Recompense (Gator Tillman x Reader)
Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.
Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.
TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series, cursing.
Word count: ~2.9k
(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)
A/N: Ugh. Why's he so fine??
Contents:
Chapter One: Rock Bottom.
Chapter Two: Mole.
Chapter Three: Outed.
Chapter Four: Seen.
Chapter Five: Fever.
Chapter Six: Shape of You.
Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.
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It was winter the first time Gator got sick following the disappearance of his mom.
He remembered that winter like it was yesterday. Just cold, damp, below freezing, but not a single drop of snow.
He’d woken up shivering, sweat dampening his dark hair.
Sheets twisted around his legs, throat raw, head thick and heavy like someone had packed it full of wet cotton. His skin had that strange, prickling heat that didn’t match how cold he felt.
For a few seconds, he hadn’t understood what was wrong.
“Ma?”
Silence answered him, empty and painfully loud all the same.
He tried again, voice cracking.
“...ma?”
Nothing.
That was when he remembered.
Right.
She wasn’t there anymore.
He’d lain there for a while after that, staring up at the ceiling, letting the feeling settle in his chest. He didn't cry, couldn't. Cause how could she just up and leave them like this? Leave him?
Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed.
His legs felt weak. Reminded him of how he felt getting off his uncle's boat last summer when they visited. Unsteady, shaky. The floor was cold under his feet, sending a sharp chill straight up his spine. He had to steady himself on the doorframe just to get his bearings before stepping into the hallway.
The house smelled faintly of coffee and bacon grease. His stomach turned.
Roy was already up, of course. Roy was always an early bird. He didn't understand how he did it. That man never sat down.
Gator made it halfway down the hall before his head swam hard enough that he had to stop again, bracing a hand against the wall.
“Boy.”
The voice came from the kitchen, slow and measured.
He swallowed.
“Yeah?”
“Get in here.”
Gator pushed off the wall and kept moving.
The kitchen was bright compared to the rest of the house, morning light cutting through the window over the sink. Gator squinted, his head pounding. Roy stood at the counter, coffee in one hand, the other braced flat against the wood like it belonged there.
He didn’t turn around right away.
Just kept talking.
“Sun’s up.”
Gator leaned slightly into the doorway.
“I don’t feel good.”
That got Roy’s attention.
He turned, eyes sweeping over him once. Quick. Assessing.
“Yeah, son. You don’t look good either,” Roy said.
Gator waited.
For what, he wasn’t sure.
Maybe for the part where he’d be told to go back to bed. Maybe for a hand against his forehead, the way it used to happen without him asking.
Nothing came.
Roy took a slow sip of his coffee. “Second Thessalonians.”
Gator frowned faintly, “...what?”
“If a man will not work, neither shall he eat.”
The words landed flat.
Gator blinked at him, sluggish mind scrambling to follow the jump from I feel sick to that.
“I’m sick,” he explains weakly, foolishly thinking it would change anything.
Roy shrugged one shoulder.
“Then you’ll work sick.”
Gator’s jaw tightened.
At the time, it had felt—
Unfair didn’t even begin to cover it.
It felt as though something had been rewritten without his permission. The rules had changed overnight, and nobody had bothered explaining them.
He remembered standing there, swaying slightly on his feet, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong to deserve it.
He hadn’t.
That was the part that took the longest to understand.
Roy just… didn’t care. Not about fevers. Not about shaking hands or burning skin or the way Gator’s vision blurred when he stood too fast.
Care wasn’t part of the equation anymore.
“Wood ain’t gonna stack itself,” Roy added, already turning back to the counter. “And you’ve got chores that didn’t get done yesterday.”
Gator didn’t move.
“Go on,” Roy said.
Dismissive, hands wiped clean. Just a list of things that needed doing.
Gator had gone outside that morning with a fever burning under his skin and an axe too heavy for his arms, splitting wood while the cold air cut through the sweat on his neck.
He remembered the way his hands had trembled, and he had to stop every few minutes just to breathe through the dizziness.
How he told himself he'd never forgive Roy for his cruelty but kept going anyway because hadn’t been another option.
