunni

Kylo laughs at that too, a deep rumblin’ sound that feels so much like thunder that you’re sure it’s shakin’ the earth. Or maybe that’s Sam and Agnes, the way they’re throwin’ their heads back and whinnying and stampin’ their hooves into the caked dirt below. Either way, it’s a good sound, one of them sounds that makes you ache in your bones; you can’t remember the last time you heard someone else laugh so genuinely.

“Yeah?” He finally decides to slow Sam to a halt, and you do the same, tuggin’ on Aggie’s reigns to get her to calm just a little bit, the horses powerful legs comin’ to a gentle trot, both you and Kylo gulpin’ down air.

“Yeah. Why the hell did you bring us through there knowin’ there was bad blood?” You reach into the saddle bag and pull out a canteen, measurin’ a careful sip or two of the fresh river water, before decidin’ to pass the jug over to Kylo himself.

Gratefully, he takes the same size sip as you, and you think that’s mighty chivalrous of him once again, on account of he’s a much bigger person than you, and should clearly need more water. Still, you don’t protest when he hands the canteen back to you, the lid screwed on nice and tight to avoid spillin’.

“It was the only place I could think of that’s close enough.” He shrugs, and you frown ever so slightly at that, knowin’ that really, as long as you stay close to the Colorado River, you’ll have just about anything you need.

Well, almost, anyway.

“Close enough for what?” Your curiosity gets the better of you, especially when he starts rummagin’ around in his own saddle-bag for somethin’. You lean over, tryin’ to be nosy and get a peek inside, but he only clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and you duck your head, embarrassed at bein’ caught.

“For this,” Kylo doesn’t make you wait though, pullin’ out a couple boxes of bullets, but much more importantly, “And these.”

When Kylo pulls out the burlap sack filled with coins, your eyes widen. Right there in his fist has to be over five hundred dollars in gold and silver, more money than you’ve ever seen in one place save for the banks you burn. It makes your mouth go dry, and you wonder how he got a hold of it all, if he took it from the cash register by force, or if he stole it discreetly.

“Holy shit, no wonder you were takin’ so damn long.” You urge Aggie a little closer to get a better look, darin’ to stick your hand in the bag and scoop up a handful of the coins. They were heavy, heavy and real.

“I figured you wouldn’t be opposed.” Kylo speaks quietly as your hands let the coins fall between your fingers, clinking together back in the sack. He gives you the sack then, lets the weight of it rest in your hands, clearin’ his voice, “We’ll need it for Ruby City.”

Without a thought, you push it back into his hand. He was the one who had stolen it, it belonged to him. Yes you were out of money, your own coin purse completely empty, but...but you had more pride than that, to accept someone else’s hard earned coin. Even if he had earned it wrongly, it was still his.

Besides, you reckon as you shake your head when he tries to give it back once again, Kylo was right -- it’s less suspicious to travel with a man, and if you’re traveling together, he better be the one to handle the money.

Kylo seems to read your thoughts, and he just nods, before taking a couple coins out and handing them to you, fifty bucks weighin’ on your palm.

“Just take the fuckin’ money.” He says with a small smile. “I won’t hear any ‘no’, it’s yours too, for helpin’ me by distractin’ the townfolk.”

You sigh, and reluctantly put the coins in your own small purse. For the first time in a while, the fabric is bulged out and heavy. Kylo puts the burlap sack back in his saddle-bag, and you resolve to ignore its existence until you need him to pay for a room at an inn somewhere.

“Should’ve warned me that you knew the damn bartender.” You scold him then, a little disgruntled that he had kept that information from you. If you were going to be a distraction, you would’ve liked to know exactly who it was you’re distractin’. “Should’ve told me y’all hated each other.”

You don’t tell Kylo that you were flirtin’ with that Armitage, certain that he wouldn’t like it. He sure as hell didn’t like it when Amos was gettin’ a little too friendly with you, anyway, and he was just a stranger. To your surprise though, Kylo scoffs out a laugh, and fishes out his old cigarette from the inside of his boot, lightin’ it with a match and puffin’ smoke through his nose.

