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Flint walks out of the Guthrie bar, his pockets full of money and suspicion.
The steal had gone down fine; the delivery flawless in its execution. But there was something wrong when it came time to pay.
As usual his crew was a rotating cast of semi-regulars. Men that got tired of sharking pool or fighting in the parking lot. When they returned to the Guthrie bar and got their cut of the money, the crew immediately turned around and began buying beers and piling into someone’s car for a trip to the strip club in the next town over. None of them hung around, except for Gates.
They shared a beer, reviewed strategy, then clapped each other on the back and went their separate ways.
Even as he loads up on his bike, Flint feels something off. On the way home he takes the winding roads that lead around in circles; mountain byways that loop back around on themselves. But no one is tailing him. He can’t decide if that’s better or worse.
There had been a man leaving Eleanor’s office just as they arrived. Younger than Flint, but looked a little too new-money to be in a dive bar. When he dropped the prize on Eleanor’s desk, she’d acted like the stranger was nothing and paid Flint exactly the amount they had agreed upon. He shook her hand and that was that.
It’s nearly a two-hour ride home and by the time he makes it to the drive, it’s well and truly dark. The solar lights are on in the garden, almost too dim to be useful. But Miranda smiled when he brought her the handful of little fake flowers from the Dollar General near the highway.
Flint parks his bike in the back next to Miranda’s de-badged Subaru and sits for a moment.
It’s humid and warm. Frogs croak and crickets are screaming in the trees around the little house. From the detached garage he can see the soft light of the kitchen filtering through the floral curtains. (Miranda had hated them, but put them up anyway. It wasn’t until months later Flint realized they reminded her of before.)
He comes through the front door. More than once when he came in the back Miranda’s gotten startled and greeted him with the business end of a gun. Some days, when she’s really pissed, he’s not so sure she wouldn’t still shoot him.
It smells like pork chops, even in the front room. Flint peels off his boots and goes to find Miranda.
She’s sitting at the table book and half eaten dinner in front of her. “There’s a plate for you in the oven,” she tells him without looking up.
Flint gets the plate, still warm, out of the oven and grabs a fork.
“How did you know I was coming home?” he asked, easing down into the chair across from her. Miranda tucks her bookmark against the page and closes the book.
“I called Hal,” she told him. Miranda doesn’t look away from him as she picks up her knife and starts sawing through the pork on her plate. “And the bar. You were supposed to bring home more chicken feed.”
“Miranda--”
“I called the bar first, but they said you’d already left. So, I called Hal and he said you’d already parted. He’s bringing the chicken feed on Tuesday.”
Flint sighs. He’s not sure what to attack first, what would make her angrier. “You can’t just call Guthrie’s--”
“The hell I can’t.”
“Not anymore,” Flint ground out. “I don’t want you calling them or going by there or anything.” He stabs a hunk of meat and shoves it in his mouth. Miranda’s not the greatest cook, but it’s better than gas station hot dogs and dashboard burritos. She fixes him with a look that means she’s willing to listen to him tie himself in knots arguing with her.
“Don’t call or visit or anything,” he says after he’s swallowed. “Something is going on there and I don’t want you in it.”
“So I’m not allowed to go to town?”
“You can go to Ridl, but not Stanton.”
Miranda’s eyes narrow and Flint immediately realizes he’s fucked up.
“So you’re my keeper then.” It’s not a question, despite the way her words turn up at the end.
And god, this is not a fight he wants to have. Not again. He’s so tired of the same argument over and over. If she would just listen to him, instead of hearing what she thinks he’s saying. If she would just--
“That’s not the case and you know it,” he snaps. At the look on her face, he softens. “There’s something wrong. I don’t know what. But Eleanor had some guy there when I arrived. Rumor is he’s got money and his car had plates from Connecticut. And who knows why he’s down here poking around.”
Miranda studies her plate for a moment. “You think it’s someone from back then.”
“I don’t know.” Flint sags in the chair, leaning forward on his elbows. “But I don’t want to take the chance.”
Miranda leans back in her chair, turning her fork slowly. “The Guthrie’s weren’t exactly in the same circles. But it’s not too much of a leap.”
“Then you should stay home,” Flint says. He’s tired. And desperation makes him stupid (so stupid, something he learned the hard way. The hardest lesson he’s ever learned and god it still hurts.) Miranda looks like she’s going to fight him again, anger lighting her up again. “Please,” he adds.
And he must look really bad, or she’s taking pity on him for once. But Miranda licks her lips and swallows and nods at him.
