Only two days ago you two had been in Armadillo, confessing to something that none of you were planning to voice in the first place. The fact that he was almost hung feels somewhat surreal as if it was just a bad dream. Noting the bruises around his neck, you know better than to pin it to your wild imagination.

Some people would try to mask the mark of a noose with a hiked-up collar, but his is as neatly folded as it always is. The Marshal isn’t the type to hide the traces of battle.

“It appears so.”, you answer and recall the massacre that ensued in Blackwater.

You accompanied Mrs. LeClerk and Mr. Horley into town after there was talk about protection. You didn’t think she’d actually put a bullet into that bastard, Amos Lancing. Not that you’ll be grieving over that man any time soon, given that he was the reason that you ended up behind bars with a chain and ball around your ankle in the first place.

“I heard from folks passin’ by that it was some kind of bloody business.”, he comments, earning a glance from you.

“And what if? Will you arrest me, Marshal?” In all honesty, the thought of him tying a rope around your wrists excites you.

“No, Miss. That would never cross my mind.”, he says with a conviction that puts you immediately at ease. Not that you believe he would actually hand you over to the law, judging by his own unorthodox methods of exacting it. “As I said, I’ll just turn a good, old fashioned blind eye on it.”

“How kind of you.”, you coo, coaxing a chuckle out of him.

He nods towards the open fireplace that has been popping and crackling and he takes one of the foldable chairs, gesturing at the seat. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you sink down onto it and watch him pick up a few things from a nearby crafting table. A glass finds its way into your hands, scratched up from a long time of service and a rough washing cloth or two.

Marshal Davies is holding one of his own and a bottle of whisky in his other hand which he brings close to his face. Biting down onto the cork, he pulls it out with his teeth and it makes a satisfying ‘plop’. As you hold out the glass, he pours a generous amount of the liquor in it, making it slosh around and a drop of it escapes over the edge.

As it runs down the milky glass and onto your thumb, you scarcely notice the dampness on your skin. You only have eyes for that cork between his teeth, nestled in there like a cigarette or a cigar and you never thought you could harbor such envy for an inanimate object.

“I thought you could use a drink.”, he slurs with that thing in his mouth.

“Thanks.”, you say, snickering.

The Marshal huffs out a short laugh of his own before setting the bottle back onto the crafting table and putting the cork back on. Then he takes the seat next to you, leaning back and sprawling his legs out in front of himself. He’s wearing his hat again and the rim sits low over his face, hiding the upper half. You can only make out the edge of his black eye-patch.

“So, what will you do now? Or has Horley more work for you?”, he asks and the questions leave him as anything but idle chitchat. There’s genuine curiosity swimming in them.

“I think this is it for now. His mistress hired me for a very specific job and I’m pretty sure that we finished it in Blackwater now.”, you explain, uncertain how much you’re allowed to reveal.

No, Marshal Davies won’t stab you in the back, but you don’t know if you can or want to drop Mrs. LeClerk’s name or anyone else’s. She has asked you for discretion after all and you also don’t want to burden the Marshal with this knowledge either, in case someone starts to investigate this matter.

“That’s good, ain’t it? Means you get to go your own path again.”, he remarks and you shrug.

“I don’t know. It was nice to have a goal, something to work towards. Like with Montez.”

“I understand that.”, he murmurs and takes a sip. “But there’ll always be more bastards out there to catch. If you’re still interested to work with me.”

“Of course. I even have a bounty hunter license now, so you hiring me won’t be illegal anymore.”

He cackles, throwing his head back. “I guess I did forget to ask you about that, didn’t I? But I don’t think I can be blamed after Horley recommended you. I reckon he didn’t think to ask either.”

“You’re right. He didn’t.”

Your entire body aches from today’s work. It felt like Amos Lancing had expected you all along or at some point at least. There’s no way that all those armed men had been waiting around the corner by coincidence. Most of them weren’t even in uniform or sporting a deputy badge over their chest. Hired guns then or bounty hunters. Some had even been positioned on the rooftops.

But you held your ground well. All three of you.

“My associate suggested to start a trading company, but I don’t know about that.”, you explain.

