Protect
Author: wanderingsmith
update dec 30, 2016
Summary: "These men need to be
inspired."
little AU of the scene
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and
nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As
it is thought, so let it be said; you make the
toys, I play with 'em..
AN: there was a lovely
discourse here, which led me to ramble a
bit...
He'd known 'teaching' even basic knifeplay was
going to take a while, so he'd insisted they start
early. For all the good that had done! Billy was
annoyed enough after having the whole damn group
of fools just walk out on him that he was actually
muttering as he stalked to where he knew Goody
would be running his class, by now.
Why the hell had he bothered even trying?? He knew
better than to believe white men would listen to
him! Even when he was offering to share a skill!
Well. Most whites. He looked up when he heard the
uneven, downright raggedy, stream of shots,
focusing on Goody's shape without needing to
think. And immediately feeling better.
He couldn't remember, anymore, a time when that
man's sharply-tilted stance and southerner's
colours didn't make the calm he constantly faked
turn real. 'Navigating' was the least of things
Goody gave him. The ability to truly relax, and
the belief that there *were* good people: those
things made his life more than just survival, and
he could never repay the man enough for teaching
him the difference.
He didn't feel like dealing with anyone right
then, though, so he stopped against a fence post,
far enough back that Chisolm and Faraday ignored
him, and where he could just watch. This was a
different Goody than the saloon showman, or the
soft lover. He knew the man could teach, and still
loved the skills involved in shooting, for all
that the nightmares took away his pleasure in
using them. Had had those cues for making the
perfect shot whispered into his ear, the times
Goody got it in his head to make Billy as skilled
with a riffle as he'd always been with knives.
Watching him play lines that Billy would bet came
from his Confederate teachers, all those years
ago, made worry coil up from where it always
rested in his gut when they were around people.
Too many ways for even innocent people to prod at
Goody's wounds. Teaching shooting using the words
of men he'd no doubt watched die was anything but
innocent. Billy absently patted his pocket,
mentally counting up how many smokes he had ready.
He was just debating between their room, nice and
private, and the cooler riverside when he heard
that goddamned gambler start shouting and swore to
himself, hurrying forward as he quickly spun
through ideas. Faraday managed to make it to
Goody's side before he found a plan he liked and
switched his approach to a stalk as he yelled
toward Goody, twisting his face up in an annoyed
snarl, “Goody! *You* damn well teach those
people!”
He shoved himself between the two men, pretending
to ignore the bastard threatening Billy's friend
(well, except for the ‘accidental’ elbow he
rabbit-punched into the man's side), and jerking
the riffle out of the larger man’s hands.
“Apparently,” he deliberately faked a ‘chinaman’
accent, still talking too loud, “I too *scary*
with knives.” He turned toward the line of men
watching his play with wide, shocked eyes, making
sure he was between Goody’s stiff form and
Faraday’s challenging one. “*I* teach you to
*shoot*.” He added an utterly un-faked snarl of
bare teeth at the lot of them before quickly
checking the damn riffle was loaded as he spun.
Goody would give him crap for showing off, but it
still made something in him feel *damn* good to
snap into that perfect posture Goody'd pounded
into him; and slam every shot into the post
holding up one of the dummies' head.
He shifted the riffle to safe carry as he saw the
sandbag start to tilt, turning to glare at
Faraday, knowing he was going to have to deal with
him more permanently, and soon, "Goodnight teach
me." He turned to the line of men to shout, "You
can do that at a THOUSAND yards if you DAMN well
want to live!"
“Billy-”
Billy shrugged sharply at Goody’s regretful voice,
aiming a quieter tone at him, “You good enough at
knives, now, and better teacher. You find them.
Shooting easier to teach, I can do how you taught
me.” He ignored Faraday’s snort, content that the
man was walking away. For now.
Goody could maybe find his troop of
supposed-to-become knifemen and get them to not
kill themselves with a blade, able to relate
better, or maybe just find a quiet place to
breathe until Billy could get to him. Either way
would be away from here. Though how he'd get Goody
through the end of this...
AN:
alrighty. time to go edit some Mask...
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