Chapter Text
The cattle moved slowly that morning, a sluggish tide of hide pressing across the pasture. Dust rose in thick curtains, turning the air into a haze, Georgia sunlight burning down like it had no mercy. John Walker rode at the flank, his white hat pulled low, his reins loose in one hand as he guided the herd toward the northern gate. The rhythm of it was a steady click of hooves, the occasional sharp whistle, a shout to turn a stubborn steer. John liked it that way. Out here, it was just the land, the cattle, and the men he trusted at his side. He was free to let his mind drift in the steady routine of it. The weight of life pressing down on him a little lighter.
Never for too long.
“Are you gonna let that one cut loose?” Sam called out from across the field. He wore his easy grin even in the heat, because Sam never looked rattled by anything.
“I was on it,” John muttered, breaking out of the mindless haze he had drifted away into.
“Uh, huh.” Bucky muttered, coaxing his horse further along with the herd.
John shook his head, but his focus stayed sharp now. He had the kind of seat that came from years of bronc riding and hard work, every movement instinctual. It should’ve been just another day pushing cattle, but Lemar could never hold his tongue for that long.
“You hear the news yet?” Lemar called over, his voice carrying clear across the dust and the pounding of hoofs. He was riding a chestnut gelding that liked to test him, but Lemar’s grin was all mischief, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
John felt his stomach drop before Lemar even said another word. He knew exactly where this conversation was heading. “Don’t start,” he warned, tugging his reins to press the stubborn steer back into line again.
“Nah, you’ll want to hear this one.” Lemar leaned easy in the saddle, his eyes cutting to John with a spark that said he knew exactly what fuse he was lighting. “Guess who’s back in town.”
John’s grip on the reins tightened. His horse tossed its head, sensing the tension. Bucky rode closer, shaking his head like he was already tired of the whole thing. “Saw him myself down by the feed store yesterday. It’s true.”
“Don’t,” John said sharply. Dust caught in his throat, turning the word raw.
Sam gave a short laugh. “C’mon, Walker. What, you think if we don’t say his name, he’ll disappear again?”
Lemar’s grin widened, unfazed by John’s empty threats. “Reynolds.”
The name alone cut through the heat, sharper than a spur. John’s horse sidestepped, restless under him, and he had to haul in his reins before it bolted. He swore low under his breath, jaw tight. “Lot of Reynolds in this county.”
“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Lemar said, and there was no teasing this time.
Bucky gave a low whistle. “Still gets to you, huh?”
John ignored him, pushed his horse harder at the flank, corralling another breakaway back toward the herd. The pounding of hooves gave him something to focus on, but it didn’t drown out the way the air seemed heavier now, charged.
“It’s been a year,” Sam said, voice lighter than the look in his eyes. “You still wear it on your sleeves plain as day.”
“One day you two were thicker than thieves,” Lemar added. “Next day, Bob’s gone and you’re working yourself half to death. Whole town still wonders what happened.”
John shot them a glare, sharp as barbed wire. “Ain’t nothing to tell.”
“Bullshit,” Lemar said, chuckling.
“I said drop it.” John’s voice cracked like a gunshot.
The herd moved on, restless but steady, and the others let the silence settle again. But John could feel their looks, the unspoken weight of their questions. Small towns never forgot a thing. Everyone thought they knew the story, but only John and Bob knew what had really happened behind closed doors. The cattle reached the north gate, and John rode ahead to swing it wide, dust swirling up around him. His throat burned with it, or maybe with the memories he was trying not to think of: Bob’s laugh, his hand at John’s cheek, the way his blue eyes saw through every damn defense John had ever tried to raise. By the time the herd was penned and the horses cooled down, John still hadn’t shaken it.
Sam finally said it quietly, almost carefully: “Heard he’s working over at the Shostakov ranch. Yelena took him on for odd jobs. Heard he’s sober now.”
John’s breath caught, just for a moment. Sober. The word lodged deep, stirring up old guilt he’d shoved down for more than a year. The pills had come along well before John had cut their ties rough and frayed. A car accident when Bob was young, blossoming an addiction as steady as Bobby’s blue eyes. Pain pills tucked between his teeth when he would knock beers back when they got older. It was wrong, but John didn’t know shit about addiction, nor did he have the right to tell Bob otherwise. Not when John couldn’t face his own faults reflecting in the mirror every morning.
