Cricket Pate was dead, and his Aunt Winny couldn't afford a casket.

Jack Bondurant's best friend in the whole goddamn world, and Cricket's shit-crazy aunt couldn't even give him a proper burial. A proper goodbye. Jack reckoned angrily that he didn't rightly have the money either, what with that stupid motherfucker Charlie Rakes destroying the still and all. It wasn't enough that the bastard had murdered Cricket. Now, Rakes was denying the boy a rightful send-off to boot.

Fuckin' city-slick sonofabitch.

Jack was going to kill Charlie Rakes. That's all he could think about while he chopped and sawed and sanded the wood for the casket he was building his best friend. As Jack laid into the wood with his father's old sledgehammer and wedge, bringing down swing after harsh swing, his arms burning something awful, Jack imagined the light receding from Rakes' cold, soulless eyes. He pictured the slimy man's face reddening as Jack strangled his last breath from him. He damn near fantasized about squeezing the coward's throat, feeling his sweaty skin pull and squish beneath his fingers as Jack wrung the life out of him, the last pitiful jumps of his pulse fading into stillness.

Yeah, that sorry fucker had to die, alright, and Jack was gonna be the one to do it.

The youngest Bondurant had been at it just about all day. He'd gotten started 'round seven-thirty that mornin', determined to see a proper casket built for his best buddy before the day was through. All day long, he had chopped and chipped, sawed and sanded, and now evening was near. Darkness quickly closing in on Franklin County, Jack lugged the stack of freshly cut wood inside the shed. It was time to nail the box together. He saddled two sawhorses upright, balanced what would soon be the bottom planks of the coffin across the pair, and go to work.

With each swing of the hammer, Jack saw Cricket's face covered in fuel and oil, grease smudges on the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose. With each nail he drove into the wooden planks, Jack saw the thin, sickly, blue fingers of his best friend turning a wrench, unscrewing the lid off a mason jar full of liquor, and snapping along happily to some catchy Cliff Edwards tune on the radio. Each swing was a glimpse of his dead best friend, each hit was a memory not soon to be forgotten.

Cricket Pate was his best friend in the whole damn world, and he was dead, and Jack Bondurant had no idea just how in the hell he was supposed to handle that.

"Motherfuck-!"

So lost in his sorrow and rage, Jack's aim had faltered. He'd brought the hammer down with all the ferocity of a stampeding bull onto his left thumb, not on the head of the nail. "Sonofabitch," he hissed, the hammer falling to the floor. Pain exploded up his hand, twined up his arm, and nestled in the crook of his elbow. Clutching the wounded limb to his chest, Jack let loose a string of curses as long and wide as the Mississippi. "Shit, shit!"

The fingernail was broke. It cracked down the middle with smaller splits spider-webbing outward. The skin was already turning several furious shades of blue, red, and purple. Damn it all if he wouldn't have a blood blister the size of Texas come dinnertime.

The offending digit throbbed with a near-blinding pain, and it was all Jack could take.

Kicking wildly at the hay strewn across the shed floor, Jack spun madly in circles, howling to himself with pain. Quickly, his pained howling dissolved into bawling, tears pouring down his face like rain from the sky. His sobbing was intermittent with curses. He cursed Charlie Rakes for murdering his best friend—an innocent, kind boy who had never hurt nobody and never done no wrong—in cold blood. He cursed his brothers for not being there to protect Cricket from Rakes and his men, and then he cursed himself for ever getting Cricket involved—Forrest had been right when he'd said that Jack and Cricket had no business getting mixed up in bootlegging. Hell, he even cursed the government for the damn Prohibition Actswhich had started this whole mess in the first place.

And then, when he'd fallen to his knees, tremors of grief shaking his body, his broken thumb searing in pain, Jack had cursed little ole Cricket Pate himself.

"You got no right to leave me," he wailed. "You got no right, Cricket!"

The cot in the back corner of the shed—the one in which Cricket slept most nights when, after a long day at the station, he simply couldn't be bothered to trek it all the way acrossthe mountains back to his Aunt Winny's—glared pitifully at Jack. The sheets were still rumpled from Cricket's last sleep, one of the boy's undershirts balled up at the foot of the makeshift bed. The photograph that Jack had taken on his fancy new camera—the one he'd wanted so damn bad so he could impress Bertha, the one which now, in light of his loss, seemed so utterly stupid and useless—was pinned to the wall beside the cot. The photo was taken on a sunny afternoon a few weeks back. Cricket and Jack had been working on Jack's new car. Thanks to Cricket's ingenious ideas—the boy really was an Einstein when it came to engines—, the Fordwas running faster than ever. No way the ATF would be able to catch them now. Jack had busted out the new camera to celebrate.

The pair of best friends had taken to fooling around in the yard with a couple of his father's old pistols and some cigars, pretending to be big time gangsters like Floyd Banner and Al Capone. They took turns posing in front of the newly improved vehicle. When the photograph was taken, Cricket had just caught one of the chickens from the yard. The skinny boy was propped against the front fender of the Ford, the bird under his arm, and Granville Bondurant's bolt-action rifle in his hand. He had the biggest, silliest grin on his lips that damn 'bout split his face in half it was so wide.

