Chapter Text
Durango, Colorado.
July 5th, 1923.
Oakwood's got a special way of rotting.
It starts slow, a quiet sort of decay that you don't always catch in time. If you're lucky, you'll smell it first—like damp soil after a spring storm, when the riverbanks rise too high and flood over, when the water lingers where it don't belong for too long 'cause it's got no other place to go 'cept down in the aftermath.
And if you ain't so lucky, you'll see it. It's there in the discoloration, where warm beige begins to brown, saturating the material in rot. Usually, if you can see it, 'means you're already too late. The wood's infected, its symptoms bubbling to the surface in one final bid to spite you. Salvation is slim at this stage.
Liam finds it by neither smell nor sight today.
Instead, brittle and warped oakwood caves beneath the inception of his leather-glove-clad hands. It gives way the second he grips too tight, it groans before chunks of it crumbles like dust while the rest collapses in on itself.
It's easy to tear the piece off from the structure, it comes away with little effort exerted, and Liam discards it on the ground, right into the pile of rotted chunks he'd torn away prior.
Inside, the stable is humid. It reeks of hay and sweat, with traces of feed and manure tacking on the air. He's used to it, but knows the stench of it will stick to his clothes long after his shifts over.
Sweat clings to his brow amidst this sweltering heat, and his right shoulder aches up something fierce from overuse. But he manages to push through the discomfort, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist and rolling his shoulder until that ache eases into something bearable.
He's nearly done with the job, half of the rotted wood torn from its frame and the replacement stall door already prebuilt, only needing to be hung and nailed into place.
Rallying up the strength, he applies more force and takes apart what remains of the rotted stall door.
After another hour, the new door is properly installed, and Liam is drenched in sweat.
Beneath his black Stetson hat, strands of mid-length chestnut brown hair stick to the back of his neck. The collar of his white button-down uniform shirt hasn't been spared either, it sits damp against his skin. In spite of the mess he's gone and made of himself, he's pleased with his work—a job well done.
It's as he's squaring away his tools—loose nails jiggling noisily and hammers clanking awkwardly as they're all tossed into the bag— and peeling off his leather gloves that the stable's main door is pushed open more, and his favorite townie steps inside.
"Boy, I done told you about handling that mess without sumthin' on that face of yer's. You gon' get sick as a dog!" Mrs. Green wastes no time in fussin' up a storm the moment she catches his bandanna missing from his face, the elder woman waddling with every step she takes further inside.
She's a short, plump woman in her late 60s with dark, sun-kissed skin and a head full of grey curls.
Liam struggles to stifile his amusement, a smile twitching at his lips that he's forced to hide with a tilt of his head.
Mrs. Green was a no-nonsense beta who didn't take kindly to her 'suggestions' being ignored, let alone you smiling in her face 'bout them.
"No ma'am, I've worn it just up 'til now." He tells her. He had not worn it at all, but there are far worse things than telling a little white lie every now and again.
She eyes him skeptically, grey eyes narrowed to a slit as she watches him real careful, likely looking for a tell.
He doesn't give her a chance to find one, tossing his gloves in with the rest of his tools. He lifts his head under his hat and meets her gaze with an unwavering firmness.
"Alright, Mrs. Green, you should be all set havin' this new door up. I don't suspect any more critters will be getting in and spooking the livestock at night now," He assures her, pointedly giving the newly installed door one final, hard shake-- a true test of its sturdiness.
When the wood doesn't give way under the pressure and the hinges hold firm, Liam nods his head, satisfied.
This exhibit seems to change the elder's tune. Her eyes brighten, and a smile overtakes her face with barely contained excitement. She's been waiting quite some time for this to get done —it means finally getting a good night's sleep.
"Sheriff Payne, boy, you's truly a Godsend." The woman laughs heartily, clasping her hands together in delight at the display of resistance.
Liam shakes his head at the praise, a small draw of his lips being all that gives away his modesty. He never did good with praise. "Just doing my job, Ma'am." He says, tipping back his hat to wipe away the new trail of sweat that has gathered along his brow.
Mrs. Green rolls her eyes at the response, unimpressed with his humility. "Learn to take a compliment, boy." She scolds, her soft expression slipping back into something harder, something more stern. Liam merely snorts at the shift, ducking his head to hide the wayward smile threatening to split across his face.