Now—
Now, lying in a bed that isn't his, in a house that doesn't belong to him, with bandages wrapped over his eyes and heat still lingering under his skin—
Gator shifts slightly against the pillow, and that small movement pulls a dull ache through his ribs.
His throat still feels rough, his body still slow. Still not right.
...But better than that.
Better than splitting wood with shaking hands and nobody watching to see if he dropped.
His jaw tightens faintly.
Funny.
Back then, he thought it was the worst thing in the world.
He lets out a slow breath.
What he wouldn’t give now to be fighting something small. Something simple. Something that passed... instead of this.
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Gator gets better, technically.
The fever breaks first, just fades out slowly until the heat stops clinging to his skin and his body finally settles into something closer to normal. The chills go with it.
The heavy, disorienting fog in his head lifts enough that he can think without it feeling like a task.
But that’s where the improvement ends because what’s left behind isn’t strength.
He feels it the first time he tries to sit up too fast. The room tilts hard. His stomach drops like he missed a step going down stairs, and he has to grab onto the edge of the mattress just to keep himself upright.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, breath catching.
It takes longer than he expects for the feeling to pass, longer than it should.
By the time the dizziness fades, he’s already irritated.
The second time he tries to stand, it’s worse.
His legs hold, but they don't feel right under him. He grips the wall and waits it out.
Despises every second of it.
Everything costs more now. That’s the part he can’t stand. Sitting up takes effort. Standing takes planning and assistance. Walking takes far too much concentration.
Even small movements like reaching for a stupid glass, shifting in bed, turning his head too quickly, pull something out of him he doesn’t have to spare.
Weakness. Uselessness.
The clearer his head gets, the worse that feeling gets. Now he notices it. Before, the fever had swallowed everything, turning the world into something distant and warped enough that none of it felt real.
Now he’s awake for it and far too aware of how frequently that woman checks on him, how she moves around him and knows when he needs something without asking.
And of the fact that he hasn’t done a single useful thing since he got here.
It starts small.
A clipped answer here.
A muttered response there.
Shorter patience.
Less tolerance.
“You tired of hovering?” he mutters at one point when he hears her pause in the doorway again.
“I’m checking on you.”
“I ain't needin' you up my ass all day.”
"Fine," she huffs.
He can’t see it, and he can't prove it, but he can hear it in the way she moves. Sharp, dismissive.
Yeah. He thinks she flipped him off.
The better he feels, the less excuse he has for that uselessness.
Being sick is one thing. Being helpless is another.
And right now, he can’t tell the difference.
It's the seventh day of constant bedrest when he gets fed up.
Gator sits at the edge of the bed longer than he needs to.
Listening.
Tracking her movement the way he’s learned to.
Cabinet... Sink...
Boots crossing the kitchen heavily.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“…Hey.”
The word carries out into the hallway.
Her steps pause.
A second later, they shift direction, headed closer.
She appears in the doorway without making a show of it, leaning lightly against the frame. “Yeah?”
He rolls his shoulders once, like he’s trying to shake something loose. “I can help.”
A beat.
“With what?”
“Anything.”
He gestures vaguely, hand cutting through the air before dropping back to his thigh.
“Chores. Fix something. Hell, I can stand there and hold stuff if you need.”
The offer comes out rough, almost pleading.
She watches him for a second. Takes in the way he’s sitting, upright, but tight. The way his fingers keep flexing like he’s trying to work feeling back into them. The slight delay when he turns his head toward her voice.
Then she says, simply,
“No.”
Gator stills.
“…No?”
“Uh-uh.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m not asking to run a marathon,” he mutters. “I can carry a damn laundry basket.”
“Gator, you can barely walk to the bathroom without getting dizzy.”
“I ain't tryna sprint with it.”
She pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room instead, arms folding loosely across her chest. “You’re still fragile.”
The word lands wrong.
He bristles immediately.
“I’m not fragile,” he snarls.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. A pause. “You're healing. You need to rest.”
Silence stretches between them. Tight.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Th least I could do—”
“No.”
The answer cuts clean.
His shoulders go rigid.
“I ain't fragile,” he mutters again, arms crossed.