Cricket had been so happy that day. How could he have known that he would be dead before the return of fall?

Jack gazed at the small photograph and felt his heart break a little more. His rage faltered as disbelief and despair swelled in the pit of his stomach and crept up the back of his throat. God, how he already missed his closest friend. Jack felt his resolve to finish the casket diminishing as his hurt and hopelessness grew. He couldn't do this. He couldn't fall apart, not yet. Not until Cricket was buried. Not until Charlie Rakes was dead.

Jack seized onto his anger, fixed the photograph with a quick glare, and turned back to the task at hand.

But pain continued to pulse through his hand, his thumb already swelling, and try as he might, it became increasingly difficult to secure the nails steady and in place. His wounded hand couldn't quit shakin'. "Goddamn it."

He was so lost in his concentration and fury that he didn't notice his brother's approach. The two had not spoken since yesterday morning. Not since Forrest had smacked Jack like he was their daddy, lecturing about intentions and since Howard had muttered, "They got Cricket," in a voice so defeated and broken that the very sound of it had chilled Jack to the bone long before the reality of Howard's words had set in. Not since Jack had lost his best friend. Not since his world crumbled and life stopped making sense.

He didn't realize Forrest was in the shed until he was right up on him. "Let me do that."

Jack ground his teeth together to keep from bellowing at his older brother. "I got it, Forrest."

There remained a steady stream of tears on his cheeks, and his thumb was smarting like a bitch, the pain literally making his hand tremble. But all would be damned before Jack gave up—especially in front of Forrest.

Not one to be outdone in ways of stubbornness, Forrest made a gentle humming noise. "I'll-"

"I said I got it!" Jack's words were snarled and vicious. He ceased his hammering, body coiled tight like a suspensionspring, his muscles tense, as he waited for his brother's response. No doubt Forrest would have a word or two about Jack lashing out in his grief. No doubt Forrest would tell his baby brother to pull himself together. To quit bawling and act like a man, for fuck's sake. Jack just knew it. So one can imagine the youngest Bondurant's surprised relief when Forrest merely nodded, then turned on his heels and strode back in towards the station.

Only, Jack's relief was short-lived.

Forrest returned to the shed moments later with a cut of pork from the ice box. He extended the chunk of meat toward his younger brother wordlessly. Maybe it was the unassuming look on Forrest's face, or the casual slope of his relaxed shoulders. Either way, Jack felt the last ounce of his resistance evaporate. He accepted the pork silently, hissing quietly when he wrapped the thick cut of cold met around his wounded thumb. Suddenly, Jack was exhausted. Tucking his hand into this chest, he stumbled over and collapsed onto Cricket's cot.

Forrest assumed Jack's position before the sawhorses. He went to work immediately.

While Forrest finished the coffin, Jack remained slumped over on Cricket's cot, gazing into the air but seeing nothing. It smelled like Cricket, like grease and mint. That boy was forever chewing on little peppermints, and sure enough, there were a handful of peppermint pieces stuffed under the pillow now. Jack toyed with one. The pain in his broken thumb was still acute, the pulsing of his aches falling into rhythm with Forrest's hammer swings.

It didn't take his brother long to finish the casket, as Jack had already had the bottom and sides assembled. When the lid was fitted and secured, Forrest paused, eyes flitting over the box—an assessment. After a moment, he set aside the tools and ran a hand over the surface of the wood. A low hum thrummed in the bottom of his throat. "Smooth," he murmured with the slightest nod of his head. This would be the only indication of his approval of the quality of Jack's craftsmanship. Forrest sighed. "Yeah, alright. S'time for dinner."

He made his way over to Jack's desolate form and clapped his little brother on the shoulder. "C'mon, Jackie. Let's go inside."

Forrest hadn't called him Jackie since he was a child. Jack's body responded to the familiar, affectionate call, rising automatically. He stood stock still for a moment before he shrugged off his brother's hand carelessly. "I ain't done yet."

Reaching out, Jack thumbed the edges of that photo—the last photograph Cricket Pate would ever take. Another quiet moment passed. Then, he moved slowly to the work bench, and Forrest watched his little brother fiddle around with their father's tools for a moment before Jack slipped outside to the pile of wood scraps. When he returned to the casket, he fitted a little wooden cross on the lid with a gentle determination. There, it was done now.

It was a simply pine box, and not as nice or dignified as Cricket deserved. But it would do.

Jack gave a sharp nod. "Alright. We can go."

The next morning, they buried Cricket in the woods behind Aunt Winny's house in the Pate's private family cemetery. After a few solemn, kind words from the preacher, Jack Bondurant's best friend was laid in the earth just three feet from where the boy's parents and sister had long since rested.

That morning, Jack said goodbye to his best friend, goodbye to his innocence, and by sundown the following day, Special Deputy Charlie Rakes was dead by Jack's hand. The brothers left his body in the river to rot.

It's been a while since I've written anything in the Lawless fandom, but I watched the movie again the other day and was inspired. I simply adore this family and their story.

I hope you all enjoyed it.