Polishing


by llamajoy


Billy is careful about everything he does.

Careful in the way he stands, capelet across his shoulders just so, mouth in a thin unwavering line. Careful as he sips some of Maison's famous tea, careful to appreciate it, watching the older man with those ingenuous blue eyes. Careful to keep his coat well-mended, his guns well-oiled.

Maddening, perhaps. But, as Bart has noticed, it makes him easy to find.

It's late afternoon; when the door to the gunroom slides open, there Billy sits, careful with his shotgun balanced upright in his lap, polishing cloth in his hand.

"Yo," Bart gives him a friendly smile, pulling up a chair and straddling it. "Whatcha doin'?" He knows, of course. But Bart has found that sometimes the obvious questions are the only ones that Billy will answer.

Billy lifts an eyebrow, not looking at him. Up and down goes his hand, polishing the rifle barrel slowly, riflebutt against his thigh, tip perched on his shoulder. "Maintenance," is all he says, with a deliberate little shrug. Up, and down again, with only the slightest hesitation now he knows he's being watched.

Bart can't resist; he's not particularly known for his restraint. "Got to keep yourself all lubed up, right?"

The priest turns pink around his ears, but doesn't grace that with a response. Down goes the oiling rag, and back up again, and Bart watches the way Billy's throat moves as he swallows.

Behind the counter, Maison clears his throat. His delight is palpable, his lord at last finding some reputable friends. "Oh, young master! Our Mr. Black was just telling me about his orphanage, and the children there. Such a wonderful thing, really."

If Bart hadn't been watching Billy's face, he might have missed the tiny smile. "Really?" he presses, suspicious. Confiding in Old Maison, practically talkative?

The priest stiffens. "Of course." Downturned eyes studiously watch the shine off his gun, as though the glint of metal might hold a great secret. "Not that it's any of your business."

Bart thinks about the way Billy's hand rests on Prim's shoulder, that speechless big-brother reassurance. Why shouldn't Billy be proud of his kids, and brag to a willing audience? Far too easy for Bart to think that Billy's just a bratty kid, if that's the only face that Billy will ever show him.

Billy can't always be careful. He knows it. Almost he caught him speaking with Sigurd-- speaking frankly, with worry or with jubilation unguarded on his face. It vanished, of course, when he saw Bart approaching, always intent on curbing his tongue when the pirate prince was in earshot.

Bart did see him snapping at his father, once, and that time he was less hasty to straighten his bow and smooth his facial expression. Content to hold on to his righteous anger, maybe, indignation crumbling his composure from the inside out.

But Billy was careful in that, too, with a too-quick smile and a snide dismissive noise, conversation over before it even began.

It drives Bart up a wall, wondering just what he's hiding. But a Fatima, determined, will find the answers he seeks, come sandstorms or high water. Even if he doesn't know just why it matters so much to him, anyway.

The chair rocks on its legs as he stands up roughly, tossing Billy a grin over his shoulder. Billy's hand goes still on the shotgun in his lap. "Nah, 'course not. Have fun with your guns."

And if Billy wonders just what Bart had wanted to talk about, he says nothing, and the gunroom door hisses closed between them.


~o~





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