She watches the reaction come and go and sits at his bedside, tone changing just enough to redirect instead of argue.
“You wanna help that bad?” She asks.
He almost perks up.
"Rest."
Gator lets out a humorless huff, “I’m shit at resting.”
“I know.”
“I don’t sit around while other people do things for me,” he mutters. “Fluff my pillow. All lazy 'n shit.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“Where’d you get the idea that resting makes you lazy?”
He pauses.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you kinda did.”
He doesn’t argue this time.
His head turns slightly toward the wall, more instinct than intention, like he needs something solid to face that isn’t her.
“…Feels like shit.”
There it is.
Her expression softens.
“I know,” she says quietly.
She hesitates, just long enough to make it a choice, then reaches for his hand.
He stills the second her fingers close around his.
“I don’t like sitting around either,” she continues, voice steady, easy. “It drives me crazy.”
Her thumb moves slowly across his knuckles, grounding.
“But you’re not doing nothing,” she adds. “You’re healing.”
A small pause.
“Which, for the record, you’ve been doing pretty well.”
His jaw shifts faintly.
She keeps going, "you were in bad shape a few days ago,” she says. “Like… really bad.”
Her thumb brushes over his knuckles again.
“You’re up, talking, sassing back at me,” a faint hint of a smile slips into her voice. “That’s progress.”
He exhales slowly.
Still tense but not as sharp.
“Give your body time,” she says, quieter now. “You’ll get back to it.”
A beat.
“Then you can help.”
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By the time afternoon rolls around, the house has gone quiet again.
Gator had made it out of the bedroom eventually.
One hand along the wall, the other trailing over furniture he’s already started mapping in his head. Couch edge. Coffee table corner. The faint give of a rug under his feet. He kept his breath measured so he didn’t tip sideways like an idiot. But he’d made it on his own. That is, if you don't count Champ trailing closely after him.
Now he’s settled into the corner of the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, the other resting loosely against his stomach. Champ is sprawled along his legs like a weighted blanket, warm and solid and entirely unwilling to move.
The TV hums in front of him. Charlie's sister had turned it on.
"You watch documentaries?" She'd asked him.
"Do I look like I watch documentaries?" He crossed his arms.
She huffs a laugh, unoffended. "Geez, sass. Well, suck it up. You do now."
Just before she disappeared into the kitchen, she added:
“Nature channel. It has narration.”
He’d grunted something maybe a little unkind in response.
At the time, he hadn’t really cared what it was.
But now...
“…the pup is left alone on the ice,” a calm, almost too-gentle voice says from the speakers.
He exhales slowly.
“Its mother will not return.”
Gator’s jaw tightens, hands gripping his knees. He can't see what's happening, and it's putting him more on edge.
“The ice beneath it continues to thin—”
“Yeah, I got it,” he mutters under his breath.
Champ’s tail thumps once against his leg.
On the screen, the narrator keeps going, voice steady, detached.
“…without protection or food, the young harp seal faces impossible odds—”
“What the fuck,” he breathes, distraught.
He leans forward abruptly, hand fumbling for the remote on the coffee table. His fingers brush it once, miss, then find it again.
The TV clicks off. Silence follows.
He leans back again, dragging a hand over his face.
“…Stupid show.”
Champ shifts, lifting his head just long enough to huff softly before settling again.
He sits there for a second, shoulders tight, like he got caught off guard by something he doesn’t want to name.
From the hallway, the front door opens.
“I’m home!”
Champ’s nails hit the floor at a sprint, tail already thumping against the wall as he barrels toward the entryway.
Gator exhales slowly, letting the moment pass.
“Timing’s great,” he mutters.
Boots hit the floor.
A backpack drops.
Charlie appears in the living room doorway, already mid-sentence.
“Okay so I have homework and it’s stupid—”
He stops.
“…You just sitting in silence?”
Gator shakes his head, "Was watching TV."
Charlie squints at him, "With the TV off?"
“Was done with it.”
Charlie narrows his eyes slightly.
“…without me?”
Gator huffs, “Jesus, kid. You were at school. Wasn’t exactly a kids’ show anyway.”
“What was it?”
“…Seals.”
Charlie brightens immediately.