The side of your face burns as Marshal Davies looks at you. Only two days ago, the two of you kissed. The air between you is casual, loaded as ever but casual. You removed that wall that had blocked you from approaching him, but you find yourself in a different, yet similar position. Shy. Timid even.

“That sounds like fine work.”

“I’m not much of a hunter though.”

There’s a pause in which you bring the glass up to your mouth. You’re absolutely parched and it takes about everything to not sigh in ecstasy as the liquor runs down your throat surprisingly smoothly.

“You could continue workin’ for me. You did say you got a license now.” The suggestion leaves his lips low, almost a whisper. It carries a hint of hesitancy as if he wasn’t sure that he should even voice it. Is he worried that you might reject him?

“I could if you want to have me, of course.”, you answer and his gaze burns into you.

The marshal’s pale iris gleams in the light of the flames. The blue in it acts almost like a canvas and even with that gap between your chairs, you still clearly see the fire dancing and licking at the blackened wood. With his free hand, he fishes out the revolver from his holster.

It’s polished to perfectioned, though obvious by the details that it has been used frequently over the years. The engravings aren’t as visible along the barrel and some smaller parts have been replaced, judging by the slight difference in shades. But you do so admire a man who takes care of his guns.

“If my answer to that question ever ends up being a no, I want you to take this and shoot me in the head.”, he says as grave and serious like a priest at a funeral and you clasp a hand over your mouth to mask the grin.

“Oh, Marshal.”

As the bottom of your glass becomes clearer and the red from the setting sun retreats, the fire is the only source of light out here. There’s an oil lamp behind one of the windows in the main house and you crane your neck to peer inside. It’s a kitchen from what you can tell and a shadow stirs inside it.

“I talked to Nils about stayin’ here. I weren’t sure when you’d come back.”, Marshal Davies speaks up and points with his thumb over his shoulder. “You can have that house there.”

It’s a cozy looking cabin that has an elk skull hanging over the front door. You’ve been spending so much time in your camp that you entirely forgot how it feels to lay inside a bed. The hotel room in Armadillo, as grimy and dusty as it was, had felt like pure luxury. Your muscles seem to sigh at the prospect of sleeping on a mattress again.

Mr. Cripps might wonder where you’ve gone off to tonight, but you told him that he shouldn’t expect you. Just in case things in Blackwater wouldn’t have turned out as favorable as they did.

“That’s very kind of you.”, you answer. “And Nils too, of course.”

He didn’t talk much when you were here last time to meet the Marshal, but Nils seemed all right. In fact, now that you think about it, he didn’t even acknowledge you guys and you wonder how he may have reacted after stumbling upon that severed head that Lee just tossed into a bush. Standing up, you’re surprised that your joints aren’t creaking and squeaking like unoiled hinges.

One glance and you notice that the Marshal finished his glass too by now. You wrap your fingers around it and slide it out of his grasp. He doesn’t break the eye contact and when you turn around to place the glasses next to the bottle, you can practically feel his gaze traveling along your body. In Armadillo, you both were willing to cross that certain line if it only hadn’t been for your damned injury.

It’s still hurting when you apply pressure on it, but most of the time it just itches. The prospect of perhaps continuing where you left off leaves you buzzing with excitements. Almost giddy, actually. Spinning on your heels, you reach out to lazily take his hand and hold it in yours, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles.

Callouses and scars mark his skin and your gaze trails along his sleeve, wondering how the rest of him looks like. You’ve never really seen him out of his neat suits. Shirt, vest and a jacket with that kind of cut that make any posture look straight and disciplined. Even when Montez’ men tried to hang him, his clothes sat on his body in a proper manner. He looked proper that day.

Glancing at the cabin, you wonder whether the bed in there will fit the two of you. Normally there’s only a single bed when they’re this size. A part of you hopes that that will be the case here as well. You want to be sleeping close to the Marshal tonight.

“I’m a bit tired.”, you mumble.

Your breath hitches as he brings the back of your hand up to his lips and plants a kiss on it.

“Me too, I’m afraid.”, he says in an equally low voice.

