Chapter Text
There’s blood in his mouth, the familiar tang of it coating Gator’s teeth, spilling from his split lip, dribbling sluggishly down his chin.
His head’s throbbing, face aching where his dad’s fists had landed.
It’s fucking cold.
Gator tugs the collar of his jacket closer around his neck. Takes a huff from his vape, hands shaking a little, lip stinging at the contact.
It’s his own stupid fault, he knows.
He’d fucked up.
Again.
And at this rate he’d never be a cop, never end up as sheriff, never be like his dad – Roy wouldn’t let him, if he couldn’t even follow simple instructions at home.
Like patrol the fenceline, check the calves, make sure there’s no damn coyotes harassing them…
There wasn’t usually. But tonight, he’d ridden up alongside the fields and rushed his patrol because it had almost been a damn blizzard out there and he’d just wanted to get back inside in front of the fire and have an hour or so of peace before Roy got home.
By the time he’d seen the group of coyotes snapping at the young calves, it had been too late to help them.
He’d tried.
Had yelled, taken out his rifle, pointed it, flapped his arms, anything to make the scraggly, starving creatures leave.
But when it had come to actually shooting them, he’d hesitated.
Gator liked animals. Loved them, maybe, if he had more of an understanding of what that word meant.
He’d locked eyes with one of the coyotes, watched it flatten its ears to its head, eyes wide, looking between the calf and Gator, weighing up hunger vs fear.
And Gator understood. Had been in that same place many times, caught between the push and pull of survival, sneaking food in the dark like a ghost, tip-toeing around his father’s presence his entire life.
Hunger had won out. The coyotes tore back into the injured calves.
Gator had fired and missed.
Not on purpose, he tells himself.
Thankfully, the shot had been enough to frighten the animals away.
But they’d lost the calves. It had been too late, and once Roy had come home and listened to Gator’s shaky account of what had happened, he’d dragged Gator right back to the paddock, shoved the rifle back in his hands, and made him put the calves out of their misery.
Gator had cried silently the entire time, and Roy’s face had twisted into something full of rage and disgust and the next thing Gator knew, he’d been in the snow with his dad’s fist slamming into his face.
He’s parked up near the edge of town now. Near some damn trailer park, a shithole Roy talks about all the time, full of degenerates and scumbags on benefits draining money from hard-working people.
Why he’d gone there, he doesn’t know – he’d stumbled to his car alone, turned the key, and driven till his head had hurt too bad to focus on the road ahead, till the snow swirled in a flurry in front of his headlights and piled onto his windscreen.
The longer he stays out here, the worse it’ll be when he gets home. Maybe he’ll get lucky, maybe Roy’ll be asleep, maybe he’ll have decided Gator’s battered face is punishment enough.
Or maybe not.
Reluctantly, with a heavy hand, Gator turns the key in the ignition.
The car gurgles, croaks, and dies.
He tries again. It’s fucking cold out, and the engine struggles sometimes, so if he just…
Nope.
The car won’t start.
Gator slams a fist against the wheel, grunting at the pain in his cold knuckles.
He’s crying again.
He hates that he’s crying.
It’s for girls, for women.
Not for men.
And definitely not for Tillmans.
There’s a tapping at his window.
Gator jumps, the movement sending an arc of pain through his bruised jaw, and he curses.
There’s someone out there. He can see them standing in the dark, and who the fuck is out here in a blizzard at this time of night?
“You need some help?” the person yells.
A man.
He doesn’t need help.
He’s fine.
But he can’t help but reassess his situation. His vision’s swimming, and even with a working car and a road clear of snow Gator’s not sure he’d be able to get home, and he’s got neither of those things on his side right now.
What if the guy’s here to steal his car?
Because Gator had heard shit, everything Roy said about the trailer park and the people that lived there, every level of low-life imaginable…
“Heard you trying to start your car. You can’t sit here all night, man, you’ll freeze to death,” the guy continues.
Gator kind of wishes he’d just fuck off, because freezing to death sounds like a viable option right now.
He sniffs. Smells blood, tastes it on his tongue again.
Cold’s sinking into his bones, and Gator feels old, much older than his eighteen years.
He cranks the window down.
The man’s not even dressed well for the elements, just in jeans and a shitty leather jacket, but he smiles when Gator looks at him.
“Need a hand?”
“Piece’a shit won’t start,” Gator grumbles.
“Yeah, happens sometimes when it’s this cold, ‘specially with these older engines.”
“I know, I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“Only a fucking idiot would be out here in this,” the man points out, gesturing at the snow around them.
Gator curls up his lip, ignores the sting.
“Well, guess that makes you a fucking idiot too then.”
The man shrugs.
“I guess so. But if you’d rather not freeze to death, you can come inside and call someone if you like.”
“You live there?” Gator huffs, waving a hand towards the lights of the trailer park ahead.
“Uh huh. My name’s Eddie.”
The guy leans in closer, frowns, finally getting a proper look at Gator’s face.
At the state of it.
“You get in a fight or something?” Eddie asks, and the concern in his tone makes Gator blink a few times.
And then his skin crawls.
“What’s it to you?” he snaps.
Eddie holds up his hands.
“Just asking, man. So, you want my help, or not?”
For a moment, Gator stays where he is. Cold, sore, scared.
Eddie waits.
And he’s probably fucking freezing too, Gator realizes, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t complain, doesn’t rush him.
Gator’s hand loosens on the wheel, and something uncoils in his gut, just a little.
He takes the key out of the ignition.
“Fine,” he mumbles, and stomps slowly through the snow behind Eddie, heading towards the lights.