He knew he'd been pushing his luck with that one.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you're satisfied with it, Mrs. Green. You need any more help, don't hesitate to ask. I know Johnathan being away and helping out with the drive this year ain't been easy on ya or your ranch." He changes the subject, eyeing the woman with equal amounts of sincerity and sympathy.
The dark-skinned woman can't help but agree, bowing and nodding her head with a low hum at the back of her throat. "Mhm, ain't that the truth."
Silence lingers in the stuffy stable between them for a beat, an unspoken exchange of mutual perception.
They have this quiet understanding of one another.
They see each other in their loneliness.
Mrs. Green is the first to break their silence, raising her head with that familiar light in her eyes.
"Well, all the same, you're an absolute dear, Sheriff, and I 'preciate the help." She softens again, reaching a hand out to pat him firmly on the back in an additional show of thanks.
"Now, whatcha say to a cold glass of the finest lemonade this Town has to offer?"
He smiles at the invitation, knows it comes with a heaping side of town gossip and the most company he'll get in the coming hours. "How's I'm supposed to say no to an offer like that?" He teases warmly.
For it, the older woman giggles. She starts for the main door first, a bit of haste to her waddle.
"Come on, then."
He trails after her.
The sun is slowly starting to set by the time Liam makes it back to the station.
His mare kicks up clouds of dust as he leads her to the pen, trudging at a slow but stubbornly steady stride. He squares her away with practiced familiarity, watching as she laps at the wooden stock tank and patting her mane in thanks before locking up the gate.
It's as he makes for the heavy wooden double doors at the front of the station that something turns in his gut. He isn't sure what to make of it-- this gnawing, gaping sensation that leaves him momentarily winded. He pushes through one of the doors, eyebrows creased in a confused haze as the feeling seems to flare; his chest contracting with this sharp, searing ache.
He struggles to breathe, each breath drawn limited by a smoldering, conceptual pain.
Through his foggy haze, he nearly barrels straight into his deputy. He jerks back just in time to avoid the collision, a hand shooting out to steady the kid.
Horan is as pale as a ghost.
The normally bright-eyed, chipper rookie stands before him, looking half sick with nerves. "Oh! S-sheriff Payne!" He stammers, tripping over his words. Something's got him rattled.
Liam grits his teeth, and the pain eases a fraction. "What's the matter?"
His words come out rougher than intended, and Horan hesitates--uncertainy all but sprawled across his face. It irritates Liam, his patience waning.
"Niall!" He barks, and the beta flinches, blue eyes widening with barely contained hysterics. "Your office!" The deputy babbles, red-faced and practically bursting at the seams with this unfound detail.
And then, more calmly, he adds, "There's someone here to see you..."
Liam brushes past him curtly, trudging down the hall leading to his office in a single-minded stride.
He bends the corner at the end of the hall, and stops abruptly.
He smells him first.
The familiar notes of tonka bean sheathed in a modest blend of raspberry and vanilla sweetness.
It brings him a rush of emotions—relief, anger, confusion chief among them all. He hasn't breathed a breath of this scent in nearly five years. Not that it would be easy to forget, not when it had once nearly been a part of him.
Liam frowns, the ache flaring in his chest and his hand twitching at his side. He stops right oustide the office, the door has been left open intentionally. His desk sits in clear view— centered on the doorframe.
He sees him then.
Zayn Malik is seated at his desk, dirty black boots propped up on the dark oak like he owns it. He's leaning back in the chair, arms raised and folded behind his head as the chair tips back with him—two of its legs raised off the ground.
"Well, Howdy Sheriff." He speaks, voice low and sultry. A grin is splayed across his pink lips, and those hazel eyes size him up uncomfortably.
His hair is longer—this is one of the first things that Liam notices, dark, unruly strands styled messily atop his head. He's wearing a tattered leather duster that threatens to swallow his lithe frame whole. It's too big.
Yet, he's just as enticing as the day they met.
Liam briefly wonders if he feels the ache too. If it burns him the way it burns Liam.
If he does feel any of it, he doesn't make the discomfort known. His expression is composed and guarded despite the familiarity of his teasing drawl. He bats long eyelashes at Liam, acting every bit of the coy omega Liam once knew him to be. It hurts.
It sparks a loud, thunderous anger in him.
