Discover Top Posts Tagged with #thread || huck

location: town square status: closed @spanglehoney // @stuckinthesprings

Okay, to be fair? Huck didn’t hate the town square. It had its charm, sure-- brick paths warmed by sun, familiar faces passing by with slow, easy nods, and a smell of cinnamon and yeast coming out of the bakery that curled under his nose like a beckoning finger. But the thing about the town square was that it wasn’t a place you went unless you were willing to be seen. And Huck? Huck didn’t like to be seen.

Because being seen meant talking. Meant a hand on your shoulder and a “You still look tired, honey,” or a “That boy of yours is growing like a weed-- bet he’s almost too much for you to handle now, huh?” And Huck was raised better than to ignore people. Unfortunately.

He’d come here with Logan and Tweedy under the guise of getting the kid a muffin-- a task as simple and straightforward as they come. A straight line in and out. No distractions. But the moment he blinked, that straight line had unraveled into a tangled thread. A glance over his shoulder, and both his sister and his son had vanished, smoke in the wind.

"Son of a—"

He stops mid-swear, biting it down behind clenched teeth as his hand went instinctively to his back pocket. Wallet: gone. Right. He gave it to Tweedy because she had her bag on her. Thought it’d be efficient. Smart. Look at him, trusting his blood.

He could feel the tension coil through his shoulders as he scans the square, eyes catching on familiar faces and unfamiliar chatter. Logan and Tweedy probably ducked into a store, he told himself. Or got sidetracked by a dog. Or a bird. Or anything but the task they were here for.

Hell. At least now he could smoke without setting a bad example, right?

The cigarette was already between his teeth by the time the thought finished forming, hanging there and dangling with every breath. He pats his chest, his jeans, his jacket pocket. Then again. And again.

No lighter. Of course. No lighter.

The cigarette drops to dangle at the edge of his lip while he stares flatly out at the square, something in his mind gently telling him that this was not the opportunity to crash out. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “So my Saturday’s cursed. That’s good to know.”

He steps off to the side, away from the center of the square, and leans one hip against the side of the nearest bench. With a squint, he stares up at the sky, waiting for God to send him one good reason not to walk home and call the day a loss.

#thread || huck #(:<#you also get a huck

location: the velvet stag status: closed ( @brightreddays )

He liked it better when it was empty. Not that he’d say it out loud-- God forbid he get caught wishing less business on someone trying to make a living. Huck Buchanan might’ve been a lot of things, but uncharitable wasn’t one of them. Still, after a day of fighting the sun and coaxing wilted squash from bone-dry soil, all he wanted was to sit at the bar, drink a cold beer, and not hear about whose cousin was marrying who next spring, or whether the Church booths would be fixed up for next week's flea market.

But no such luck tonight.

The music was blaring loud enough to rattle the walls, that old twang-heavy two-step kind of sound that made you think you’d stepped back into your daddy’s boots. The dance floor was alive-- skirts swinging, boots hitting hard enough to send dust up from the planks, laughter rising over the beat in warm, breathless peals. It was the kind of noise that used to thrill him when he was younger. Now it just made his back ache a little harder.

Still. Huck knew better than to grumble over someone else’s good time. Lord knows joy’s hard enough to come by these days.

He nursed his beer with both hands wrapped around the bottle, letting the sweat of the glass chill his palms. That first swallow went down hard and easy, all at once. Cold enough to knock the dust off his lungs, smooth enough to feel like a reward. His eyes fell shut for a beat too long, lashes catching in the edge of a brow furrowed from sun and thought alike.

The bar stool creaked under his weight as he leaned back slightly, setting the bottle down with a muted thunk. He glanced toward the clock hanging crooked on the wall near the jukebox, lips barely moving as he read the time to himself. He still had a couple hours before he had to drag his bones home and force himself into bed before the rooster decided he’d slept too long.

So he stayed where he was.

Let the laughter fill the spaces in him that had been worn thin. Let the rhythm of the boots and music echo off his bones. Let the whiskey bottle behind the bar catch the light like an old memory. He wouldn’t dance-- he’d rather limp into the grave than let anyone see his knee give out in the middle of a two-step-- but he’d sit here, drink his beer, and watch the night spin around him.

Even if he liked it better when it was quiet.

#thread || huck #(:

location: pure valley farm status: closed ( @ofmourningdoves )

If there was one thing you were never going to hear coming out of Huck Buchanan’s mouth, it was a complaint.

You’d hear him cuss, sure. You’d hear him bark orders at Tweedy, or scold Tad for dragging his boots through the house. You’d hear him mutter to himself in the rows like the corn might answer back, or let out a laugh so rusty it sounded like it hadn’t been oiled in months. You’d even hear him pray-- low, steady, a whisper more than a plea. But you wouldn’t hear him say a damn word about the way his body ached, or how his hands cracked so bad in the winter they bled into the dirt. That wasn’t how he was raised, and it sure as hell wasn’t how he meant to raise the baby Buchanans.

Out here, if you let the weight settle on your shoulders for even a second too long, it’d buckle your knees before you realized what hit you.

So no, Huck didn’t complain. He just worked.

The sun hadn’t even crested fully over the treeline, but the back of his shirt was already clinging to his spine with sweat. He moved slow through the fields, not out of laziness, but because care took time. The soil was dry this year-- dust kicked up too easy, and he could see the tension in the plants, the curl of the leaves that said water wasn’t coming quick enough. They were thirsty. Hell, he was thinking about subsurface irrigation again, something more permanent than dragging hoses around at dawn and praying for overnight rain. But installing a system like that meant money, and time, and Huck was short on both. Maybe he could talk to the folks down at Sunlit Blooms, lend a hand in exchange for a cut of the profits. He knew they were struggling, same as most everyone, and a little extra labor never scared him off. Could make it work.

He straightened to his full height, spine clicking back into place one vertebra at a time-- until one click too many knocked him sideways.

Pop.

It was his leg. That one. The bad one.

Pain stabbed up from the joint like a blade, sharp and sudden, and Huck damn near bit his tongue to keep from letting out more than a grunt. His hand flew to the side of his thigh, massaging hard into the muscle like he could beat the pain out of it. “Don’t you fuckin’ do it,” he hissed under his breath, jaw clenched tight. “Not today, not now…”