“Hate?” He’s got humor in his voice as he urges Sam forward, needin’ to get back towards the water’s edge before the sun sank too low in the sky, “Nah, Hux and I go way back. He’s a good friend.”

You level him a dirty glare at that, if only he had told you he coulda’ saved you a world of panic! You think about the way that Armitage shot out his own windows, the way that Kylo managed to murder Armitage’s brother without any guns of his own, and all the damn fallout that came from it.

“Didn’t seem to be actin’ like a good friend when he was aimin’ his shotgun at your face.” You point out, thinkin’ to yourself, men are so goddamn strange.

Kylo laughs again, and you find yourself growin’ dangerously used to the sound, so you just sigh and shake your head. He smokes and smokes, both of your horses leadin’ you closer to the water, havin’ galloped away from it ever so slightly.

“He likes when I come rollin’ through, trust me. He always complains about how quiet his lil’ town of Ragrock gets, likes to give the folks somethin’ to gossip about every now and again.” Kylo explains, patton’ Sam’s neck and flashin’ you a gold-tipped smile.

“So he really wasn’t going to kill us then?” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Oh no he probably would’ve if I let him.” Kylo answers quickly, “‘Specially after what I did to Brian. But he’ll be fine with it in a couple weeks once folks tell him I wasn’t the one that started nothin’.”

You stare at him for a little while, and he can feel the weight of your gaze on him, but he only gives you a crooked smile and a wink. You weren’t so sure what that wink meant, but if you had to guess, it could really only mean trouble.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” You lick across your teeth to prevent yourself from smilin’ and givin’ him the satisfaction of knowing that he entertains you. The grin he gives you tells you he knows it anyway.

“Nothin’ that you can’t handle though, I reckon.” Counterin’ with a slight smile, Kylo ducks his head and blushes, and that alone is enough to make you tap your heels against Aggie’s hide, to get her to go gallopin’ down the canyons again.

-----------------------

Some hours later, when the world around you starts to cool off from the settin’ of the sun, you and Kylo set up camp near the river. He had gone ahead and scouted the spot out, made sure there weren’t any folks who had already laid claim to that particular stretch of the bend, no one that could go cousin’ any trouble.

There was more than enough money now, to buy new stocks of food whenever y’all got to the next stop along the route, but that didn’t mean that you were about to let Kylo blow through the supply. So instead, you ask he hunt you down another rabbit for dinner, which he does in less than a half hour, impressin’ you once again.

It’s quiet, out there by the river. The sky has faded to a gentle purple, the silvery moon high in the sky. You’ve got a fire made, nothin’ too big or roarin’, just tall enough to heat up the cast-iron pot that you’ve got hangin’ over it by an iron stake. That rabbit is stewin’ in the pot, along with some water, beans, cut up carrots and a little bit of rice. You stir the pot, listenin’ to the sound of the river as it trickles past.

The sweet sound of a harmonica sounds then, and your gaze snaps up to see Kylo with the instrument against his lips. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathin’ nice and even, the high tune of a melody makin’ your throat choke up. It was a tune you knew all too well, once upon a time, a long time ago.

You stir the stew, chewin’ on the side of your cheek, until somethin’ in you compels you to sing. Your voice is a little rusty, but it doesn’t deter Kylo one bit, in fact, when he catches wind of you singin’ along to his tune, he plays a little louder, a little clearer, switchin’ to the harmony as you take over the melody to the sad cowboy song that you once used to teach yourself,

"O bury me not on the lone prairie."

These words came low and mournfully

From the pallid lips of the youth who lay

On his dying bed at the close of day.

He had wasted and pined 'til o'er his brow

Death's shades were slowly gathering now

He thought of home and loved ones nigh,

As the cowboys gathered to see him die.