But all he said was, “Ain’t my business where Bobby parks his ass.”
“Funny,” Bucky gave him a sidelong look. “Looks like it sure as hell feels like your business.”
John ignored them, leaning forward to pat his horse’s neck. “We done here?” he asked, though his voice had lost its usual steady edge.
Lemar barked a laugh. “Walker, you’re about as subtle as a bull in a church.”
~
The thing about a town this small was that you couldn’t dodge a name once it started following you. For the rest of that week, John couldn’t spit without Bob Reynolds showing up in some shape or form. It started the very next morning. They’d ridden out before sunup to check water lines, John and Sam paired off while Bucky and Lemar worked the other side of the pasture.
Sam poured lukewarm coffee from a dented thermos, passing it over. “Heard Bob’s staying out at the old bunkhouse on the Shostakov spread. Cleaned up the whole place, had to evict two raccoons, looks nice.”
John took the cup, swallowed too fast, the burn catching at the back of his throat. He didn’t look at Sam. “Good for him.”
“You gonna go see him?”
John gave a sharp laugh, humorless. “Not my damn problem.”
Sam just hummed, like he didn’t believe a word of it.
A day later, Bucky came back from town with nails and new gloves, dust on his jeans. “Ran into Yelena at the hardware store,” he reported, tossing the bag down. “Guess who was hauling lumber for her?”
John didn’t answer, just kept checking the saddle cinch on his mare.
Bucky smirked. “Said he’s quieter now. Steady. Doesn’t talk much. Different from before.” He paused. “She sounded proud of him.”
John pulled the cinch too tight, and the horse sidestepped, snorting in protest.
“Careful,” Bucky said dryly.
John eased it, muttering under his breath.
By midweek, Lemar decided it was funny. Every chance he got, he slipped Bob’s name into the air like a lit match.
‘Bob used to rope better than you, Walker.’ ‘You think Bob still remembers that twenty bucks he owes me?’ ‘Remember when Bob got thrown off that steer and-‘
John let it roll off him, or tried to. But every jab pulled at something raw, something that hadn’t healed. Bob. Bob. Bob.
“Enough,” John snapped, voice louder than he meant. Lemar only grinned, but he didn’t push again.
Thursday morning, Bucky brought it up again without malice, just curiosity. “County rodeo’s comin’ up. Bet Bob’s got the itch to ride again. Yelena says he’s been practicing at night, when no one’s watchin’.”
John didn’t respond. He just thought of Bob on horseback, the way he used to sit tall and easy, like he belonged in the saddle more than anywhere else. His black hat settled low with dark curls catching gold in the sunlight. The easy soft smile he’d send John when their eyes used to meet. Something in his chest ached bad.
By the week’s end, John was worn raw from the constant reminders. He told himself he didn’t care, that it was all behind him. But the truth was plain enough: in a town this small, Bob wasn’t going to stay a shadow forever.
So when Lemar leaned over late Friday night, and said, “We’re all hittin’ the bar tomorrow. You comin’?” John already knew where it was headed and he already knew Bob would be there.
~
Saturday night usually meant the bar. It wasn’t much of a place, just one long room with a scuffed wood floor, neon signs that buzzed like angry flies, and a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since the early nineties. But in a town this size, it was where everyone ended up after a hard week’s worth of work. John hadn’t wanted to go. He’d told himself a dozen reasons to stay back: sore from riding, early morning chores, a headache brewing. But Lemar had leaned on him hard, and Sam had given that look like, ‘Don’t hole yourself up again’, and next thing he knew he was hauling himself into the truck bed next to Lemar.
Inside, the air was cooler but thick with smoke and beer. Music twanged from the jukebox, couples two-stepping near the pool tables. The familiar press of bodies, the low rumble of voices, it all wrapped around John like an old coat. He followed his friends to their usual table near the back wall.
Sam ordered the first round, sliding John a longneck with an easy grin. “Don’t look so sour. You’d think we dragged you to church.”
