Title: Summer Wine
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just having (too much, possibly) fun.
Summary: He walks in town on jingling silver spurs and she offers him something he cannot resist.
Warning: Crack-fic, based on the image provided by a cracky song of the same name. If Crack isn't yours or, more specifically, crack involving these characters, you probably shouldn't read.
A/N: This might seem unfinished to you - and yes, it provides material for extension, maybe in the future.
The sun was burning mercilessly from a cloudless sky, driving the temperatures up to boiling point. The heat created flurrying phantoms over the dusty street, blinding in their brightness, confusing his dehydrated mind.
All he wanted, needed was a shady room - quiet, solitary - and a bottle of whisky to wet his parched throat.
Dismounting his horse, he listened the light jingle of the heavy spurs on his boots. There were dozens of eyes set on him now, questioning the identity of the newcomer, gossiping about his appearance. Silver spurs over dusty black boots, the black trousers and grey shirt, hat pulled deep over his brows. He looked a menace, especially with the weapons hanging from his sides.
The townies were impressed, he could feel it, and he relished the moment.
Behind him his companion had dismounted as well and was now suspiciously scanning the two lines of houses on either side of the dusty path that filled in as a road.
It was silent, save for the hot wind coming in from the dry plains outside this place that not altogether humorously called itself a town.
Still, it would do for a tired, thirsty man and his companion to rest a few hours and have a few drinks. Give their horses a few hours of rest as well. This was unforgiving country for man and beast.
With a sparse gesture of his head, he ordered his companion to take care of their horses. Though grudgingly accepted, he knew the other man would be thorough in carrying out his wishes. Later when they'd meet up in what passed as the establishment of choice, it would be long forgotten...
He watched the slow disappearance of his companion and the two horses, the noise of their hooves on the hard ground clinking in his ears.
Suddenly alone, he stuck his thumbs into the revolver belts and surveyed the place. It was like standing on a mountain looking down at the huts in the valley, everything apart from him small and insignificant.
Inwardly he shrugged. He doubted anybody could be proud of the hellhole this place was. Middle of nowhere, no amenities and the only thing coming remotely close to any so-called civilized place was the death rate.
And he was the man to change that.
Slowly he took the first step, savouring the musical sound of his spurs. They were a luxury, an eccentricity even, but they were his and he allowed himself this small peculiarity. He'd never fit in anywhere anyway.
The second step answered to the first, the melody of the spurs sounding through the midday silence.
The town looked dead, no living soul out and about, not even the dogs had ventured outside. He knew it was deceptive, though. Behind every door and every window, eyes were following his every move, guessing and gauging. And maybe, they calculated, he wouldn't even make it to the end of the street where - according to his information - the watering hole was.
Maybe they imagined how they would bring him down.
He smirked briefly, though to any onlooker it would have appeared as a sneer. Fools!
The man bringing Peter Boyd down had yet to be born.
Slowly, enjoying every step, he walked down the road towards the centre of the town, then beyond.
Oddly enough, the saloon was almost at the end, the second to last house.
A quick sweeping glance told him everything he needed to know.
Ramshackle as the rest of them, though somebody had definitely made an effort. Cleaned as much as possible, a coat of paint that wasn't as flaky as on the other houses. The name shield gleamed. As much as it was possible in this dusty desert.
He smirked again - the name was either somebody's idea of a joke, or worse, wishful thinking.
Two steps up he crossed the porch and marched through the double door, not heeding to who or what might be behind it.
Inside it was dim and quiet. Most tables were full, but there was barely any word. They'd known he'd come in, lying in wait for him. All eyes were on him and for a moment he felt uneasy under the scrutiny.
It didn't last long.
It never did.
Looking around with a not wholly true lack of interest, he made his way over to the bar.
In front of it was a woman, short, slim, fragile. She didn't look like she belonged - too young, too fresh-faced, too much English rose to fit into the desert. The brunette behind the bar seemed to be much more like it.
"What can I do for you?" she asked in a smoky voice.
Narrowing his eyes, he contemplated her for an interminable moment. To her credit, she did neither flinch nor fidget, instead raised her own eyebrow.
He narrowed his eyes further. "Whisky."
The woman shrugged with derisive dismissal, but placed the glass, two fingers full, in front of him.
Raising the glass to his mouth Boyd carefully sniffed the booze. There was only the clean, biting scent of pure alcohol. Gratefully, he tipped and swallowed a mouthful.
Just as slowly, he put down the glass again, aware that still all eyes were on him. Turning slightly, he looked at the young blonde he had noticed before. Unlike most others she was gazing at him openly.