The oil lantern in that kitchen window has been snuffed out by now. Nils must have gone to bed then and there isn’t a single soul out here for miles. Marshal Davies slowly starts to stand up from his chair and takes off his hat. You don’t know when he had the time to retrieve that thing, believing it lost in Tumbleweed.

Maybe Sheriff Freeman went back and found it lying around somewhere, but you sincerely doubt that. It looks pristine and clean and not entirely brand new, but not particularly worn either. Does he just keep a bunch of those somewhere in a closet? What an amusing thought.

“Too tired for anything else?”, you ask and look at him from under your lashes.

His beard twitches as he tries to fight back a smile.

“Not yet, Miss.”

Pulling him in close, you let your hands roam over his chest and tip your head back. You don’t know where his hat went, but suddenly both of his palms are on your back, burning through the blouse and into your skin. You’re still wearing that wash skirt, not having had the time to change into the pants you usually prefer.

Though you’re happy for it now as you back up against the crafting table and feel the edge press into your rear. All the while, Marshal Davies draws closer until his body is pressed up to your breasts or perhaps it was you who shoved him close. Running your fingers through his silver hair, you run the tips along the back of his eye-patch.

“We should move this inside.”, he murmurs, painfully close to your mouth.

His mustache tickles your face and it isn’t the first time that you wonder how it would feel between your legs. Those same legs that you’re spreading right now to allow him to step into your space, which he does without second guessing.

“Perhaps we should.”

None of you move an inch towards the cabin though and instead remain rooted in place. The Marshal’s lips collide with yours with a fervor that knocks all the breath out of your lungs. It’s being squeezed out of your body through your mouth and into his as he kisses you dizzy. Teeth scrape over lips and tongues lap at one another.

His hands run down your curves, mapping your waist and hips, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts. Your own hands fly up to loosen the first couple of buttons of your blouse and deepen your cleavage. The silhouette of your chest flickers from the twitching flames and the Marshal’s eye is glued to it. This close, you can watch in real-time how his pupil dilates.

Your tongue darts out to run over your lips as you watch him push the blouse aside and reveal the now bare mounts. Your nipples stand hardened from the cool breeze caressing them and when he presses one down with his thumb, you shudder. He moves it in slow, tantalizing circles, sending mild jolts through your body.

Then his mouth is on yours again, ravishing you entirely. One hand is still cupping your breast while the other hurries down to hike up your skirt. Your own get to work as well, helping him speed things along before you grab your bloomers and push them all the way down. They pool around your ankles, standing out with their cream color in the vast darkness.

The Marshal makes it a point to avoid grazing over your injury like he accidentally did last time, shuffling more into the opposite direction. You angle your hurt leg away as well to give him more room. His crotch lies against your stomach, his clothed erection pressing into the softness of your belly. It has grown a bit ever since you got bust out of prison.

Suddenly, his hand let’s go of your chest, trailing down your ribs, beyond the hem of your blouse that is tucked away beneath the wash skirt and below the skirt itself as well. It stops between your legs, hovering above your exposed cunt that flutters and clenches around nothing in painful anticipation. The tip of his index finger pushes your sopping wet folds aside and you stifle a hiss at the contact.

It feels so rough against the damp heat and leaves your head spinning. Marshal Davies presses against your clit that has swollen up slightly from arousal and you bite down onto your lower lip. When he flicks over it, your nerve endings explode like fireworks. Rocking your hips, you seek for the friction and he groans.

“Lord have mercy.”, he grumbles under his breath, close to your ear. Then he slides two fingers in and you feel him tremble as if it’s his cock that’s in you instead. “Oh, good God.”

You want to speak as well. A thousand words are lying on your tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, spreading them and curling them up ever so slightly, but it all drowns inside your throat. All you manage to wring out are choked back moans and mewls. You lift your good leg to allow him better access and he hooks his arm under it to help keep it in the air.

As he fingers you, the bottom half of his palm keeps rubbing over your clit, stimulating it at a delicious pace. Pressure builds up inside your lower stomach and you chase it with the desperation of a woman gone mad with greed. Your wetness soaks his hand, running down to his wrist and you feel more staining the inside of your thighs.