John took a long swallow. “The place is loud,” he muttered.
“The place is always loud,” Lemar shot back. He’d already leaned halfway over the table, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. “Hell, the whole damn town’s here tonight.”
Bucky settled in the corner, nursing his drink slowly. “You’re just impatient,” he told Lemar.
“Damn right,” Lemar said, then he grinned at John. “Maybe I’m waiting for the guest of honor.” John stiffened, the bottle halfway to his mouth.
Sam kicked Lemar under the table. “Knock it.”
“I’m just saying,” Lemar drawled, smirking.
John set the bottle down harder than he meant to. The clink echoed sharply. “Not funny.”
For a moment, the table went quiet. Only the music filled the space: the steel guitar twang, the shuffle of boots on the floor.
Finally, Sam cleared his throat. “Rodeo sign-ups opened today,” he said, changing the subject. “You gonna throw your hat in, Walker?”
John shrugged, grateful for the pivot. “Maybe. Haven’t decided.”
“Bullshit,” Bucky said without looking up. “You live for it.”
“Don’t mean I’m ready this year.”
They batted the subject back and forth for a while. Sam bragging, Lemar teasing, Bucky dry as dust, but John only half listened. His eyes kept flicking toward the door without meaning to. Every time it swung open, his chest tightened, waiting for the silhouette he didn’t want to see. It didn’t matter how much he told himself he was done, that he didn’t care. The anticipation had its claws in him. At one point, a girl in a short skirt wandered past their table, smiling at John. He nodded politely, but nothing landed. The old-timers at the bar counter laughed loudly, the sound carrying over the clatter of pool balls. Still, John couldn’t shake it. He’ll come. He knew it in his bones, the same way he knew a storm was coming by the smell of rain in the air. It was only a matter of when.
The first beer went quick. Easier that way to take the edge off, keep his hands busy. John waved the waitress over for another, the condensation already dripping down the longneck when she set it on the table.
“C’mon,” Lemar said after a while, nodding toward the pool tables. “Let’s play a few rounds. Loser buys next.”
Sam grinned. “You’re just looking to hustle Walker out of his paycheck.”
“Man’s terrible at pool,” Lemar fired back.
John tipped his bottle. “That why you’re so eager to lose?”
Bucky snorted into his drink. They ended up over at the tables anyway, the four of them chalking cues and trading smack talk. John held his own, not brilliant but steady, keeping his jaw locked tight whenever Lemar dropped another sly Bob joke in his direction. Sam was the one who laughed loudest, leaning against the table like he owned the place. Bucky barely said two words but cleared shots clean, precise, and kicking all of their asses.
Around them, the bar swelled with noise: boots clattering, a burst of laughter, the jukebox shifting into something older, twang sharp enough to rattle the walls. A couple spun in a two-step right in front of the pool tables, making Lemar curse good-naturedly when he had to angle his shot around them. John felt himself start to ease, almost, beer working through his blood, familiar rhythms of his friends dragging him out of his head. Then someone nudged his arm.
“You’re up,” Sam said.
John blinked, realizing the table had gone quiet, waiting. He bent over, sighted his shot, and drove the cue hard enough that the crack of it carried. Two balls dropped into pockets.
“Show-off,” Lemar muttered.
John allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch, almost a smile, before he stood back, wiping his hand on his jeans.
They played a few more rounds, until Sam called for another drink and Lemar wandered off to flirt near the jukebox. Bucky stayed at the table, spinning his cue slowly between his fingers, watching the room like he was expecting trouble. John leaned against the rail, bottle cool in his palm, and let his gaze drift. He knew everyone in here. Faces he’d grown up with, old classmates, neighbors who still called him the ‘golden boy’ when they wanted a favor. The air hummed with talk of ranch work, rodeo prep, broken trucks, bad weather. Same stories, same place, same night. It should’ve been comforting.
But he kept glancing toward the door. Couldn’t stop.
Bucky caught him, eyes narrowing. “You’re waiting on him.”
John bristled. “Ain’t waiting on anyone.”
Bucky hummed, unconvinced, and leaned back to take another drink.
Sam came back with a tray of beers, setting them down hard enough to slosh. “Crowd’s getting thick tonight.”
