Name: Dray
Story: everwood
Colors: True Blue 1) "Bromance" Daffodil 6) "New Growth" Tequila Rose 3) "As long as a bottle was passed around every man was feelin' gay"
Supplies and Styles: Frame, Pastels (Fluffbingo "Flowers"), Fingerpainting, Chalk (Owen would totally wonder how many slaps it takes to cook a chicken), Glitter (Petting Zoo by Nicole Homer), Glue ("You carefully wade through the web of threads and revisit the various people you have gathered around you: excellent friends, diligent colleagues, and spirited acquaintances.")
Word Count: 1,549
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Notes: I've been meaning to write that critique is always welcome. This takes place a couple of weeks after Serpent Song, and will be a two-parter.


Outings with Boyce required a lot of thought before each move was executed, not unlike a well-matched game of chess required a player to examine all of his options. Owen had been spending the entirety of the last few days on the trail considering what he knew about the forest man, what yet remained a mystery, and perhaps most importantly, how many favours he could count on needing to call in to ensure that Boyce went all the way with some rather important asks, before Owen set sail for another continent.

Boyce owed him a lot of favours... but he was as delicate as an orchid in some ways. Owen imagined it would be easier to crawl into the big man's hammock than to ask him to go into town and have a simple chat with a contact.

His mind was wandering.

Luckily, the tributary that intersected the track on its way to Oraston burbled into view and Owen sighed in relief--he was almost at the next stop on his journey, and maybe his favourite one. He made note of the fact that the stream here was deep at this time the year, fed by the same kind of run-off from the foothills that fed the lake further up-river, from the mountains. He was glad of his ability to remain warm no matter the circumstances when he forded the water and found it coming up almost to his waist. His skin prickled and tingled, and his donkey had to be clucked and soothed and cajoled into making the crossing, but in no time at all he was steaming his pants dry and making the familiar steep ascent into forest that had been staked out by a friend.

The edge of the woods opened into an idyllic little glade not far from the water's edge, made more lovely by the fact that nothing was packed under several feet of snow, like the last time he'd visited. Unlike about a month ago, the place was already rich with the spoils of hard industry: Owen had to keep a firm hand on the reins to keep his donkey from wandering into a plot of garden already verdant with staked-up life. Too, Boyce had been busy building structures in the old-fashioned human sense, for unlike Trellis' strange half-living shape, a chicken coop had gone up and the man was visible inside some netting near what looked like a big roosting box.

Owen was taken aback by the change, not just in the homey little stake of land, but in Boyce's appearance. There were flowers, like snowbells, tucked in his hair and in the sides of his beard. Was he feeling particularly whimsical?

Boyce spotted him as Owen came around the front of the cabin, and, ducking out from a wood-frame door, approached him with the same wary care of a half-tamed animal. Owen grinned, careful to keep his smile small, and hitched the donkey's lead to a spline of the porch. He didn't flinch when Trellis moved subtly, curling an extra branch around the loop to keep the donkey from wandering. No, he had eyes for Boyce, who was hastily plucking the flowers out of his hair, hands grazing haphazardly like he wasn't sure where he'd stuck them all.

Owen came in close and offered a hand, comporting himself with genial fondness. He had to bite his tongue about the strange attire--unlike Akadine, he didn't think the man could handle a lot of ribbing. He was shocked when, instead of the crushing handshake he usually got, Boyce slipped sideways against him and wrapped a hefty arm around his shoulders, squeezing him close, leaving his hand limply empty as Owen attempted to re-calibrate. It didn't help that he could smell fresh-plucked greens sharply over the chicken grit and earthy scent the big man usually possessed. Was that... had he... "Were those flowers growing off of you?"

"Been a while," Boyce said, ignoring the question in the way that he sometimes did. "How's the girls?"