The drops roll down your leg that is beginning to shake from the effort of holding up your weight all by itself and they seep into the bloomers that are still lying forgotten on the ground.

“Oh, Marshal.”, you cry out in pleasure and whine when his hand retreats.

A protest bubbles up in your throat that dies as he suddenly grabs you by the rear and hoists you into the air. Setting your down onto the table, he pulls you roughly towards the edge and starts unbuckling his belt. The first item to be cast away is his weapon belt and he immediately goes to work on the other one that is holding up his trousers.

The clinking and jingling of the metal feed the heat inside you and your hands join his in an attempt to unfasten his pants. They drop, joining your bloomers and you swallow a gasp at the sight of his cock. It basically springs free, bouncing heavy from its girth and length. Veins protrude along his shaft in a light blue that matches his iris. That color has always looked good on him

Holding up your skirt, your spread your legs further and allow him to get a proper view of your cunt which he knows. His breath hitches and throat bobs as he stares at it absolutely mesmerized. You don’t even remember the last time you felt this little shame in front of another lover. Something about the Marshal has you toss all humility and decency into the wind.

You grab him around the shaft and pull gently on the foreskin, revealing his flushed red tip that’s leaking pre-cum. It resembles a pearl. Your pussy weeps as you grab him by the collar and pull him close for a hungry kiss. You’ve seen him fight for his life like a man, fight for justice like a man. Now you want him to fuck like one too.

Pushing your hips slightly more over the edge, you put one palm down onto the table for support and knock over the whisky bottle with your elbow. It rolls over the wood and lands with a dull thud in the grass. Marshal Davies moves closer, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance that sucks him right in.

There’s no resistance when he enters you. It leaves you impossibly full and he isn’t even halfway in yet. The Marshal stops for a second and pulls out, though not fully. A pale, creamy ring of your wetness adorns his shaft and you squirm when he thrusts forward, deeper than before. Slowly, he fucks himself into you until he’s sheathed entirely.

Eyes fluttering shut, you lean your head back, exposing your neck for him to bury his face in. Both of you are glistening with sweat and none of you move, just letting his cock soak up your arousal for a hot minute.

“Oh, Lord have mercy.”, he repeats breathlessly and you feel him throb inside you as if his erection has a heartbeat of its own. “You feel so nice. Oh, you’re so tight, Miss.”

His words do your heat no favor. The ache between your legs grows and suddenly you’re beyond impatient. Yearning for some more friction, you wiggle with your hips. Rolling them and squirming from left to right and right to left. He groans into your skin, his mustache tickling and slightly scratching.

Then he pulls back a second time before driving his cock deep inside you, his tip ending up kissing your cervix. An invisible copper wire tightens in your lower stomach from that action and you grasp his shoulder with your free hand. Thighs trembling as your boots hang in the air, you grit your teeth and wonder how long you will be able to hold this position.

The Marshal seems to be in no hurry, though you can tell from the sweat along his hairline that he’s struggling himself. Whether it’s the effort or restraint, you can’t tell. He starts at a slow pace, undoubtedly to get used to it as well and not cum too fast. You love the intimacy of it. The sweetness. Though it’s not sweetness that you’re craving this moment.

No, sir. You want it rough and hard. You want him to rut into you on this crafting table out in the open like you’re nothing more than those wild animals out here in the woods yourself. The smell of the forest enters your nose together with your mixed sweat and the scent of sex. It works like a drug as it penetrates your mind.

“Marshal.”, you coo encouragingly beside his face.

“Miss-“, he stammers and jerks his hips forward.

It’s an abrupt motion that has stars dance across your vision. He fucks you in earnest now, deep and fast and the sounds are wet and obscene. The crafting table rocks along and the glasses that you drank out of clink together. You squeeze your thighs together, the pleasure outweighing the sharp pain in your still fresh wound that you scarcely even register it.

You had no idea that you even have a thing for pain during sex. It mingles together perfectly with the jolts shooting through your veins as his cock keeps brushing over your g-spot. Nerves set ablaze, your mouth hangs open as you moan different variants of his name. Sometimes it’s Tom, meanwhile other times it’s Marshal and on some occasions, a Marshal Davies slips in too.