John looked up. He hadn’t noticed how full it had gotten, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping with the rhythm, voices louder. The night swelled around him, hot and restless. John was halfway through his next beer when the door creaked open again, spilling in a stripe of night air and the muffled sound of crickets outside. He didn’t mean to look. His head just turned on instinct. And there he was.
Bob Reynolds.
The room didn’t fall silent exactly, but it shifted like a gust of wind had blown through, pulling every set of eyes in his direction. John felt it in his gut, the way the crowd took notice. Bob stood a little straighter than John remembered, broad shoulders filling out a white T-shirt, blue jeans worn at the knees. His hair was longer, darker in the bar’s light, brushed back but still with those stubborn curls. He looked… steadier. And Yelena was right beside him. She moved like she owned the place, a sharp little smirk cutting through the room, daring anyone to say a word. Her hand brushed Bob’s arm as she steered him forward, like she was making sure he didn’t get lost in the noise. John’s chest tightened.
Bob scanned the room once, slowly. His eyes passed over strangers, lingered on familiar faces, then-
They found John.
For a beat, nothing else existed. Just those deep blue eyes across the bar, pinning him like a nail through wood. John swallowed, the taste of beer suddenly bitter.
“Speak of the devil,” Lemar muttered, reappearing at John’s shoulder with perfect timing.
John couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Every part of him screamed to stand, to leave, to do anything but sit there frozen. But he stayed rooted, bottle clutched tight in his hand, heart hammering louder than the jukebox. Bob broke eye contact first, looking toward the bar counter where Yelena was already flagging down the bartender. But John caught the flicker in his expression, something sharp, something heavy. Recognition. Memory. It hit John like a horse kick to the ribs: after a year of silence, after everything burned down between them, Bob was back. And he was standing thirty feet away. The dust John thought had settled? Not even close.
~
Bob hadn’t wanted to come.
He’d told Yelena that twice on the drive over, once when she cut the engine in the gravel lot, and again when she tugged him out of the truck. She hadn’t listened either time, just rolled her eyes and muttered in Russian, shoving her way toward the bar’s front door with him trailing in her wake. Now, standing inside, the smell of beer and smoke clinging heavy in the air, Bob felt every eye on him. It prickled against his skin like static. The bar hadn’t changed one bit, same neon buzz, same warped floorboards, same familiar faces pretending not to stare.
He resisted the urge to shrink into himself. Yelena wouldn’t let him anyway. She marched straight to the counter, sharp elbows parting the crowd, her hand brushing his sleeve to keep him close. Bob slid onto the stool she pointed at, planting his boots against the rail. He folded his hands in front of him, fingers twitching against the sticky bar top until he stilled them with effort. The trick was to look calm, steady. The trick was to be steady.
He’d worked hard to get here. Months of meetings and weeks of detox. Dragging himself back to this shit hole town. Long days at the Shostakov ranch, early mornings fixing fence lines, late nights hauling feed, muscles aching in that clean, honest way. No pills. No powders. No pipes. No ghosts in the bloodstream. Just work. And it helped. But being here, in this bar, with so many eyes turning his way? It was like standing too close to a fire. His chest tightened, a flicker of the old restlessness creeping back.
“Two cokes,” Yelena ordered, cutting through the hum. Her Russian lilt softened nothing. She tossed a bill on the counter and looked at him sideways. “Don’t make a face. You don’t have to drink it. But you will sit here and breathe, yes?”
Bob managed a small smile, faint but real. “Bossy.”
“Alive,” she corrected, lips quirking.
The bartender slid two glasses their way. Bob wrapped his hand around his, letting the cold sweat of it ground him. Holding it, letting it sit there, felt like reclaiming a piece of himself instead of letting the fear take it.
Yelena’s gaze flicked over the room, sharp as a hawk’s. “The whole town is buzzing,” she said. “Good. Let them buzz. Better they see you than whisper about you.”
Bob exhaled through his nose, slowly. She always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of it. He dared a glance across the bar again, and that’s when he saw him.
John Walker.
