Chapter Text
It was dark out. He'd have to take responsibility for that now.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey that was about as neat as he was (which was not at all). Mixed it with honey and leaned over the counter to stare at the front door.
He was waiting.
It remained closed.
The Sheriff sauntered over to a simple chair in the middle of the living room, grabbing his riffle with the hand that wasn't nursing his drink.
He sat and downed it in a few gulps. He couldn't drink it too fast. It wasn't sweet enough. He let his eyes level with the door again and dropped the glass next to him. He lifted his gun, to the door.
Of course no one would walk through it, not tonight.
Take care of your hair, My Love. Be good to your skin.
But those words,
Be a good boy,
He held on to them still, stead fast
And maybe I'll come back for you.
They still haunted him nightly.
-------
Connor lifted the collar of his shirt a little higher. He was starving, and the smell of sweat and booze was doing very little to stop him.
He didn't want to move too eagerly. This wasn't the way he was used or even wanted when it came to getting a meal, but he was a long way from home. This visit was going to kill him soon if he couldn't get some one to talk to.
An older gentleman took a seat next to him and asked for a cool shot of burbon. He was dark, rugged . He'd doubt that he'd be able to charm him, let alone skirt a set of knuckles to his face, but it was worth a try. Connor himself was babyfaced and beautiful, he knew that, so he could try and use that to his advantage (maybe enjoy himself, too).
He rested his chin on his palm, propped up by his elbow, and put on the most charming smile he could muster.
"Excuse me--"
He was interrupted.
"You hungry, Connor?"
Connor's gaze flicked up to the old man at the other side of the bar, obviously caught red handed. He was cleaning a glass, resting his tired blue eyes upon him.
It took a moment for him to realize who this man was. He used to be a sheriff from a couple towns over-- a town his mother raided. He was one of the ones he helped escape, and he was glad the man made it out alive, but guilt still ate at his stomach as he looked at the man.
"...yeah," he said meekly.
The man next to him glanced between them. This was a strange exchange, now that you think about it.
"Come on, I'll help you out back."
It old man told the other bar keep to cover him before exiting through double swing doors behind him. Connor hoisted himself over the counter to follow.
"Jesus kid!" He shouted over his shoulder. "There's a side door!"
Connor ignored that, in favor of silently following the old man to the bank of the bar, where there was no foot traffic. They wouldn't be seen-- perfect, because it was getting dark out, so he needn't put up his hood.
Connor was suddenly shot with anxiety. No one would see them. If this man really wanted him dead now was the time, here was the place to do it. Sure he could probably take him, but if he had a silver knife laced with something it'd do him in with a single cut. He was starving . He was weak. He'd be dust. He didn't smell anything like linden, though.
He didnt want to think about that though. The tried focusing on the guy's name instead. It was sheriff... Sheriff...
Anderson. Anderson pulled out a knife as soon as they stopped and raised it. Connor recoiled immediately-- he knew it! He unwittingly followed a meal that was actually a trap and he was going to die! He was going to die here in this dry ass town, in a dumb ass poncho, all because he wanted to--
The knife met the flesh of the bar keep's hand over a scar that already lie there. The movement was obviously practiced as he cut through the meatiness of the base of the thumb and from it spilt rivelettes of beauty.
Connor gasped as the smell hit him. Anderson offered his hand.
"Well, kid? What are you waiting for?"
He had to make himself be gentle. He was starving, sure, but hunger was no reason for being impolite.
His hands shook as he took the man's hand in both of his, and uttered a soft 'thank you' and he pressed his lips to the gash.
He began to drink.
Anderson's eyes watched him as he lapped from it- the cut was giving him so much so readily. He let it spill into his mouth, huffed as he tasted the ruddy, sharp flavor-- tried his hardest to be neat but he was so hungry. Whatever he missed fell down the man's wrist, down his forearm, and trickled ruby into the crook of his arm. Once he had finished, he ran his tongue over the leftovers. He had to savor this, he wouldn't get a meal this willing for a little while.
Anderson chuffed out nervously. Connor snapped out of his sloppiness at the sound, suddenly standing up straight.
"Th-thank you!! Uh, Mister uh-Anderson, sir," he stammpered.
They both were flushed now, though Connor knew it was more from embarrasment than the usual rosy glow he gained from drinking.
"Hank is just fine, son."
Connor nodded, and watched as Hank pressed the rag that was tucked into his belt loop to his cut.
"Now tell me what you're doing here. Don't tell me you're on for burnin' down another town."
Connor shook his head vigorously. "Oh no, Mister uh-Hank, sir," he takes a breath and looks away nervously.
"I'm here to talk to the Sheriff. There's something important I need to tell him."
Hank lifts a caterpillar of a brow.
"Well you gotta set an appointment for that, in town hall. You should walk in first thing tomorrow."
Connor nodded once, like he knew where the hell that was.
"You don't know where the hell that is, do you?"
Connor shook his head this time, he didn't know where the hell that was.
Hank gestered for him to follow him back inside, swaying only a little from the blood loss, and once he found a piece of notebook paper in the back, he drew him a rudimentary map.
"You can stay at the hotel across the street."
Connor thanked him and began to leave. Hank gave a half smile, it was full of concern.
"Oh and hey, kid,"
Connor turned around.
"Be careful out there," Hank says.
"This town don't take too kindly to your kind around here."