They all spur him on further to a point where you genuinely begin to wonder where exactly he draws the stamina from. One arm is still hooked under your good leg, taking off some of the work much to your gratitude and the other inches closer to where your hips meet. With each thrust, his balls slap against your ass cheeks, low and heavy and full.

Wedging his hand between your bodies without having to pull away too much, his thumb finds your clit that is still sensitive from the attention he has given it earlier. The stimulation seems near mind breaking. Pleasure claws at you from the inside, flashing in hot waves with each slam of his cock. The wire inside you uncoils like lightning.

Your entire body convulses and trembles as Marshal Davies tears the orgasm out of you. It’s ruthless the way it wrecks your body like a train slamming into it. Your sopping walls clench around him so tight that you can’t imagine it must feel good in any way, yet pure bliss is edged into his callous features from it.

He moans your name in that typical low drawl of his and next thing you know, something hot fills you up. Ropes of cum paint your walls, pushing against them and for every drop that escapes, more leaks out of his cock. As he pulls out, you gaze down on the mess you two made and can’t help but acknowledge the way the sight makes you feel.

Your cunt is crying with his load. It stirs a dirty kind of arousal inside you.

“I’m so sorry.”, he breathes with a hoarse voice. “Look at you, poor thing. I’ll help you get cleaned up, Miss.”

He sounds and looks so genuinely distraught that you can’t help but chuckle. “No worries, Marshal. It looks like I returned the favor.”

His cock looks equally wrecked. The thick curls around the base cling to his soaked shaft and pearls of cum have joined the veins along it. More have drooped down onto his balls and you wet your dry lips, imagining the taste as you lick it all off him. A foreign sound rips you out of your thoughts and both of you freeze.

It doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the background noise of the forest like the rustling of leaves, swaying of branches and tiny footsteps of critters. No, it reminds you of a person, of a pair of boots stepping on pebbles and dirt. Glancing at the kitchen window where you have seen the lantern earlier, you think that it could be Nils at first. The main house lies completely dark.

“What’s that?”, you hiss in a hushed voice.

The Marshal’s eye is wide from terror and he scrambles to pull his trousers back up. You follow suit by pushing down your skirt and hopping off the table. He doesn’t concern himself with his belts and instead helps close up all the buttons of your blouse to conceal your breasts that were bouncing up and down earlier.

The fire, although it has shrunk a bit, is still burning and illuminating a pair of neat shoes. They belong to Mr. Horley, whom you see clearly now.

“Horley?”, Marshal Davies snaps and the other man looks positively startled by the sudden outrage.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to scare you.”, he says. “I forgot that you probably have some folk out for you. I didn’t consider announcing my presence.”

“It’s all right.”, you chime up, even though you don’t feel that way.

Mr. Horley opens his mouth to reply when something catches his attention. Following his gaze, you’re mortified that it’s your bloomers that have caught his eyes. They’re sprawled out on the ground next to the Marshal’s weapon belt. Both items speak louder than any words ever could and shame prickles beneath your face.

“I see now that I’ve interrupted something.”, he mutters bashfully after clearing his throat. “I only came to let you know of another business opportunity that might interest you, but that can obviously wait. When you have the time, go speak to Mr. Cripps. I’ll leave a letter with him.”

Before anyone else can utter a single word, he takes his leave. Your cheeks still burn from the whole scene and you press both palms over them, laughing nervously to yourself.

“That was something.”, you comment and watch Marshal Davies run a hand over his face.

“Sure.”, he agrees and then quietly adds more under his breath. “I think I’m too old to get caught like this.”

Warning/Content: TW: Hurt/No Comfort, Angst, Violence, mentions of blood, alcohol abuse, mentions of depression, Sucidal ideation, heart break, toxic relationships, longing, Toph is going through it, modern AU with bending, reader is the chief and apart of a distinguished family in Republic city, Toph comes from a broken home and has alot of trauma, poor baby, read at your own discretion please, kissing, jail sex, fingering, rough sex, biting, hate sex, but not really because they love eachother, if I missed tags I'm sorry.

AN: Okay, so I was in my bag when I wrote this and its really angsty. You dont need to know anything about arcane to read. This is my own spin of it. Again, if you're going through something right now please read with caution. Otherwise, enjoy.