"O bury me not on the lone prairie

Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free

In a narrow grave just six by three—

O bury me not on the lone prairie"

"It matters not, I've been told,

Where the body lies when the heart grows cold

Yet grant, o grant, this wish to me

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

Kylo sets down his harmonica then, and you blink away a light mistiness in your eye. It ain’t good to dwell on the past, you know, but sometimes, times like these, you can’t help but think ‘bout it. Kylo’s blinkin’ away somethin’ too, you notice, so as you stir the stew and determine the rabbit and vegetable and rice are all as cooked as they need to be, you ladle a big bowl for you and for this man who has become the closest thing to a companion you’ve ever had in your life, and you take it over to him.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, not for a while. You simply sit down next to him, as close to him as you’ve gotten since that time in the river, and hand him the bowl and spoon. He accepts it gratefully, his own gaze cast into the fire, and not for the first time, you wonder what’s goin’ on in his head.

After a couple bites of the stew, you rest your head on his shoulder. It’s a tentative motion, a hesitant one. Kylo holds his breath, you can feel it in the way he tenses ever so slightly, but he doesn’t tell you to move, and that’s as good of an invitation to stay as any, you reckon.

“You can’t go lookin’ at me like that, by the by.” Breaking the silence, you slurp down a spoonful of stew yourself, lookin’ into the comforting vision of the flames which flicker and flare gently in front of you.

“Hm?”

“If we’re meant to be cousins,” You explain, voice soft and kind, knowin’ that you’ve been too hard on him these past couple days. “You can’t be givin’ me those eyes of yours. Folks might see through the ruse.”

Kylo surprises you by shruggin’ with his other shoulder, his cheeks crinklin’ into a smile. His dimples crease, and he chews on his lip a little, keepin’ his eyes down as he blushes.

“Folks marry their cousins all the time, it wouldn’t be so strange.” Kylo nearly whispers, almost like he’s afraid to speak the words, rushes quickly to try and change the subject as soon as he’s said it, “Hell, my mother almost married her own damn brother on accident -- but that’s a long and complicated story.”

“Oh so we’re married now.” You smile, feelin’ the heat rise to your own cheeks. It’s less of a question and more of a statement, the way you say it, and you find that against your own better judgement, you like the way it sounds. You like the idea of it, and that makes butterflies spark up in your stomach, a feelin’ you ain’t so used to.

“We could be.” Kylo doesn’t dare look at you, idly stirring his bowl, “We could pretend, anyway.”

You think for a second about what that might be like -- but then you shake your head a little and sigh, “I made a promise I’d never be a meek housewife.”

“Ain’t no one here callin’ you meek.” Kylo reassures you, and now it’s your turn to duck your head, to rest it against his shoulder a little more. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, you wonder if he can hear it out there in the quiet of night.

“Be my cousin, for just a little while longer.” You whisper, a silent plea to just give you some more time, “Until we make it to Ruby City.”

“I can’t get a good read on you.” Kylo hums, and you’re relieved to hear that he’s not got an angry or disappointed edge to his tone.

He really does respect you, you realize all of a sudden. Maybe it’s foolish to come to that conclusion so soon, so quickly after you’ve met him, but you can’t help but come to it nonetheless. He’s done nothin’ but respect you this whole time, and you don’t know what to do about that. It’s never happened before.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, a hint of a smile on your lips.

“It means that you’re the most mysterious damn woman I’ve ever met.” He replies easily, a smile on his own.

“I have to be.” Shrugging, you eat another bite of the stew, wishin’ you had some spices to throw in it. You hope Kylo doesn’t think it’s too bland -- before growin’ bashful again, at the thought that you want him to enjoy your cookin’.

“Why’s that?”

“Because the more people that know about me, the less safe I am.”

“I told you -- ”

“I know, you ain’t gonna hurt me, I know.” You interrupt him, before sighing, wondering if you were really going to do this, if you were really going to tell him. “That’s not what I meant.”

