Chapter Text
As a rule, Shane tried not to want things.
When you wanted things, you resigned yourself to one of two eventualities. You either didn’t get what you wanted, or you got it for a while and then it turned to shit.
Better to live with what you had.
Then the new farmer moved in, and Shane found himself breaking his own rules.
He watched her as he slouched at the bar. She was making her rounds, like she did a couple times a week. She liked to give gifts, smiling and laughing, a kind word for everyone she encountered.
She remembered names.
She remembered stories.
She was a ray of fucking sunshine.
It rankled.
“Brought you some peppers,” she said, handing him a bag with a smile. “Heard you liked them.”
They were beautiful, shockingly red in the clear plastic bag. He could tell just by looking at them that they’d taste delicious - a firm bite, spicy with a slight bit of sweetness beneath them.
He wanted to smile. Wanted to thank her. Wanted to bask, for a bit, in her sunshine. To photosynthesize, to unfurl, to become green and bright.
But there was a limited amount of good that could be in Shane’s life at a time. He’d learned not to push things. The farmer, with her bright eyes and pretty smile, was far too much good to fit.
So he’d let a look of disgust cross his face. “You got the wrong guy.”
It felt right, the way shame washed over him as her face fell. Shame he had space for. His capacity for it was limitless.
“Well, what do you like?” she’d asked.
“Being left the fuck alone.”
And that should have been that.
————
Of course it wasn’t.
Of course the farmer started showing up even more.
Not to see him, but she seemed to have made friends with Emily… along with everyone else in the fucking town.
They loved her, and who could blame them?
He kept his head down, listened to her voice. It changed depending on who she was talking to. Sardonic when joking with Emily. Respectful when Louis leaned against the bar. Light and a little flirty when that writer guy was there.
They’d make a good pair. Shane imagined it as he stared at his glass. Imagined the way the writer would touch her, all slow and gentle probably. Kiss her knuckles, say something romantic. Undress her slowly, respectfully.
Not like Shane would. Not like he wanted to. Fast and rough, buttons flying, thin cotton ripping in his haste to get to her, to find the warm skin underneath, to grab, to bury his nose and mouth into every inch of her, to breathe in and feel her surrounding him, overwhelming and sweet and -
“Hey Em, can I get another?” He gestured to his glass, trying to stop the train of thought before it could pull any further out of the station.
“Pickles.” The farmer was looking at him. She was speaking to him. The words didn’t make sense, though.
He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he?
“Do you like them?” She was waiting for an answer.
“Fuck no.” It was honest, at least.
“Hmmmmm…” She seemed to be making a list in her mind. “No peppers. No pickles. Berries?”
“Beer,” Shane said, as Emily set another drink down. “And silence.”
“Got it,” the farmer said, and turned back to whoever else was there. The doctor guy. Harold or Hector or whatever the fuck his name was. Her voice was slower when she spoke with him. She seemed to weigh her words more carefully.
Shane wasn’t sure what she sounded like when she spoke with him. He was too wrapped up in his own response.
Her eyes met his. Squinted. Seemed to weigh his glance.
He’d been staring.
He quickly looked down at his glass, and didn’t look up again until she left.
———————
The days were always the same. Wake up with a headache and a sour stomach. Summon a gentle word or two for Jas as he left for work (“have a good day, Peanut”). Move through his tasks. Try not to let his disdain for his boss show. Try not to take out his frustration on Sam (the kid was alright, another one of those rays of sunshine. How did they keep finding him?). Suffer until work was done. Tell himself he was going to go right back to the ranch to make dinner for Jas and read her a bedtime story. Fail to do that. Sit at the bar instead, basting in uselessness and self-disgust.
The pattern was grinding, but at least it was predictable.
Unless the farmer showed up.
She changed the gravity of the saloon. Something tipped sideways whenever she walked in.
She kept trying to give him things.
Why did she do that?
“Sunflowers?” She had a bouquet in her hand.
“What the fuck would I do with those?”
She considered. “I heard they’re pretty good roasted.”
“What, like in an oven?” Shane was curious despite himself.
“I think? I mean, sunflower seeds are good, right? So I think it’d be like a big mouthful of them?” She examined the flowers. They looked bright and cheerful. Just like her.