When the call crackled over the radio, dispatching you to an abandoned warehouse in the underbelly of Republic City, a cold knot of dread tightened in your gut. You knew that part of town like the back of your hand. It was a place where the law was a suggestion and the earth stayed stained with things people wanted to forget.

Before you even arrived, the radio was a chaotic mess of static and disbelief. You listened to your officers describe a scene that sounded less like a brawl and more like a natural disaster. The chatter was frantic, detailing how the earth had buckled and split, swallowing three patrol cars whole, totaling the fleet before the first officer could even draw their cables.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and iron as you stepped onto the scene. Blue and red lights pulsed against the grime streaked windows, illuminating the paramedics who were hunched over a body in the center of the floor. They were working frantically, their voices low and tense as they tried to stabilize a street fighter whose face had been beaten into something unrecognizable. You could see the fractures in his skull and the protruding bone. The man looked like he had gone ten rounds with a mountain and lost.

“He’s got a pulse, but just barely,” One of them shouted over the hum of the ambulance that they reversed into the doorway to make his transport easier. “The entire orbital bone is shattered. It looks like he got hit by a wrecking ball.”

A bitter chill settled in your stomach because you knew they were right. He had been hit by a wrecking ball. Just not the kind made of iron and cable. He’d been hit by a woman with so much rage bottled up inside her that if she didn't release it, the pressure threatened to consume her.

Every crack in the floor and every broken bone in that man’s body was a physical manifestation of the storm Toph carried. She wasn't just fighting for money or sport, she was screaming into the earth with her fists, using the world as a punching bag because she didn't know how to carry the weight of her own mind anymore.

You watched her through the haze of your own grief, seeing the woman you used to hold buried under layers of grit, spite, and cheap whiskey. She was a landslide in human form, and you were the only person still standing in her path, trying to stop the devastation before there was nothing left to save.

You didn't need a forensic team to tell you what had happened here, the story was written across the walls in a spray of blood. The air itself felt heavy, still vibrating with the echo of a violence so absolute it had reshaped the room. You turned your gaze toward the center of the makeshift ring that was really a circle of packed dirt and cracked stone and saw her.

Your breath hitched.

Toph was sitting on a rusted crate, one leg crossed casually over the other, as if she were resting after a light stroll rather than a massacre. She was a mess of grit and dried sweat, her knuckles were split open and raw, painting the gravel by her feet. She was a ruin of the woman you once knew, and that realization made your throat burn.

Your officers and the forensic team moved around her with a wide birth of caution. Treating her like a ghost or in this case, a live bomb. They knew the protocol you had set in stone. When it came to the earthbender, you stayed clear until the one person she might actually listen to arrived to make the call.

The gravel under your boots crunched as you approached her, and despite the darkness, and all the people around, she sensed you the moment your weight shifted. Toph didn't turn her head, but you watched her jaw set, her entire body tensing into a weapon that was already for whatever you had in store for her. To everyone else, she was a monster. To you, she was a tragedy you still weren't sure you could survive.

The closer you got, the heavier your legs felt, as if you were treading through a quicksand of your own making. Every step toward her felt like a step deeper into your own doom. And when you saw the state of her clothing, it really solidified that for you.

Toph was painted in a sickening spray of blood. Her chest bindings were soaked through to the point they werent even white anymore. That could only happen if she were directly over him and you had to swallow the bile rising in your throat. You could envision her looming over him, her expression a mask of stone as she rained down blow after blow until the sickening crack of his facial bones finally echoed through the warehouse.

Her pants were shredded, the fabric sliced open where sharp, jagged rocks had likely burst from the floor during the struggle. You stared at her, your chest tight, desperately searching for any trace of the woman you once loved buried beneath the filth, the iron, and the agony. But the woman sitting on that crate looked like a stranger. A force of nature that had long ago forgotten how to be human.

“Took you long enough,” Toph said, her words slurring a little at the end. Your eyes left her and flickered down to the empty bottle of whisky by her feet. “I was starting to think I’d have to walk myself to the station.”