Kylo senses a shift in the air, a change in the atmosphere, and his teasing playful smile melts into something a little more somber, more serious. He watches you, and waits for what you have to say, and you decide that what the hell -- if you couldn’t tell Kylo, you couldn’t tell anyone at all.

“I didn’t always used to be an outlaw, you know.” Setting down your bowl of stew, you fidget with the hem of your blue dress’ skirt, and look into the fire, your memory transporting you to a place and time that felt like a million years ago. “There was a time, a long time ago, that I was a school teacher, in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere Utah...”

-----------------------

You were young, when you started teachin’ at the school. It had always been your favorite place when you were growin’ up, and when the teacher herself got married and moved away, you jumped at the vacancy at once. This was the only way a young woman like yourself could earn a living with her clothes on, you knew that, and though you were barely older than the students that came to your classes, you took your job seriously.

It had been a bright sunny morning in Spring the day you turned sixteen, when the bells tolled for all the school children to come rushing to your door. Standing outside the single room schoolhouse, you had a cheerful smile on your face as you welcomed the students that you had come to love and care for, as they bounded up the few steps and into the wooden building. Ranging in age from as young as five, to as old as twelve, two dozen students took to their seats, fresh faced and recently washed, hair combed for their lessons.

“Good mornin’ class!” You walk to the front of the room once the bell finishes tolling, picking up a piece of chalk and writing out the first line to a popular sea shanty turned folk song, your delicate cursive spelling, ‘O Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie.’

“Good morning Miss (L/N)!” The class responds in happy unison. One of your students, a young girl named Wendy quickly gets out of her seat to place an apple on your desk before hurrying back.

You smile at her, at all of them, having grown so fond of this mis-matched group of kids that have been placed in your care for the weekdays.

“I trust y’all had a good weekend?” You ask them, met with a chorus of overlapping affirmations, and you chuckle at their response to immediately wantin’ to tell you all about everything they did on their days off. “Good, I’m glad. Now if you would buddy up and please take out your textbook, we’ll pick up where we left off on Friday.”

The McGuffey reader was your go-to book to teach the children with, it had everything you needed -- reading, writing, and arithmetic that was easy enough to understand by even the littlest of your students. It was broken down into repetition, phonetics, and even had lines to trace the letters and numbers, but more than that, it was the book you yourself had learned to read by, so you were familiar enough with it.

“Who would like to be the first to read what I’ve got written up on the board?” You ask, once they’ve all opened their books to the appropriate page, a handful of eager students at once clamoring to volunteer.

And so, like any other day, the morning turned to afternoon, and the afternoon turned to evening. When the bells rang to dismiss the class, the children groaned, knowing that meant they had to go home where their family would likely put them to work in the field or in the kitchen for an hour before supper.

“Thank you for another wonderful day children, y’all be good for your parents now, you hear?” You try to encourage them to cheer up, even if it did warm your heart that they liked learning from you so much. “Oh, Rickie? Could you come here for a minute? You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

Sitting at your desk for a moment, you saw the earring that you had stashed in your drawer from the evening prior, and you fish it out as the ten year old skips over to you, his mousy brown hair flopping around as he does. You smile, thinkin’ that he might do to ask for a trim when he gets home.

“Yes ma’am?” Rickie stands before the desk, and you hand him the earring, his eyes going wide as he recognizes it.

“Could you do me a big favor and deliver this to your Mama? She must’ve dropped it here last night and I’m sure she’s goin’ crazy lookin’ for it.” You smile, and he nods happily.

“She sure is! Earned myself a smack upside the head I did, when she thought I snatched it from her dresser!” Rickie laughs, clearly glad to have been vindicated.

“Well I’m sure she’ll be sorry when you bring it back to her, let her know I was the one who had it, not you.” You smile back warmly at him, but he’s already runnin’ out of the schoolhouse, callin’ another thanks and a goodbye behind him as he goes.