Owen straightened his jacket, and then his gloves, doing his best not to look up at Boyce with wonder. "They're well; they send you their regards. Vianne's best of the foraging class for children her age, and she's showing some other interesting traits as well... but she's integrated just fine with the other children." He'd seen Boyce's lips begin to draw together in concern. "Ah, everything's about the same up in Urdasvale as it's been for the last few years. Quiet, a little bit strange, but overall very well. They miss you."

Boyce had pulled a rag from the back of his pants, and he was wiping his hands as though concerned that he'd upset Owen's sense of tidiness, but his brow furrowed, and he cleared his throat. "I'll, uh... I'll visit. Just taking care of a few things around here first. Lots to do."

"I can see that." Owen didn't chase the subject. This was one of the reasons he was a little worried about calling in all of the favours he'd been saving--for Boyce, it was not that he didn't want to do what was right. It was that he sometimes couldn't, for reasons that Owen could only guess at. He'd only met Boyce once in the span of years before he'd begun slowly changing into whatever it was that he would wind up becoming... but that was a long time ago, and Owen did not get a good impression of the young man he'd been. All he knew for certain was that Boyce had done most of his own rearing, and he was very painfully shy of trusting others. Owen cleared his throat. "I'm going to be leaving for a good long while, Boyce. I wanted to stop by and make sure that you had everything you needed, and--"

"I don't, actually." The big man moved back, gestured with a jut of his dark beard towards the coop. "Come take a look. I got some eggs, hatched 'em. Want to make sure they live to fall, at least."

"Oh, ah..." Owen trailed after Boyce and stood a little back of the netting. A few chicks were bundled up near the nest box, old enough to walk but still intimidated by the outdoors without a mother to lead them. Despite himself, he raised both pale brows. "You nursed all of these yourself?"

"Got a book on how to and everything. They're doing okay..." but there was a question in his voice, enough to make Owen laugh. Boyce stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"I'm sorry, I'm not... I'm not an ornithologist, Boyce. And I don't know the first thing about animal husbandry. You're already years ahead of me."

Boyce looked a little disappointed, but, nonplussed, he came right up to the netting and made a noise that Owen had only ever heard him use with Vianne, when she was very small. The chicks came to it, eager for food, and Boyce snatched one from a crack in the door and brought it to Owen to share. "Look at this," he said, as though its tiny, fluffy weight held all the meaning in the world. Maybe to him it did. The little creature struggled in Boyce's palm, its legs tucked between his fingers, until Boyce drew it up to his chest and said a few soothing words. Owen watched this all, beguiled, and quite forgot about the favours he'd been meaning to carefully trot out and measure up. He refrained from taking the chick when Boyce offered, but he did clear his throat one more time. "I predict you'll have a full, glossy flock by the time I'm around again."

"Reminds me--there's some other work I could use an extra set of hands for." The chick was returned to its nest, and Boyce brought Owen around to Trellis, where he cracked open the last of a bottle that made Owen's eyes tear up when he sniffed at the lip. He took a sip direct in any case, doing his best not to cough at the proof of the liquor, and offered a silent cheers to Boyce before passing it over.

"I suppose I'm going to need that?"

"Can you lift anything?" Boyce took a swig, capped the bottle, and returned it back inside. Owen, who'd trailed up the stairs and into the doorway after him, spluttered. "I mean I have some deadfall needs moving. Needs an extra set of hands. You willing to stoop to that?"

"Do I look dainty?"

Boyce cast him a look that did the speaking for him, and Owen huffed, surprised. He was the one who traveled all over the countryside, went to greater lengths and more to learn just a little outside of the natural world--just because he wasn't a great hulk didn't mean he was a fainting flower... and it wasn't he who had taken to growing them in his hair, either! But he didn't say any of this, because he had a feeling that Boyce would backpedal as he was wont to do. Instead, he pulled his coat off and, folding it carefully, hung it over the railing. "I'm no lumberjack, but we'll have that deadfall hauled in no time. Lead the way."