Sitting with Lemar, Sam, and Bucky, half in the shadows near the pool tables. Same as always. Same posture, same broad shoulders under a worn shirt. Hat tipped low, jaw set tight, bottle clenched in his hand like he wanted to break it. Like no time at all had passed. Bob’s stomach lurched. For days, he’d imagined this moment by accident, by chance, maybe in passing on the street. He’d told himself he’d be ready, that he could face John without flinching, that he’d feel nothing but cool distance. But now… Christ. One look, and it was like the air left his lungs. All the old weight slammed back into him at once: the nights they’d stolen, the words they’d never said out loud, the wreckage of their ending.
Yelena followed his line of sight, then hummed low, satisfied. “Ah. There he is.”
Bob tore his gaze away, staring down into the dark glass. “Don’t start.”
Yelena arched a brow. “You think I dragged you here to sit quietly? That one-” She tilted her chin toward John’s table, “Is the reason you keep pacing the ranch at night like a caged animal. Better you look him in the face than keep haunting yourself.”
“I’m not-“ Bob began, but the protest died in his throat. Because Yelena was right.
Bob turned his glass in his hands, tracing circles in the condensation. The voices around him felt too loud, too close. Every laugh cracked sharp, every bootstep on the warped floorboards rattled in his head.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally, voice low enough only Yelena heard. “We should just leave. Before…” He swallowed, staring at the untouched soda. “Before I screw it up.”
Yelena leaned her elbow on the counter, chin tilted toward him. “Screw what up? Sitting in a bar? Pretending to sulk?”
“You don’t get it,” Bob muttered. His chest was tight, his shoulders drawn in though he tried to look relaxed. “Everyone’s looking. I can feel it. They’re waiting for me to… to slip. To be who I was.”
She studied him, sharp and unflinching. “So? Let them wait. Make them wait forever.“
Bob huffed out a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like walking in here after…” He broke off, the words snagging in his throat. After losing John. After drowning himself in everything he could get his hands on. After leaving town like a ghost.
Yelena’s gaze softened, just a hair. “You are not the same man you were,” she said simply. “They cannot touch you unless you let them.”
Bob looked at her, at that fierce certainty stamped on her face. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to. But already he felt the edges fraying, his nerves clawing at him. His hands itched, not for pills not anymore, but for escape. For somewhere to hide.
“Yelena…” His voice cracked faintly. “I don’t want to give them a reason to say I haven’t changed.”
She reached over and covered his hand with hers, squeezing hard enough to anchor him. “You have nothing to prove, except to yourself. So sit. Breathe.”
He managed a small smile at that tight, but real. Convinced to stay long enough to finish the glass in his hand and just breathe. It was easy to ignore the rest of the room, with Yelena’s quick jokes by his side, like it was any other Saturday night a year ago. Though trouble never takes long to eventually find its way to Bob. The hand on his shoulder was heavy, familiar in the worst way. Bob’s body went tight before his head even caught up.
“Well, well. Robert.”
Clayton Cooper. Of course. Bob didn’t have to turn to know the sour whiskey breath, the drawl that always carried just a little louder than it should.
Bob forced his voice steady. “Evenin’, Clay.”
Clay leaned in, too close, grinning like a man who’d just found a nail to hammer. “Heard the rumors. Didn’t believe it myself, but hell- look at you. Back in town, sittin’ in the bar like nothin’ happened.”
Bob kept his eyes on his glass. “Just havin’ a drink.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Clay chuckled, mean and loud enough for the folks at the next table to hear. “Heard you came back clean. Guess we’ll see how long that lasts. But that ain’t what folks really remember about you, is it?”
The knot in Bob’s stomach tightened.
Clay leaned heavier on his shoulder, voice dropping low but carrying, deliberate. “Nah. What folks remember is you and Walker. Playin’ cowboys out on the range by day, and somethin’ else after dark. That was the story, ain’t it? Reynolds comes waltzing back in here, thinkin’ he can sit among decent folks, after hell, after everyone knows what he is.”
The words landed like a slap, sharp and stinging. Heat flooded Bob’s face, his hands curling tight around the glass.
Yelena shifted beside him, her voice flat as a blade. “You have about three seconds to walk away.”