Only a moment or two before the last of your students are gone, is there a knock on the door.

He doesn’t wait for an answer before coming in anyway, and you look up with a frown to see who would be so rude as to invite themselves, until you recognize the sheriff and put a forced smile upon your face.

“Hello sheriff, how are you this fine evenin’?” You present yourself as politely as possible, as the man’s spurs clink while those heavy boots of his walk across your floors, trackin’ mud in from the outside with little care.

You didn’t like him, the sheriff. Didn’t like the way you caught him starin’ at you sometimes, didn’t like the way you caught him starin’ at the girls in your class. He was one of the oldest fellas in town, maybe three times your age. He’s starin’ at you now, eyein’ you up and down in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m doin’ well honey, thank you.” The sheriff chews on some tobacco, a habit you can’t stand, before pointin’ out the door behind him and askin’ with a stern voice, “That boy wasn’t givin’ you any trouble, was he?”

“Rickie? No of course not, he’s a good kid.” You’re quick to reply, not wantin’ to cause any trouble for the young farmboy. You and the sheriff look at each other for a moment or two, before you grow more and more uncomfortable, busyin’ your hands with the worksheets that’ve been left on your desk to grade. You clear your throat, “Is -- has somethin’ happened?”

“Naw, I just wanted to come by and see ya before your night class starts.” The sheriff’s spurs clink clink clink over to the desk where he sits himself down, right on the wooden table-top.

“Well, here I am. Can I offer you somethin’ to drink? Coffee?” You try your best to be polite, hoping that one of your night students -- adults from the town who never got to go to school when they were young -- might show up and come to your rescue.

“Not tonight, thank you.” He replies, making you sigh out with relief against your better judgement. He doesn’t notice, instead you can feel his gaze on your chest, “But, if you’re free this friday evenin’, I’d love to take you up on that offer.”

“Oh...I see.” Bile rising up in the back of your throat, you shake your head and try to reject him as politely as possible, voice clipped yet firm as you move from around the desk to the chalk-board where you erase the children’s lesson and prepare for the adult’s. “Sheriff, I’m sorry but, I’m not quite interested in seein’ anyone at present.”

“And why’s that?” He doesn’t leave you alone, and you begin to panic with the way he’s steppin’ closer to you, knowin’ that if he traps you against the board, there won’t be a clear path to escape.

“Well it ain’t allowed for a woman to be datin’ while she’s a schoolteacher.” You explain, your voice starting to wobble.

Something about that makes him chuckle, somethin’ sinister, his blackened teeth from all that damn tobacco too close to your face when he grins.

“Must be awfully lonely,” Sheriff runs his hand up your arm, “Missin’ the comfort of a man at night.”

“It’s not.” Your body shudders in revolt, and you try to side step him, blood pounding in your ears, eyes wide in distress as you feel sweat bead up and trickle down the back of your thigh, “I appreciate your concern but -- ”

“Let me just get one kiss then.” He doesn’t let you go that easily, grabbing your arm harshly and dragging you over to one of the desks where he pushes you with a rough shove. His hand grips your cheek too hard, forcing your mouth to pucker as you fight him.

“Sheriff, I said no -- please get away from me -- I don’t -- don’t touch me!!” You knee him hard straight in the groin, your panicked scream alerting the adults who had thankfully, miraculously, decided to show up for evening class early.

“Miss (L/N)!” A couple of cattle ranchers kick the door open and run to your side, tugging you away from the sheriff who laughs loudly. You smell the stench of alcohol on him, realizing he’s drunk as all hell, and cling to the strong rancher, tears threatening to spill over your eyes.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch our teacher again!” One of the ranchers, a nice man named Francisco, holds you tightly, protectively. You always liked Francisco, he treated you like a daughter he never got to have. The other, Jedidiah, stands firmly next to you, so ready to lunge at the sheriff that you can’t help but feel immense gratitude towards them.