He could almost see her mind working as she tried to assess him. She was incredibly young, but innocent and not belonging...that might have been wrong.
Her eyes were a clear, hazy blue. Pretty, actually.
Raising his glass again, he gave her a small toast.
She did not react overtly either and he had to give those two women that they knew how to control themselves. Impressive for two so young.
Suddenly there was a commotion by the door as three men, previously seated, moved to block the entrance, to prevent a man stepping further inside. The newcomer was his companion and one didn't need to be a genius to realize that the colour of his skin was what those three men were taking offence to.
He moved swiftly, one hand already on the handle of his revolver, the other flexing in preparation to grab and strike, when another voice from higher up stopped him and all other motion in the room.
"Hold it. Right. There."
The would-be attackers receded, lowering themselves back onto their chairs, but it was clear that only deference and quite possibly fear of that voice made them do so.
Even he had little to counter the power of that voice.
Dark, sardonic, husky...sending a shiver down his spine.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned, instinct warring with learned propriety instilled in him by his late mother. Pull the gun, but never shoot a lady.
When he met deep, sapphire eyes suddenly locked with his, Peter Boyd knew he was in deep, deep trouble.
She walked down the staircase in slow motion. At least it seemed like it to him. Her movements were measured, displaying her figure in the tight dress. Her eyes never left his as she slowly closed the distance.
Later, Boyd would realize that it was only in his mind, but it felt as if the world was holding its breath for the duration. When she finally came up, he found to his disconcertment that he had to look down at her despite the heels of her boots. Of course, this brought his gaze automatically down on her cleavage which was displayed to its best advantage.
Hers. Not his.
"There'll be no fighting in my bar," she announced succinctly.
It surprised Boyd, the tone and diction of her words. They didn't seem to fit into this Godforsaken desert. Neither did the blue eyes boring into his and languidly taking on an amused expression.
"You can keep your guns right where they are, Mister. Nobody will shoot you or your friend in here."
"Mind that I don't believe it until I see it?" he asked back.
The corners of the woman's mouth twitched, as if she was biting back a quick reply. Instead she shrugged, her demeanour becoming dispassionate. "Suit yourself."
Turning around, she gestured towards the young blonde. "Mel, please take care of our newest guest," she ordered with a vague gesture towards Boyd's companion. "Offer him a glass of the house special, on the house."
The younger woman nodded and moved towards the young man still in the door, who gave Boyd a questioning look from underneath his hat.
Boyd shrugged and nodded in reconciliatory fashion. "As you please, Spence. We wouldn't want to offend a lady."
Spence politely offered his arm to the young woman and led her back to the bar where the bartender was already placing glasses of a dark red drink on the top.
Though he was still eyeing the young people with interest, Boyd was only too aware of the woman at his side, the proprietor of this establishment, he assumed.
The woman smiled at him in the most winning way. "If you don't want to offend this lady, how about you accept a glass of house special as well?"
"On the house?"
She eyed him up and down. "For starters. We can talk about your payment once you've had one."
"I'm not taking gifts."
"If that's your way of not offending a lady, it's not working, Mister."
Boyd grinned. "It's my special charm."
"It's certainly a special something."
This time he didn't answer, even though Boyd could think of a dozen replies. He was, however, certain that the lady would counter each of them. As entertaining as this promised to be, it did not feel right to do so under the scrutiny of a roomful of suspicious men.
The woman seemed completely unaffected by the tension in the room, being all smiles and warmth. It was an odd mixture of genuine sentiment and carefully built façade. Of course, she wasn't young enough to be wide-eyed and innocent; in fact, he knew that she was a few years older than she looked. Life and business had probably taught her to be on her guard, not let anybody look into her cards.
"One glass of the house special, sir," she announced, placing a glass of ruby liquid in front of him. At the same time, she pointedly looked at the hat he still wore. Such a demand of domesticity usually made Boyd's hackles rise, urging him to ignore the request on principle. It was just a hat and in every other saloon nobody bothered.
Still, the woman looked like she'd happily throw every notion of meek female in the wind and force him to heed to her demand, physically, if necessary. He couldn't quite imagine how such a slight person planned on doing so, but the day had been long and exhausting and somehow, Boyd felt too lazy to put in that much effort.
"What's this?" he asked instead, pointing at the drink, while carefully placing his hat next to it.
She smiled widely, amused. "Strawberries, cherries and an angel's kiss in spring."
The snort came unbidden, reflexively. Picking up the glass, he eyed the concoction suspiciously. "You don't say," he finally ground out.
"It's the house special. Summer Wine."
"Which explains the name of your...establishment, I assume?"
The answer was as short as it was succinct. "No."