But Clay only grinned wider, emboldened by the prickle of silence spreading through the bar. “Hell, it’s no secret. Everyone knew. Two ranch boys tangled up together, ain’t exactly hard to spot. Just funny, watchin’ Walker suddenly back to bein’ the good ol’ boy again, as soon as you weren’t around to corrupt him. While you…” His eyes swept Bob up and down with open contempt. “Well, I guess NA couldn’t fix that.”
Bob stood so fast the stool screeched back against the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat shaking loose another thread of his control. He wasn’t seventeen anymore, he reminded himself. He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t high, he wasn’t supposed to be this easy to rattle.
“You better shut your mouth Clay,” Bob said, low and tight.
Clay laughed. “Or what? You’ll kiss me too?”
The bar roared with scattered jeers and nervous chuckles. Bob’s vision tunneled. He saw red, saw every sideways glance, every whisper he’d pretended not to hear since walking back into this town. And before he could think better of it, his fist connected with Clay’s cheek. The impact rang through his knuckles, sharp and brutal. Clay staggered back, crashing into a table and spilling drinks across the floor. Gasps. Shouts. The jukebox sputtered out mid-song. And then everything moved at once Clay lunging back, fists flying, chairs scraping as folks jumped to their feet. Bob barely had time to brace before the next hit came.
Clay’s fist caught Bob across the cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared hot, blooming down his jaw. Blood blooming across his bottom lip. The bar was a blur of noise now, boots stomping, glasses clattering, and voices hooting for blood like it was a damn rodeo. Bob gritted his teeth and swung back, knuckles splitting against Clay’s ribs. The man grunted but didn’t stop, shoving Bob hard enough that he stumbled into another table. Wood splintered under his hip.
“Faggot can’t fight clean neither!” Clay spat, eyes wild with liquor and mean delight.
The slur cut sharper than the blows. For half a second, Bob froze hearing it echo, tasting the ash of every year he’d tried to swallow himself small. And then another fist came… only it didn’t land on him. Clay staggered, reeled sideways, clutching his face where John Walker’s knuckles had just cracked clean across his jaw. Bob’s breath caught.
John didn’t look at him, didn’t even glance. He just planted himself in front of Bob, broad-shouldered and steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice came out low and dangerous. “Back off, Clay.”
Clay snarled, blood on his teeth. “What, you takin’ his side?”
“You’re damn right I am,” John snapped, stepping forward. His tone carried, silencing half the room. “You don’t get to run your mouth like that.”
Before Clay could bark another word, John drove him back with another punch, cleaner and harder than Bob’s had landed. Clay hit the ground hard, groaning, and for a moment Bob thought it might be over. But the room was already buzzing like a kicked beehive boots scuffing, chairs scraping, men half rising out of their seats itching for the next swing. Bob stood rooted, chest heaving, cheek throbbing. He could barely process it. John, of all people, standing there like a wall between him and Clay, shoulders squared, fists still balled. His eyes locked on John’s broad back, on the way his stance dared anyone else to try and come at him. For the first time all night, Bob felt something he hadn’t expected. Not shame. Not dread.
Relief.
Clay spat blood and tried to stand back up on his own two feet. Bob braced, ready to go again. The bar about a second away from an all out brawl.
“Enough!” The barkeep’s voice cut like a rifle crack. She shoved her way through the crowd and planted herself between the mess of broken glasses and busted tables. “That’s it. Out. All of you.” She jabbed a finger toward Bob and John like they were both guilty sons. “You want to break each other’s faces that’s fine, but you know the damn rule, you do it out in the damn street. Not in my bar.”
“But he-“ Bob started, chest tight.
“Don’t care!” the barkeep barked back. “I see either of you back in here tonight, I call the sheriff. Now get!”
A couple of locals stepped in to make sure Clay stayed down, grumbling and spitting curses. Meanwhile, rough hands shoved Bob toward the door, John herded out right alongside him. The night air hit like a slap cool, dry, thick with dust. The door banged shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the bar. Just the two of them now, standing in the neon glow of the miller sign, their breath still ragged from the fight.