“Everythin’s just fine son, run along now.” The sheriff chuckles, but neither Francisco nor Jedidiah move a muscle.

“Sheriff I think you need to leave.” Mustering up as much of your courage as possible, you speak clearly, willing your voice not to shake as the safety of Francisco’s arms give you strength, “Class begins soon, I’m sorry.”

The ranchers stare the sheriff down, and he stares back, before noddin’ with a sick understandin’ that you reckon means this won’t be the last you see of him. Spittin’ his tobacco onto the floor, that same floor he sullied with the mud under his boots after the children had so lovingly cleaned it with you, the sheriff turned on his heel and left, pausin’ at the doorway for a moment to send you a dark, threatenin’ chuckle, “You will be.”

“Are you alright Miss (L/N)? Did he hurt you?” Jedidiah takes his cap off and kneels in front of you, tryin’ to appear as non-threatenin’ as possible. Francisco releases his hold on you, and checks you for any marks or signs of stress, but you just let out a shudderin’ breath and shake your head. You’re not sure which question that’s meant to answer, but they don’t press you.

“Who do we call when the sheriff’s the one acting out?” Francisco wonders aloud, and you feel like there’s lead in your belly, because he’s right.

The only way you’d likely be able to avoid the sheriff and his wrath would be to leave town altogether, and well, you couldn’t do that. Who would keep after the students then?

There wasn’t any trouble during the lesson that evening, much to your satisfaction. The later it got in the night, the more you felt relieved, surely if the sheriff was going to cause trouble, he would’ve done so by now. Your students can tell that there’s something off about you though, a few of them approachin’ you after the class was done, wonderin’ if there was anythin’ they could do.

In hindsight, you wonder how different your life would’ve been, had you asked to stay with one of them for the evening, or had you asked one of them to stay with you.

The chokin’ woke you up, before anythin’ else. Smoke, thick black plumes of it pouring out of the windows, the doors. Smoke in your lungs that had your body joltin’ up and out of the little bed up in the attic where you lived above the schoolhouse, had you rollin’ onto the floor in a panic.

“No!” You shout, as the heat of red orange yellow flames begins to lick up the walls, eatin’ away at the wood structure of the building, the whole thing two steps from bein’ a blazin’ bonfire out in the field, “Oh god, oh god no!”

Frantic, you run, mind going blank, trying to focus on grabbin’ the important things, only the important things; a photo of your family, the money out of the dresser, a copy of your favorite book. That was it, all you had that you could think to grab, before trying for the door.

The handle burns, and you scream, shaking the pain away from the blisteringly hot doorknob. You’re fucked, oh you’re so fucked, you think as you back up enough to barrel your way through the door, the wood shattering and splintering. The fire reached all the way up to the attic, there was nowhere you could escape. You could jump out the window, but you’d break your neck landin’ on the hard ground. Outside, someone yells, revelin’ in the way that you scream.

“If I can’t have you, ain’t nobody gets to have you, hear that? You hear that bitch?” The sheriff cackles tauntingly, and the fear of death drips icy cold down your back, compels you to run as fast as you can down the wooden rickety stairs, into the blaze.

If you can just get out, if only you can get out of this building, maybe you’ll survive, maybe you --“No!”

One of the stairs has shattered beneath your feet, your foot stomping straight through it, trapped. You cough and hack up the smoke, it’s stinging your eyes, it’s in your lungs, soot in your mouth, you can’t see, oh god it’s so hot, the flames are surrounding you, and your foot is stuck through the stairs.

“Please, please come on you’re strong enough for this, you have to be strong enough for this, come on.” You sob, willing yourself, yanking your foot out in harsh movements as the laughter screeches around you in a drunken stupor.

Eventually, in all your efforts, the structure of the stairs give away entirely, and you try to grab onto something as the floor falls beneath your feet, sending you crashing down into the classroom below. The fire’s taken everything here; the wallpaper, the tables and chairs, even the shiny apple that Wendy sat on your desk, all reduced to ash, cracking and spitting in the flames.