Her hair was loose that day. She usually wore it pulled back.
Not that he kept track of that sort of thing.
“Ooooh, my sister loves those!” Emily was admiring the flowers, and the farmer’s attention left him.
That was okay. It let him watch.
She leaned against the bar, showing off the flowers. So fucking cute, that farmer, all happy and proud.
Would she have looked at him like that if he’d taken the peppers?
He took a long drink.
The way she was leaning stretched her back out long. A thin strip of skin was bare between her pants and shirt. He imagined running his mouth up the length of her spine, skin all smooth and soft. Imagined holding onto her hips, sinking his fingers into the soft flesh there, moving her back against him.
He shifted and took another drink.
The farmer had one too now. Same beer as him. Must have been a long day. She usually had a beer after a long day. Less intense ones usually ended with wine or a cocktail. She’d been doing gin and tonics lately.
Not that he was paying attention.
She would sip at her drink, talk with whoever was nearby. It was incredible, the way she could strike up a conversation with anyone. He was never able to do that. Three words in and he was doubting himself.
His eyes flicked to her breasts as she leaned forward to laugh at something Emily said. A quick glance. Just enough to see the way the bar pushed her up, gentle curves mounding above her neckline. He thought about pressing his mouth there, scraping his teeth against her skin. Grabbing at her breasts, pushing them together. Would she let him fuck them? What would they feel like, surrounding his cock?
Probably really fucking good.
The writer guy wouldn’t treat her like that.
He took a drink.
His glass was empty.
“Hey, Em?”
“Yep.” Emily was moving, refilling his glass.
“This one’s on me,” the farmer said. “Since it’s the only thing you like.”
“He likes peppers too,” Emily said, setting his glass down.
The farmer made a squawking sound. It was adorable. “I tried to give him peppers but he turned them down!”
“That’s because he’s very stupid,” Emily said evenly.
Shane raised his glass in agreement. His stomach was turning, shame filling up the corners.
He shouldn’t care about getting caught in a lie.
It shouldn’t matter.
The farmer was switching seats, coming over to sit next to him.
“No,” he said flatly as she settled in.
“I bought you a beer, the least you could do is give me a complete sentence.” She was leaning on her elbow as she said it, body starting to soften. It usually did when she was more than halfway through her drink.
“No is a complete sentence.”
“Do you like peppers or not?” There was no sunshine in her voice when she spoke to him, he realized. There was a gentle directness, though, that made him feel entirely off balance.
“Does it matter?” He focused on his drink, and not the way her cheek looked so soft as it settled into her hand.
He wanted to be her hand.
“Yes,” she said simply. “So answer the question.”
Shane sighed. Studied his glass. There was a small chip on the rim.
“Yeah, I like peppers.”
The farmer made a satisfied sound. Shane risked a glance at her. She was smiling, but not the big sunshiney one. It was smaller. Controlled.
Sincere.
It felt like being let in on a secret.
“I have more. I’ll bring them tomorrow.” It wasn’t a discussion.
Shane wondered how much of her sunshine was an act.
“Don’t… don’t just… I don’t need your fucking peppers.”
“Well, what do you need?” Her gaze was level.
Shane looked at his glass again. Spun it around with his fingertips. “Nothing from you,” he finally said.
Something in the farmer seemed to deflate. Shame boiled again, but then he realized he hadn’t punctured her. He’d relieved her. Taken some burden off her shoulders he hadn’t realized she carried.
“Thank Yoba,” she laughed, then took a long drink. “I swear I need a different personality for every person here.”
Shane made a quiet sound of acknowledgement.
The farmer didn’t say anything else.
They sat together in silence, finishing their drinks.
It was nice.
It was really, really fucking nice.
Shane began to realize he was doomed.
——————
The farmer pushed at the edges of Shane’s mind, a persistent pressure that fogged him over whenever he let his guard down.
Stocking cans of string beans? She was leaning over him, checking the nutrition label.
Walking over the bridge? She was sitting on the side, smiling that controlled little smile.
Watching a snack spin round in the microwave? She was behind him, talking to Jas, fitting into his life in a way that made him ache.
So he tried not to think about her.