Bob staggered a step, swiping at his cheek where Clay’s punch had landed. His knuckles throbbed, raw and swollen, trying to shake it off. Blood dribbled down the front of Bob’s white shirt as he spat onto the ground. He let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “Can’t even have one fuckin’ night.” Licking the blood off his bottom lip.
Beside him, John was silent. Shoulders square, jaw set, still buzzing like a live wire. Bob didn’t look at him, couldn’t. Not yet. The air between them was charged enough to choke on, heavier than any bruise. They’d been thrown out together. And now there was nowhere to hide.
~
John hadn’t thrown a punch like that in months. Maybe years. His knuckles ached, split raw, but he couldn’t stop flexing his hand, couldn’t stop replaying the look on Clay’s face when it landed. Satisfaction, sharp and ugly, ran through him like a spark on dry brush. But when he turned, when he finally let himself look, Bob was standing there. Same height as ever, shoulders still too broad for the shirt he wore. Light scruff shadowing his jaw. Those eyes were the same. And they were fixed on John with a look that hollowed him out. Not relief. Not gratitude. Just suspicion, like John was some stranger who’d wandered in where he wasn’t wanted.
The low light cast Bob in half-shadow, cheek already bruising from Clay’s hit. John had the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out, check the damage, thumb brushing the skin gentle as it used to be. Another night he and Bob would be laughing punches off until their ribs ached. Riding back home on horse back as the buzz work through them in giggles. But tonight John’s hands stayed fisted at his sides.
“You look-“ Before John can finish though Bob cuts him clean off with a dry scoff of a laugh.
“What, good? Better than you last saw me? That’s a pretty fuckin’ low bar, Walker.” Bob, not giving John an inch, letting out a long-held breath to steady himself. “Why’d you go do that?” Bob’s voice was quiet, ragged. Not soft, never soft, but like he was holding too much behind his teeth.
John’s mouth went dry. A dozen answers clawed their way up, because Clay’s a bastard, because he had it coming, because I couldn’t stand there and watch you take it. But none of them would come out right. None of them would change the look on Bob’s face. He forced his jaw to unclench. “You were outnumbered.” A lie.
Bob laughed once more, bitter. “That it? Some god damn heroics, huh?” He shook his head, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to play savior, John. Not after you-“ His voice caught sharp, like he’d tripped on the words. He cut himself off, turning away toward the dirt road.
John’s chest felt tight enough to split. The fight had burned out of him, but the heat lingered, settling in his gut. Anger, shame, want, he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. He wanted to shout back, tell Bob he didn’t ask to feel this way, that he hadn’t stopped thinking about him even when he’d tried like hell to.
Bob didn’t leave. He stopped halfway down the steps, shoulders tight, fists curling and uncurling like he couldn’t decide whether to throw another punch. John would deserve it. At least it would mean Bob would acknowledge him again. Feel his hands on his skin one more time. The silence between them was worse than the fight, dust settling slow in the glow of the light, both of them breathing hard like they’d gone three rounds in a bull pen. Finally, Bob turned back, his eyes cutting through the dark, pinning John in place.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bob’s voice was low, disappointed, steady in a way that cut deeper than if he’d shouted. “You think stepping in tonight makes up for anything? That you can land a few punches and suddenly you’re not the same son of a bitch who couldn’t stand to be seen with me?”
John flinched like the words had been thrown. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was no good answer, and Bob knew it. Not without hashing out the same fight they had a near year ago. Bob shook his head, almost laughing, but there was nothing warm left in it. “You don’t get to pick and choose when you give a damn, John.”
The door banged open behind them, spilling more light onto the front steps. Yelena stepped out, sharp-eyed, scanning Bob first, then John. Her lips pressed flat in a way that told John exactly what she thought of him without a word passed between them.
“You alright?” she asked Bob, her tone brisk, her hand already brushing his arm like she was checking for breaks.
“Yeah, my old man hit harder than that.” Bad joke falling from Bob’s lips in that same flat tone he use to throw around with John.
“You done bleeding in the street then?” Yelena asks next.
Bob let out a long breath, not looking at John again. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m done.”
He let Yelena steer him down the rest of the steps and into the dark, leaving John standing alone in the dust, fists aching, chest burning with words he couldn’t bring himself to say.