Waiting
Author: wanderingsmith
Started date feb 12, 2017
Summary: Billowing red cloth.
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: inspiring candy: tumblr
post
It was after they’d been traveling together a
while, and dancing around each other pretty much
as long. A good clean win throwing three knives
good and fast, which had gotten Billy’s blood
going with more pleasure than just outdrawing his
gun, which just wasn’t much challenge. Goody
impressed enough (and without gunshots to bring
the past to mind) to whoop at the victory,
grinning like mad, and voluble as fuck all evening
at a fancy hotel to celebrate.
All in all, Billy hadn't felt like having his mood
wrecked by dealing with drunken slurs, so once the
evening started getting loud, he'd gotten up and
headed to their room, gotten undressed to wash up,
and then put off getting dressed again, being as
it was damn hot and humid and he had the room to
himself for a few hours, based on Goody’s usual
habits. He'd figured he could layabout, sharpen
his knives, oil his belt and boots, stare at the
stars.. Be glad for his life.
He'd barely started on the second knife, working
slow and enjoying the memory of nailing a
trick-throw he’d been working, when he heard
Goody’s familiar tread in the hallway. He was
tempted to stay as he was; not like camp life in
the desert left anything to the imagination
between them. But he'd just be setting himself up
to be over-conscious and twitchy: he still wasn't
sure Goody actually meant half the shit he seemed
to imply, and Billy enjoyed his company too much
to risk losing it over greed for more of him.
He pulled the bed's almost silky red top cover
half over himself as the door opened and Goody
stepped in with uncharacteristic hesitancy.
"Billy?" Billy's brows rose at the almost
apologetic tone and hunched shoulders as Goody
looked at him searchingly, "You.. alright?"
"Fine."
"..Why'd you leave?"
Oh. Billy rolled his eyes, enjoying the freedom to
be himself that he had with this man. Which made a
hell of a lot of small sacrifices well worth it.
He waved the knife in his hand toward where the
stairs to the bar would be if there were no walls,
"Didn't feel like dealing with drunk fools
tonight."
Goody flinched slightly, regret pulling his lips
down, "Oh. I.. sorry, Billy. I don't always-"
"Goody," Billy shook his head, forcing a stiff
smile of reassurance on, "Just wanted to enjoy
evening. Not have you defend me."
Goody nodded slowly, still looking as though he'd
failed something. "You want me to..." his hand
waved toward the door.
Billy shrugged, turning back to his work, "Not mad
at you. Do what you want." As much as he enjoyed
Goody's rambling presence, he wasn't about to keep
the man from having his fun playing for an
audience.
But a natural smile did pull at his lips when he
heard Goody close the door and step toward his own
bed, off against the wall adjacent to Billy's.
Goody started up his usual rambling as Billy put
the knife away and reached for the next one,
hearing the familiar soft sound of cloth slipping
off shoulders and landing on a bed underscoring
Goody's low voice, followed with the splashing of
the wash pan. There was no sound of cloth going
*back* over shoulders before the other bed
squeaked and rustled, and Billy suddenly wished
he'd set his pillow to face away from Goody's bed.
And was damn glad he'd pulled the blanket on.
He heard the clink of their bottle of whiskey
against a glass and Goody's rambling change to the
rhythm and weird words of his quoting. Sometimes,
Billy tried to make sense of the words, but today
he was content to relax his mind and enjoy Goody's
voice, glad Goody'd long since stopped worrying at
Billy's silences.
The clink of glass on glass and the rise and fall
of a warm gravelly voice was a good way to spend
an evening, and Billy was smiling as he worked the
dust out of the old gunbelt he'd looped a few of
his knives on.
When the voice slipped to a tender croon, though,
he couldn't help looking up as a shiver tingled
down his chest. And caught Goody watching him as
he sang, lounging across his bed, back to the
wall, in nothing but his water-specked open shirt
and half-undone pants. The words weren't the
mangled English he claimed was the language of
'classics': they were clear and plain, for all
Goody's drink-rough tongue twined around them as
though it didn't want to let them go. And Billy
could not help but reach for every one.
The stars shine on his pathway,
The trees bend back their leaves,
To guide- ..him to the meadows
Among the golden sheaves
Where stand I, longing, loving,
And listing, as I wait,
To the nightingale's wild singing,
Sweet singing to its mate-
"Goody." Those pale eyes had startled when Billy
had first looked up, a hitch breaking the words; a
wobble that changed to more gravel as Goody
refused to look away. And kept singing. Singing a
love song and staring at Billy like a man..
longing. Until Billy spoke; however quietly.
Then he looked like a man waiting to lose a
quickdraw. Unable to look away, but expecting to
lose; or maybe to die.
Billy shook his head slowly, regretting having
stopped the song, and yet.. he had to smile as he
looked down, huffing at his own damn foolishness
as he gathered his belt and rag in one hand. About
to stand, he hesitated, thinking of eyes watching
him. ..Drinking him in as appreciatively as Billy
knew he'd done Goody, a time or two he was sure he
wouldn't be caught.
In the silence, he could hear Goody's too-quick
breaths, waiting for the next step in this damned
two-step they'd been doing for too long. It wasn't
natural to show off anything but his skills...
But he'd *liked* that look.
He moved slowly as he turned away from the man
watching him from his bed, a few feet, a lifetime,
away. Held the fancy cover as a shield before his
naked but for drawers skin, feeling mildly
ridiculous at the simile to modesty as he did it.
Stood and carefully set his tools on his bedside
table, his back to those eyes.
Then let the thin cover go, feeling it billow
behind him as it slithered down.
Grinned in triumph at the sharply in-drawn breath
he heard. Was reaching back with both hands when
it was followed with a rasped whisper of "Oh fuck
*me*.." that left Billy shuddering with arousal
even as he got his pins out, feeling the wave of
tickling softness slide over his shoulders and
back, over his shivering skin, almost *feeling*
the eyes watching him. He barely managed to drop
the pins safely on the table with the almost-shake
in his hands; heard a glass thunk raggedly onto a
different table.
Then he turned and stalked to the man whose eyes
were definitely responsible for the heat flashing
over every inch of his skin.
AN:Goody
singing: alas,
not a love song
'oh fuck me' strikes me as more of a modern
thing than period.... but I'm going with it
anyway..
I know nothing about this song, or its rhythm
or sound. all I know is it came up on a
list of song from the 1870s, and the lyrics
are of a love song. which could fit the fic.
-shrug- strangely enough, youtube did not have
it on offer -pout-
"Waiting" (1867; 7 May 1884)
for Soprano or Tenor, Written by H. H. Flagg,
Composed by Harrison Millard, 1830-1895
The stars shine on his pathway,
The trees bend back their leaves,
To guide him to the meadows
Among the golden sheaves
Where stand I, longing, loving,
And listing, as I wait,
To the nightingale's wild singing,
Sweet singing to its mate,
Singing, Singing,
Sweet singing to its mate.
Ah! Ah! Ah!
The breeze comes sweet from heav'n,
And the music in the air,
Heralds my lover's coming,
And tells me he is there,
And tells me he is there!
Come, for my arms are empty.
Come, for the day was long!
Turn the darkness into glory,
The sorrow into song!
I hear his footfall's music,
I feel his presence near,
All my soul responsive answers,
And tells me he is here.
O stars, shine out your brightest,
O nightingale, sing sweet,
To guide him to me, waiting,
And speed his flying feet,
To guide him to me, waiting,
And speed his flying feet.
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