It almost worked, except for when she was there at the saloon.
Laughing. Talking. Giving. Smiling.
And then he couldn’t not think about her. Couldn’t not acknowledge her. Couldn’t not follow her down whatever conversational path she wandered onto.
“It’s disgusting.” A flat refusal.
“She’s right.” Emily backed her up.
And Yoba help him, he was drawn in. “Get a more adventurous palate.”
“Pineapple on pizza isn’t adventurous. It’s blasphemy.”
She was on her second beer now, body loose and leaning in a way that made him want to move, to press her back against the bar and see just how pliant she could be.
He bet he could make her real pliant.
“It’s the contrast,” he tried to explain. He was on… was it drink five? They all started to blur together after a while. “The sweet and juice against the salty and chewy from the ham. They have to go together.”
“Yeah, in the fucking garbage.” There was a teasing brightness in her eyes.
“Philistine,” he said.
The farmer laughed.
That felt really, really good.
He took a gulping drink.
The sound of her laughter followed him home.
Stumbling into his room, he heard it.
Shucking his pants, his jacket. Falling into bed. It surrounded him.
He’d made her laugh. Made her look surprised, happy. Made light come into her eyes.
He gave her something.
It was so good.
But there was so little room for good in his life.
There was no way to make her fit.
His mind spiraled.
Her laugh.
Her smile.
Her face.
Her hair.
Her body.
That, at least, was a safe enough place to let his mind rest.
It didn’t hurt so much, to parse it in terms of sex. To fantasize and want. Darker and harder than her laugh and her smile.
The farmer, spread out beneath him.
Soft and giving.
He could grab at her, see the way her body molded to his hands. Feel her give way to him.
His hand found his cock.
What would she sound like, if he pressed at her breast with harsh fingers? Would she whimper? Cry out? Would she love it?
(yeah she’d love it she’d love it so fucking much, arch her back up into his hands and keen and moan and beg for more, fucking beg for his hands on her and…)
Her smile. Her fucking smile. That mouth and those lips and that tongue. Soft, had to be soft, would feel so good wrapped around his cock, sucking, taking him as he thrust down into her throat.
(she’d take it so good, he knew it, knew she’d groan around him and look up at him with those pretty eyes, tears at the corners while he grabbed at her hair, moved her head, made her choke on him and the whole time she’d keep those eyes on him, asking him for more…)
The tension in his body started to coil.
He worked himself faster.
Fast, like he’d move inside her. Put her on her hands and knees. Press a hand down hard on the small of her back, make her arch. Or, no, hips, those hips, that softness giving way to his fingers as he pulled her back.
(she’d move, he’d make her move, make her tighten and gasp and shake, make her fingers claw at the blanket, the one that was under him right now, make her bite at the bedspread to keep from screaming, because he’d pull her in just right, just the way she needed [he knew she needed it, he knew, he knew he could give her just what she fucking needed], and she’d tense and tighten and tremble and squeeze and come and come and come and when she was done he’d make her do it again, just keep her there under him, around him, her hair and her neck and her eyes and her smile, smiling back at him as he pushed in hard and deep and…)
He came, a weak, unsatisfying thing.
He pressed a hand over her face.
He could still hear her laughing.
He wanted to hear her laugh.
What the fuck did he do now?
——————
That night the farmer had a bag with her.
A jar of pickles, for the doctor.
A bundle of wool, for Emily.
A bottle of wine, split between the writer and that chick who moved in near the ranch.
A bright, round orange for Gus.
Smiles all around, given and returned.
Nothing for him.
“On a scale of one to ten, how grouchy are you today?” She settled in next to him with a drink.
Shane didn’t say anything, just shot her a tired look.
“Me too,” she said, and smiled. Controlled. Real.
“Wanna split some pepper poppers?” He’d said it without planning to, without thinking.
“Nah, I hate peppers.” She rested her head on her hand.
“Noted.”
He wanted to be her hand.
He wanted.
As a rule, Shane tried not to want things.
But some part of him, a traitorous vine, kept reaching for her light. And as they sat there in silence, a heaviness settled in.
There was no way this didn’t end in pain.
Sometimes it was better to cut things off before they’d had a chance to begin.