Boone + F!Courier, 'Old Rags' 2/?

Date: 2013-03-03 03:06 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
When Craig finally reappeared the next day he was scrubbed pink and clean shaven, wearing clothes that looked like they'd been savagely pounded clean with Abraxo flakes and elbow grease. He kept away from the crowd at Novac's communal food tent, instead leaning against the lamp post as he ate a slab of charred brahmin steak between two heels of bread and made small talk with Isaiah about wood carving and temperamental Novac plumbing. Six told him he looked well, and he shrugged and said he'd been keeping busy.

When they invited him back to their home for a nightcap he demurred for a moment; disappeared into the darkness towards the motel and eventually came back with an armful of clothes and a bottle of sharply spiced rum rattling and banging about in his lunch pail from the day before. It was from Mexico, he said. He'd been making a lot of miles over the past few years, been everywhere from the snow up north to the baking dry heat down south. Home now, he added, and looked around their little Novac house with approval. Home for a week.

They sat around the kitchen table and played cards, Six all the while regaling Isaiah with stories about when she and Boone spent a few months outrunning Deathclaws and surviving brawling bare knuckle fights with casino goons. She took a sip of rum every now and then to wet her mouth but mostly kept to her mug of stale dandelion tea, content to enjoy the sight of her husband and her old friend get ruddy-cheeked and loud.

It was good to see Boone again. She'd kept a thought for him all these years; always hoped he'd find his feet again and get some life back in his eyes. He was a good enough man at heart when his head wasn't full of noise and his spirit all but dead. Underneath that hard sad shell he'd been kind to women and soft on children, two traits severely lacking in a lot of men who lived on the frontiers and spent their life looking down a gun barrel. Maybe time had finally done a number on him, taken off all those hard edges and broken his foolish attitude to his future. Just World, Doc Gannon had called it back then. Eye for an eye, karmic retribution, all that brahminshit. Maybe he'd gotten older and softer, just like she'd done. Either way it was good to see him again, tired and alive and sitting across the table and chuckling at Isaiah's terrible jokes.

'Round eight Boone excused himself to get some air, and when he returned his arms were full of the clothes he'd carried over that evening.

"Figured there wasn't much use in hanging on to these," he said by way of explanation as he awkwardly heaped the fabric onto the table, narrowly missing her mug of tea. "You're her size."

"Craig's wife passed on," Six said by way of explanation to Isaiah, and unfolded the shirt on the top of the pile.

"Long time ago," Boone said, his chair scraping across the tile as he took his seat again. "You know."

"I do," said Isaiah. He'd been a widower when he'd met Six, long past his grief and hopeful to start his life again. It'd come up in conversation at the dinner tent, Boone seemingly genuinely interested in how someone had managed to make the legendary courier herself settle down.
"But I reckon I need to turn in. Early day and all tomorrow. You want some extra caps, Craig? Six AM sharp, we're hauling the plumbing up out from under the courtyard." Isaiah chuckled at Boone's vehement no and drained the last dregs of his rum, leaning over to drop a kiss on Six's hair. "I'll leave you two to talk a spell. Reckon there's a lot more she don't want me to know 'bout her wild days."

"Goodnight you old fool," said Six kindly, and watched him close the bedroom door.

"How'd you find a fella to put up with you?"

"Well, I'll be," said Six. "Are you making a joke? Craig Boone must've hit his head somewhere and found a sense of humour."
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