“Oh, I like seals.”
Gator makes a noncommittal sound.
“…You wouldn’t have liked this one.”
Charlie squints at him.
“…Why?”
Gator shifts on the couch, already over it.
“Sit down. Do your homework.”
Deflection successful.
Mostly.
The kitchen table becomes the next battlefield.
Papers spread out.
Pencil tapping.
A workbook open to a page that immediately earns a groan.
“This shit's stupid,” Charlie mutters.
“Language,” his sister calls from the sink.
“This homework is bullcrap.”
“You're on thin ice, boy,” She waves the wooden spoon she's rinsing at him.
Charlie huffs and flops into his chair harder than necessary.
“It is dumb,” he insists. “Why do I need to know how many watermelons Cindy has if Jonathon has seven apples? That’s not gonna help me pay bills when I'm a grown up.”
From the living room, Gator snorts.
“Depends on the job you get.”
Charlie swivels in his chair.
“…You gonna help me or make fun of me?”
Gator shifts, pushing himself up from the couch with more effort than he wants to show. He steadies himself for a second before making his way toward the table.
“Can do both,” he says with a small grin.
He lowers himself into the chair across from Charlie, exhaling quietly once he’s seated.
“Read it.”
Charlie glances down at the page.
“Okay… uh… ‘If Cindy has twelve watermelons and gives away five—’”
“Five,” Gator repeats, anchoring it.
“—and Jonathon has seven apples—”
“Why does he have apples?”
“I don’t know!”
“Stick to the problem.”
Charlie sighs.
“—how many watermelons does Cindy have left?”
There’s a pause.
“…Seven,” Gator says.
Charlie blinks.
“…Wait.”
He counts under his breath, finger dragging across the page.
“…Oh.”
A beat.
“…Oh.”
Gator leans back slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Yeah.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s just subtraction.”
“Well excuse me for not being a nerd.”
“You know damn well I ain't no nerd. And Jonathon's just a distraction. Don't pay 'im any mind.”
Charlie squints at him, then flips to the next problem.
“Okay, this one’s worse.”
“Read it.”
They fall into a rhythm. Charlie reads. Gator answers. Then explains when Charlie doesn’t get it.
Slower.
Breaking it down.
“Okay, no—listen,” Gator says, reaching for the pencil. “You gotta think about it like—”
He pauses.
The pencil hovers over the page.
“…What were the numbers again?”
Charlie grins immediately.
“You forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You forgot.”
“I need you to repeat it.”
“That’s forgetting.”
Gator points the pencil vaguely at the page.
“I can't see the problem, you dick.”
Charlie laughs and leans closer.
“Okay, okay—thirty-six divided by six.”
“Six.”
“See? You do remember.”
“Barely tolerating you right now.”
Charlie beams.
He shifts even closer, shoulder bumping into Gator’s arm as he reads the next one slower this time.
And something changes because now Gator has to listen, actually listen. Track it in his head.
From the kitchen, she glances over.
Watches the two of them at the table.
Charlie leaning in, animated, explaining something with his hands.
Gator listening. Engaged. Present.
Certainly different from how her younger self ever saw him.
Charlie finishes the last problem with a dramatic sigh.
“Done.”
“Finally.”
Charlie gathers his papers, stuffing them into his folder, what’s left of it, before pausing.
“…Thanks, Mole.”
It’s quieter this time.
Less dramatic.
Gator leans back in his chair, one hand resting loosely on the table.
“…Yeah, kid. Anytime."
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A/N: Hey my lovely readers!
I know it’s been a while. I love this story far too much to ever leave it unfinished, and your kindness and support honestly helped me find my way back to it, so thank you for that. I’m really sorry for the delay. I didn’t mean to be gone this long.
Life just kinda hit all at once for a bit. I got pretty sick, lost my job while trying to deal with that, and ended up in a rough mental space for a while. But things are finally starting to look up again.
I hope everyone is doing well and enjoys this next chapter :) I kept it a little shorter this time mostly just to ease myself into writing again. As always, your comments mean the world to me. I love hearing your thoughts and seeing the little details you pick up on. I see you guys.
Glad to be back, Pockets <3