Work Text:
The light of the low, gloaming sun is shattered by the falling snow into something deep and blue, painting itself over the paper-white of the ground and the near-black trees and the dark, lumpy figure Hickey imagines he strikes as he makes his way home that evening. Not much to distinguish him from one of the trees but for size and the trail of deep bootprints left behind him, all black wool and leather, just enough space between his scarf and his cap for him to see through. He dresses properly for the weather these days; no more standing on shale peaks with the wind whistling through his ribs. He misses the sharpness of it sometimes, but not enough to stop the hands that wrap that extra scarf or shawl around him when he leaves.
That rich light of this evening has the whole of their valley rendered in its tones when he gets to the top of the hill and looks down at it, the yellow of firelight in windows shining like gold in blue velvet. It is Hickey’s own sovereign kingdom, in a way; the scattering of squat cabins, the woodshed, the open plot where Magnus plans to raise the barn come spring. Not the kind he’d imagined, and maybe not his in the way he’d imagined, but he counts his successes where he finds them, and this is one.
He picks his way down from the hill in a winding path, watching the door of his house grow from a paper model the size of his palm to the boxy thing it is, set a little ways away from the rest in its own copse of trees. They’d all slept in the first house they’d build together at first, of course, and before that the tents, but all parties had agreed that it would be best for Hickey to have his own lodgings, a little separate from the others, once they’d had the time to put together indulgences like that. He chooses to see it as a victory.
Hickey steps up onto his porch and stamps the snow off his boots, which should be more then enough noise to signal his arrival, but he still has to knock at the door and wait for the sound of the deadbolt sliding back. Then, Billy’s standing there in the blast of hot air, a shape of orange shadows and fabric and the cool glint of his eyes lost in the cavernous shadows of his face. He always waits just a little bit, when he opens the door, like he’s not going to let him in; but then he steps back, shuts the door behind him as he steps in and unbuttons his thick topcoat. “I was going to send Solomon after you, if you’d taken much longer. Have any luck?”
Hickey doesn’t say anything, but he pulls five still-warm rabbits from the snares over the hill from under his coat and drops them on the worktable before sitting down by the door to work off his boots. Billy looks at the rabbits, nods, and eases himself down into his chair with a hiss of pain nearly too quiet for him to hear. He does, though. Even if Billy didn’t make a sound, Hickey would still feel it, hear it in the back of his teeth.
“Here, Cornelius.”
Hickey comes to him in his sock feet. Billy offers a hand, palm-up, and in it is placed the knife with his very own not-name carved in the pale wooden handle.
“Good.”
He stands there, for a while, watching Billy skin and clean the rabbits with the same steady grace he mends clothing or buttons collars or does really anything with. Barely any blood gets on his hands, and what does doesn’t interfere with his work in the slightest. Pink meat and white skin and brown fur, separated cleanly, and the knifeblade dancing between it all. His knife. It always makes him burn in a funny way when Billy uses his knife.
He’s done before long, and Hickey’s nearly disappointed. “Take the pelts and hang them up in front of the fire.” He doesn’t move. Looks at the pelts. Looks at Billy.
“Cornelius.”
Billy’s looking back at him, his mouth twisted in that way that could mean anything. He raises the hand with the knife still gripped in it, slow and calculated, and points it right at him, bloody blade a hair from his lips.
Hickey opens his mouth and takes the blade into his mouth, feels the well-kept edge of the steel against his gums, pressing against the thin skin but not quite cutting. He lets the tip poke against the stub of his scarred-over tongue stub, thinking about how it could reopen that old wound. The bit of it that’s still left tastes the fresh blood from the blade, not his but his prey’s.
But then he leans back, his mouth unharmed and the blade clean. Billy doesn’t say anything, just takes the knife back and keeps looking at him until he picks up the rabbit pelts and does as he’s told.
“I can make some good sets of gloves from these. Well done.”
Outside, the snow keeps falling.