He skips the pleasantries, raising an eyebrow with his lips thinned with forged indifference. "What brings you back to town?"
Zayn shrugs in a way that feels condescending, "Was just passing through, thought I'd stop in, say hi on my way..."
Bullshit.
And it's there, that flash of pretty white teeth and that flutter of honey brown eyes that always made Liam feel like he was drowning.
But he knows better now, he's learned how to float against the tides of those pretty eyes.
Don't fight, don't struggle, just float, he reminds himself.
Zayn's lure didn't work on him anymore, he was sure.
"Really? Cause the last time I saw you, you told me you couldn't marry me, packed up half your shit, and left while I was sleeping." He deadpans.
Zayn blinks at this, as if he hadn't expected Liam to be so bold and come right out with it. The stunned look only lingers for a second before a modest smile replaces it.
It would be annoying if it weren't so endearing.
"What can I say? You know me Li, marriage and all that just don't fit right with me." He shrugs again, careless and maybe a bit cruel. Liam isn't all too sure he means it to be. The nickname leaves a sour taste on his tongue.
Unconvinced, Liam crosses large arms over his chest and frowns. "You mean, I don't fit right with you, right?" He corrects.
And this, this is what sparks a reaction. The legs of his chair thud to the floor as the omega sets his feet down on the stained planks. For an instant, a soft look crosses over Zayn's features and he seemingly falters in his cold facade. "No..not you, never you. You always fitted." He insists fiercely, honey eyes all but affirming this.
It feels too intimate—reminding him of what they were before, of what they could've been now.
It's overwhelming too, disarming in a way.
His anger dwindles to a quiet, pathetic simmer. He tries to be angry, tries to summon and keep it up, but the gleam of sincerity in Zayn's eyes— the smell of him seeping into every nook and cranny of Liam's office, prevents him.
He can't think straight.
He can't find that anger he had once clung to.
Instead, he feels empty.
He finds that he wants Zayn to fill it.
Quickly, Liam clears his throat. It's a dangerous line of thought, one he didn't want to spend time revisiting—not now, not ever really.
To deflect, he switches gears and changes the subject."Ya know, there's these posters nailed up 'round the train station.."
Zayn cocks his head at this, soft expression giving way to something more trained, a coy posture—their moment of vulnerability up.
"Uh-huh, and what about it Sheriff?" There's a gentle pout to his lips as he asks this, a false innocence to his eyes.
"They're of this real pretty omega, something about him being wanted and what not...you look an awful lot like him."
Zayn snorts at this, delighted amusement creeping into his gaze. He licks the corner of his mouth tentatively. "Is that so?" He asks under the guise of disbelief.
Liam nods his head, nearly laughing himself at how ridiculous this all was.
They both knew good and well that it was Zayn's face painted up nice and pretty on those posters. To deny it would be idiotic. But they have this understanding, they know that it's him but they'll continue this song and dance where neither of them actually addresses the elephant in the room because this is what they do. This was easier.
Unexpectedly, Zayn climbs to his feet. There's an easiness to the way he moves, a grace to his steps that make them quick and light.
He starts in Liam's direction, and the Alpha, standing at nearly six feet tall, almost stumbles back in escape.
He doesn't though. Despite his heart pounding in his chest and sweat wetting the palm of his hands, his feet stay planted on the ground, his legs stiff as rods upon Zayn's approach.
The omega comes to stand in front of him, his scent all the more intoxicating as he stares up at Liam through thick eyelashes. He's smaller, Liam realizes with concern, skinnier and frail in a way he isn't used to. He's always been an inch or two shorter but now those inches feel like miles.
He seems to hesitate now that they're so close, his nostrils flare slightly as if he's only now smelling Liam. Liam tenses, his lungs drowning in the clash of their combined scents— a cascade of white wood and tonka bean washes over him until he feels drunk with it.
Zayn lays a hand over his chest, over his heart. He tracks the motion, placing a larger hand over his smaller one. The omega presses in close, and Liam is weak. He lets it happen, he doesn't attempt to pivot or flee—he invites it.
Zayn is still staring up at him with those big brown doe eyes, pleading before words have even parted his lips.
And worst of all, Liam doesn't think there's a thing he wouldn't do for him.
Even now with all he's done— the leaving, the rejection, the pain.
Liam would still scorch the earth for the omega.
"I need your help, Li."