You’ve hit your head from the fall, you can’t move. Somethin’s pinned your legs, you can’t feel nothin’. At least there ain’t any smoke down here, all of it risin’ up up up through the building. The smoke pushes the bells, make them toll. You wonder if they’re callin’ the Reaper, tears slippin’ down your cheeks.

“All the books, oh the poor children.” You whisper, thinkin’ of them all, watchin’ as the textbooks singe to nothingness, knowin’ that soon your body will follow, “Who’s going to teach the children?”

-----------------------

Kylo’s arm is around you, you realize, out there in the present. He’s stock-still, face gone pale, somber. He’s crying, you realize, jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek flexing from the force of it. You’re crying too, wetness on your face. You watch as a tear plips into the rabbit stew, and you’re not entirely sure if it’s one of yours, or Kylo’s.

“The rest of the town came to my rescue, once the flames got so bright you could see ‘em from across the fields. They thought I was dead, when they found me.” You clear your throat, rememberin’ the details of the story that you had only found out after the fact, “I was covered in soot, breathed too much of it in, I wasn’t wakin’ up. I later found out that the sheriff didn’t let them give me a funeral, just told them to stick me in a coffin and gave me a shallow grave.”

Kylo remains quiet, but the arm around you tightens. You’re reminded of Francisco then, how he had protected you. You wonder where he is, what he’s doing. If he ever got to have a daughter.

“I was glad for that part at least, it wasn’t too hard to dig my way back out when I woke up. I must’ve only been there for a couple hours, the dirt wasn’t packed tight or nothin’, thankfully.” You sigh, not knowing when to stop, now knowin’ how to do any of this, how to be vulnerable like this. You ain’t had to be vulnerable in a long, long time.

“Must’ve been out of my mind, I had never thought about killin’ anyone before, you know. I was more angry about the loss of the school than I was for my own life, if you can believe. I hunted him down, the sheriff. He thought I was a ghost, and he hid from me. I found him in the end, doused him in kerosene and lit the sonofabitch on fire right on his front porch.”

You lean your head on Kylo’s shoulder, and ever so gently, he rests his cheek against you back.

“I was sixteen then, and “I’ve been burnin’ shit down to the ground ever since.” You whisper, voice almost lost by the trickle of the river as it flows down to Colorado.

“I’m sorry.” Kylo says, snuffling into your hair a little bit, holdin’ you close, a silent promise.

“It ain’t your fault.” You reply, fightin’ that sour feelin’ in the back of your throat, nudging your face a little closer into his neck.

“If I had been there, I would’ve helped you.” He says, even though you both know that there ain’t no changin’ the past.

“You’re here now.” You pull back enough to look at him, really look at him right in the eyes.

“Yeah, I am.” He nods.

You wonder, sometimes how life might’ve been different, but after all is said and done, this is the life you’ve got.

Kylo lies down then, one arm extended out from his body, an offer.

You don’t think twice about it, when you lay down next to him, your head usin’ that arm as a pillow. It wraps around your shoulder, tuggin’ you to Kylo’s chest, and for the first time in a long time, when you sleep, you don’t dream.

"I've always wished to be laid when I died

In a little churchyard on the green hillside

By my father's grave, there let me be,

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

"I wish to lie where a mother's prayer

And a sister's tear will mingle there.

Where friends can come and weep o'er me.

O bury me not on the lone prairie."

"For there's another whose tears will shed.

For the one who lies in a prairie bed.

It breaks me heart to think of her now,

She has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow."

"O bury me not..." And his voice failed there.

But they took no heed to his dying prayer.

In a narrow grave, just six by three

They buried him there on the lone prairie.

And the cowboys now as they roam the plain,

For they marked the spot where his bones were lain,

Fling a handful o' roses o'er his grave

With a prayer to God his soul to save.

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Taggin' some Kylo lovin' friends!