“I’ll stay home for a while,” she says.
They’re silent as they eat the rest of their dinner.
After Miranda loads their plates in the dishwasher while Flint goes to take a shower. He’s half asleep when she lays down next to him. She’s soft and warm as she leans against his shoulder.
In the dark like this, it’s easier to be soft with her. To be less angry. (It reminds him of the hotel they stayed in for a week, windows drawn as they laid in bed and cried. Newly broken, and vulnerable in a way they had never been before or since.)
“How long are you staying,” Miranda asks. Her lips brush his shoulder, just above the crescent moon tattoo.
“Just a day or two,” he says. “We’ve got another job lined up.”
He can’t hear her frown, but he knows she is. “Are you going to be home in time for Hal to bring the chicken feed? They’re cannibals James. They’ll eat each other if they don’t have something else.”
The chickens.
After a particularly nasty argument, he’d returned from town two weeks later with Hal following in his truck. In the back was a bag of chicken feed, with ten baby chicks, and a book on animal husbandry. The cashier at IFA hadn’t taken her eyes off him the whole time. Hal thought it was the height of comedy.
“Put them in with the goats,” he suggests. “There’s enough bugs there to keep them occupied.”
Miranda sighs loudly but doesn’t say anything else about it.
~*~
Flint spends the next two days sleeping and doing work around the property. Miranda handles most of it herself, but there are some things she can’t do alone. They’re both loath to hire any help, and the spindly pastor that comes around every so often isn’t very capable. (The first time Flint saw him coming up the drive, his heart caught in his throat and he’d been sure it was all a dream. Then the pastor came closer and reality crashed in, punching Flint in the gut.)
They move the furniture around on the back porch and fix the stain where it’s wearing off. He changes the oil in Miranda’s car. He fixes the saddle box on his bike where the lid keeps trying to come off.
In the late afternoon Miranda convinces him to go down to the creek with her.
The property is nearly ten acres, and the creek flows about three acres back from the house, cutting diagonally across the parcel. It originates from a spring a few hills over, clear enough that Flint was comfortable drinking it if they filtered it enough. When they came here, when they bought the property, they wanted to be as far away as possible. To live somewhere that was nothing like the city they came from. The creek had been part of the reason Flint pushed so hard for this house in particular. That, and the fact the seller was willing to take cash up-front, no questions asked. Just signed over the house and they never spoke again.
The creek is waist deep in the center of the bed, water cool enough to be refreshing but not so uncomfortable he can’t stand it. With a cheeky grin Miranda pulls off her shirt and throws it at him. Her brown hair is escaping its loose bun, and her face is red from the sun, but it’s the same smile he first fell in love with. He grabs her around the waist and drags her down into the water while she shrieks.
They fuck on the bank later.
Laying in the grass, damp from the water and mud smeared between their toes, Flint closes his eyes. Pretends just for a moment that everything is fine.
~*~
The next morning Flint gets up in the early dawn. Years of early rising, drilled into him as a child, means he can’t stay in bed past five. (That’s a lie. Before, when everything was perfect, he’d slept in sometimes; waking up between them. Lazing in bed past sun-up. Warm and sluggish under the soft sheets.)
He dresses and makes coffee. He’s packing the last of his things when Miranda comes downstairs in her nightgown and robe.
“Were you going to leave without waking me up?”
“I’m not ready to leave yet,” Flint tells her. He’s estimating how much ammo he’s got left, how much needs to go, and how much he should leave for Miranda.
“If you’re down to bullets then you’re about to be.” He isn’t sure if she means to start an argument, but it sure feels like it.
“Bullets,” he says. “And my sunglasses.”
“On top of the fridge,” Miranda says. She gets the creamer out of the fridge, but leaves his sunglasses.
Once he’s doled out the shells and grabbed the glasses, Flint crowds her against the counter.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is what it could have been. Him going off to a real, respectable job while she stays home and does whatever she pleases. But it isn’t. And the possibility, the could-have-been, hurts to think about.
“Stay out of town,” he tells her softly. He knows it will make her angry; knows it might start a fight. But if he leaves without saying it, he’d never forgive himself. (Miranda has a mind of her own, it’s part of why he fell in love with her, but god. Sometimes he wishes she'd just listen to him. Let him protect her like he couldn’t before. Like he was too stupid to do before.)
“I will.” Her voice is resigned and terse. But she doesn’t turn him away when he leans down to kiss her forehead.
And that’s enough for now.