Boyd raised an eyebrow, silently signalling that he was growing tired of the constant back and forth that led nowhere. Under different circumstances, he'd enjoy this, the chase, the slightly competitive edge to their exchange, but he wasn't here for this and it wasn't the day for this.
The woman seemed to notice his mood change, sending a fissure of unease down his spine. "Give it a try," she calmly suggested. "It's just..."
"...An angel's kiss in spring."
This time she laughed, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to be genuinely practised often. Boyd liked it. He damn well liked it, and maybe it was that which made him sip from the drink.
The room was shady, even though he could feel the sun still burning mercilessly onto the place. The heat was positively flitting through the fissures in the timber walls. Still, it was dim inside the room, pleasant and comfortable as he casually lounged on the brass bed. The decoration was generally sparse and non-descript, but somehow he could see a few small details that hinted at the character of the proprietor.
Somehow, though he couldn't be sure, Boyd felt that he hadn't been put into a normal guest room. Spence was already all but locked up with the young blonde who had been sent to 'take care of him'. Normally this would worry him - they weren't in this Godforsaken hole to have a jolly holiday - but at the moment he couldn't find any reason why he should begrudge the younger man his fun. He, after all, had high hopes for his own.
Taking another sip of his drink, Boyd smiled to himself. The taste was, indeed, incomparable, almost like making love to a lady. He'd never associated cherries and strawberries with a woman's skin, it was much too wordy, much too daft.
Only mad fools blabbed this much bullshit and only if they were drunk fools in love. Which he, Peter Boyd, was not. She was a fine broad, no doubt, but he wouldn't lose his head over her. No woman had ever managed that.
This drink, though...must be all that angel's kiss in spring-stuff, whatever it was.
Shaking his head, he took another sip.
"Told you you'd like it," the dark voice came from the general vicinity of the door, a definite tinge of amusement in it. "My summer wine has never disappointed."
"Summer wine," he snorted good-naturedly, while patting the bed next to him invitingly. "That's where the name comes from then. Of the bar."
The woman calmly settled herself down on the bed so that she was snugly placed against him. Her curves against his lines, warm and heavy, bringing with them her intoxicatingly feminine scent.
It had been a long time since he'd had a woman. Such a very long time...
"No. It's my name."
This time, Boyd snort was not at all delicate and definitely not to be miscontrued. "Like hell it is."
"You doubt me?"
"You're just taking the piss!"
She, who called herself "Summer Wine", topped up his glass, then clinked her own against it in a toast. "If I wanted, I could be very offended right now, Mister."
"But you aren't," Boyd announced, carefully turning over so that he could look at her. Naturally, a few drops from the drink spilled over, falling onto her skin. Without a second thought, he leaned forwards and licked the drops off.
Her reaction was immediate, her hands in his hair, pulling him against her. Boyd smiled against her skin, hazy with sensation. Her skin was soft, fragrant...like the summer wine he'd been drinking and suddenly he believed her.
She was not your general barmaid, he realized, but a grand seductress, if she put her mind to it. Probably the classiest whore this side of the Atlantic, able to turn kings and paupers into mindless fools.
Boyd did not think much, though, for her arms were the siren call, the smooth warmth of her skin, the taste of her lips tinged with the heady scent and taste of her summer wine. It ran through her veins, he believed, just as much as he spilled drop after drop onto her skin and licked them off, one by one, disappearing in the maze of promise and reward.
He could get drunk on her body, was already addicted to it as much as he was to the low moans and sighs she gave him in reply to his touches.
Her hands were knowledgeable and proficient, divesting him of his clothes in moments, so that her mouth could kiss and nip and lick all over his salty skin.
She wasn't meek and subservient, instead unbelievably self-assured and serene.
In the dim light, with the sun still burning patterns into the room, her naked silhouette had a halo of gold as she crawled down the bed, to pull down his trousers.
"Summer Wine, that's your name?" he slurred, both from drink and heavy arousal.
She chuckled lightly in response. "Maybe," came in the lowest pitch possible.
A shiver rushed down his spine at the sound, focused all his attention. Seconds later he heard the gentle jingle of his spurs falling down onto the floor with a heavy musical thud.
"But it isn't of much consequence, is it?"
Boyd reached for her, rolling her underneath him.
"No," he whispered and dipping his head, he sought out the curve of her neck, then kissed his way down her chest. Instinctively he found the tender spots, as if he had loved her countless times before. Her reaction was immediate, her fingers cramping into his back urging him on.
He didn't need much encouragement, found himself on the verge of explosion already.
Her touches inflamed him to the point of mindlessness, the wild mixture of her skin and her fragrant heat overwhelming his senses.
