Hey Bo, whatcha writing? One of the many publish fics you should be working on? No. Is it one of the unpublished fics you’ve been planning for a while and have an outline for??? NO. Is is the hypothetical Big Reveal from a dumb au you’re never going to write a linear fic for???? OF COURSE, IT IS.
Continuation of this idea
Boyd really is trying to go clean, he never wants to sit in a sorry jail cell for the rest of his life. Which is to say that instead of breaking Ned’s lock to his tacky souvenir shop he carefully picks it. Less of a mess to report if by chance Ned is actually faked his papers with enough confidence to go to the police. It wouldn’t be entirely unexpected that Ned would foster his image in a tiny town like this to gain a bit of slack from the local police if push ever came to shove about things.
Frankly, it’s not so bad a plan altogether. Find a cozy little piece of nowhere, build enough of a reputation and savings for a bit of protection and spend the rest of one’s life in quiet peace. He could almost be a little proud of Ned for accomplishing all this if it hadn’t been earned by selling him up the river.
The store is silent, late as it is Boyd had done less scouting than he might usually have, he’ll admit that he’s losing a bit of the patience he’d had in jail but that’s another matter for another time. He remembers Ned’s chaotic sleep schedule but he also knows store hours from a degree of google searching and facebook review stalking. Apparently, there’s no force in the universe that keeps Ned in that store once it closes at six barring the strange little Saturday Night Dead production.
He almost takes the production equipment too, but that just doesn’t have that same oomph as Ned’s damned treasures.
His eyes drag across said treasure room, there’s plenty of things he remembers from Ned’s old stash--A bit more surprisingly though there are newer additions. He doesn’t recognize the odd little line of tchotchkes in proud display across one table, each of them a different little crystalline flowers. A poppy, a rose, and a violet which upon closer inspection the delicate little things look hand blown and expensive, certainly a fine catch that he carefully wraps and adds to his stolen goods.
He wonders on the merits of pawning a few of the newer baubles, none of them are anything as iconic as Ned used to tend towards. It’s possible, Boyd supposes, that if his old partner really did set the criminal life behind him these might even be self-bought. It makes the temptation even greater, to yank away something Ned had the time and ability to earn while he was rotting in a cell.
He’ll mull it over later, for now, he just needs to get everything.
He finds the bloody fucking pendant last, stored in the very back of the room on Ned’s desk, away from any prying eyes. Boyd has to take a deep, steadying breath in order to keep himself from just thrashing the rest of the nearly empty room. He snatches the thing from its display case, clenching the chain so hard the clasp digs painfully into his skin. He stuffs the thing into his pocket, this one he thinks, this one he could sell. This one he could chuck as far as he’s able into the damned ocean and he might feel a modicum of peace.
It’s on a whim, really, that he bothers to look through Ned’s desk. He has everything he came for and a few extras here and there. Still, there’s something very satisfying about the idea of perhaps moving things around just a bit, just to make Ned panic a little more. Leave him rustled and panicked and unsure, it’s a sweet mental image and he only hopes that Ned’s face will be just as satisfying whenever he decides to make contact.
There’s a safe under the desk, which he just has to crack, it’s begging him really. Ned leaving something so obvious is a bit disappointing but it still tracks. Ned has always been soft and his time in Kepler only made that glaring personality flaw worse as far as Boyd’s been able to get a read for.
From the safe most of what he pulls out is fairly standard, the deed to the shop, some tax records but one item makes Boyd stop completely in his tracks. With slightly shaking hands he grips the paper just a bit too tightly, it crinkles beneath his large hands and it’s only when he can feel the tension ratcheting towards an outright tear does he quickly release his hold. The document flutters to the ground, lays there tauntingly, mockingly and Boyd’s heartbeat suddenly races.
A birth certificate, Ned’s neat handwriting filling in the Father’s name and a nearly illegible scribble for the mother. It’s not a name he recognizes but the child’s name is, after a fashion at least.
Poppy Rosaline Violet Chicane.
A white streak of rage fills his chest as the pieces fall into place, that’s his little poppet.