When it finally came, the little death of delight, her babbled words of love and repentance were lost in the mighty roar of Boyd's release.
The moment he opened his eyes, Boyd knew that it was a mistake. It burned. Badly. As if daggers were stuck into his eyes. The sun was harsh, compounding his already enormous headache. In fact, it was as if somebody was constantly firing off cannons, while at the same time playing a mistuned piano in his head.
His tongue was swollen, with the unpleasant feeling of a fur covering it. His stomach rolled and his back ached.
All in all, Boyd realized, life was a pain in the arse right now. In the truest sense of the word.
He knew that voice, but couldn't place it. Male, familiar, strained. But who in God's name was it?
With herculean effort Boyd turned his head, regretting it immediately. "What?" he croaked, his voice paper thin.
"You okay?" the other man slurred.
"Okay?" he groaned back, wanting to laugh. If this counted as okay, he didn't want to feel crap.
A face began to swim into his vision, actually, more of a shadow the size of a hat. From this small field of relief the voice continued to speak.
Boyd tried to find some ground in his mind, some sort of focus, but the world still burned and swam.
"Dunno," the other man murmured, his voice becoming quieter as he carefully turned his head to look around. "There's nothing around."
Groaning loudly while manfully trying to sit up, Boyd turned his head as well and fell back onto the ground immediately. Bile was rising in his throat and for a moment he simply wanted to shout at the high heavens for making him so sick.
Yet, in those short moments, he had seen the other man to be correct. There was indeed nothing around.
"Horses, Spence?" he rasped.
Spencer, that was the other man. His colleague and companion on this trip. The fog was beginning to clear. The town, they should have been in a town, in the shady rooms above the bars of Summer Wine. Grace's bar.
He remembered her name now, knew it was hers for in the lazy aftermath of carnal pleasures she had whisperingly admitted to her real name and seductively inquired after his.
Boyd had never been one for displaying any of his cards and even less of information, but she...
She and her summer wine...
"None," Spencer sighed exhaustedly. "Just this." He held up a flask. A small flask, hopefully filled with water.
"Weapons?" Boyd groaned, his stomach rolling even more intensely - but now not just from his gigantic hangover, but an unease that might quickly turn into a full panic.
Spencer shook his head for a moment, but then stopped immediately, his dark face going decidedly green. "Gone."
This brought the older man into an upright position, despite the screaming protest of his body. Vertigo hit and he swayed dangerously, but it was nothing compared to the burning anger spreading inside him. He relished it, felt the fury push residual alcohol and its side effects aside.
"We are in the middle of nowhere with no horses, no weapons and no idea where we are?"
"Yes sir," Spencer admitted. "And no food and no money. They only left the clothes on our back."
At this Boyd jumped up and started to sluggishly pace, before coming to a sudden stop. The melody of his steps was wrong. It was inharmonious, empty. Fearing the worst, he looked down at his boots and broke down on his knees roaring like a wounded lion.
His spurs! His silver spurs were gone.
She had taken it all. Everything he had, everything he was - she had taken it all and dumped him in the middle of the desert, delirious on her and her God forsaken summer wine.
He roared again in disbelief and defeat.
Black widow spider that she was with her enigmatic blue eyes, fragrant skin and seductive smile. Strawberries, cherries...and that damned angel's kiss in spring.
She had dared to cuckold him, play him for the fool that he was in her arms.
"Sir?" Spencer asked carefully, his mind going over the practicalities of the plan he could see exploding in his boss' mind.
"We go back!" Boyd announced, unsteadily coming to his feet. "We go back and find them. And then we'll pay them in spades for the house special! Even if it is the last thing I'll do!"
Precariously, he took the first step, then another and then another...each one becoming more steady as anger and pure determination fuelled his gait.
His tongue and his throat however felt parched and he could think of nothing but of once again tasting summer wine from her skin.
The morning still held some coolness of the night before, so she had thrown open the shaded window to air the room. It wasn't what she wanted, though, getting rid of the heavy musky scent in her room. She was sure the blankets and the pillows still smelt like him, the sheets like them.
From one of the bedposts something glimmered silvery. Crossing the distance, she eyed the silver contraption hanging there. Silver spurs. Smiling, she ran the tip of a finger over the metal.
Gently, as if they were breakable, she pulled the spurs off the post and made her way to the head part of the bed. They jingled quietly, melodiously in her hands. Settling down on the bed she had shared with him just a few hours before, Grace Foley sipped from her summer wine, humming a tune and eyed her prize.
If she knew anything about people, and she did, then she wouldn't have seen the last of Peter Boyd.
Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.