The sight of the bottle hit you harder than the carnage in the ring. It wasn't just the violence anymore. It was the slow, steady erosion of her spirit. The woman you used to wake up next to was here, drunk, and didn't even care that she was sitting in the wreckage of a man’s life. You didn't reach for your handcuffs immediately. You just stood there, the weight of your badge feeling heavier than usual.

“You're drunk,” You whispered, the realization making your stomach churn. “You're drunk and you're out here cracking skulls like it's a game.”

Toph let out a sharp laugh, her head lolling back slightly. “It is a game. One I'm really good at. Besides, the whiskey helps quiet the noise. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Miss High and Mighty with her shiny badge and her clear head.”

“He’s likely going to die, Toph,” You said, your voice tight, hovering on the edge of a break. You stepped closer, trying to force her to feel the proximity of the person who once knew her better than she knew herself. “Does that mean anything to you? Or have you finally buried what was left of your humanity under all this rubble?”

Toph didn’t flinch. She simply spat a thick glob of blood onto the floor and stood up, her sightless eyes fixed somewhere just past your shoulder. She was indifferent to the carnage, the corners of her mouth turning upward as she flashed you a bloody smirk, slowly licking her teeth as if savoring the metallic tang of the fight.

“Then he shouldn't have bet his life on a fight he couldn't win.” Toph said, her voice devoid of even a shadow of remorse.

The callousness of it shattered the last of your hope. The woman you loved wouldn't have stood over a dying man and mocked his failure. She wouldn't have looked at you with that predatory grin while the air still tasted like a slaughterhouse.

It caused something in your chest to tighten at her words. It was a dull, throbbing ache that radiated from the place where your love for her still lived, stubborn and uninvited. You stepped deeper into the ring, the grit of the warehouse floor crunching under your boots. You felt the sickening snap of what were likely the other fighter's teeth, marking the grim distance between the officer you had become and the woman you used to be for her.

“Why do you insist on doing this?” You asked, each word feeling like it was being pulled from the wreckage of the heart you’d left in her care. “Why destroy every good thing you have, Toph? Why do you have to sabotage parts of yourself instead of just letting me help you?”

Toph didn’t move, but the air around her seemed to thicken, the very ground beneath your feet was vibrating with a low, mournful hum. And just for a second, the mask wavered, revealing a glimpse of the hollowed out woman who had once called your name in the dark.

“Help?” Toph spat, the word dripping with more bitterness than the whiskey. She finally turned her head toward you, her sightless eyes wide and searching your face as if she could actually see the grief etched there. “You don't want to help me. You want to change me. You want to take all the cracks and the dirt and the rage and polish them until I’m something you can show off at brunch.”

She took a step closer, her boots grinding more of the fighter’s teeth into the dust. “I'm not sabotaging myself. I'm finally free and letting the rot out. If you wanted to help, you would’ve stopped trying to fix a woman who was never broken to begin with. I'm just built for a world you’re too afraid to live in.”

“This isn't freedom, this is your death.”

The words physically pained you to say, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in your mouth. You watched them land right where you intended, hitting with the force of a heavy rock. The smirk died on Toph's lips. Her shoulders, usually held with the rigid tension of a fighter ready for the next round, slumped just a fraction. Through the soles of her feet, she wasn't just feeling your heartbeat anymore. She was feeling the absolute, crushing sincerity of your grief.

“You're not free down here, Toph,” you say, your voice wavering. “You’re just dying in the dark where nobody has to watch. You’re trading a life for a suicide note written in someone else’s blood.”

Toph went quiet. The warehouse seemed to grow colder, the only sound you could hear was the distant drip of a leaky pipe and the retreating footsteps of the paramedics. Toph didn't spit out a retort this time. She didn't laugh. She just stood there in the center of the ring. Looking less like the monster she wanted you to believe that she was and more like the woman who used to reach for your hand when the world felt like it was closing in.

“I never asked you to be anything but yourself Toph. We had a life, a good one. And you threw it away for cheap liquor, a pile of dirt, and the validation of a few criminals.”

You watched that muscle jump in her cheek, seeing the exact moment she chose to bury the woman who used to seek refuge in your arms under another layer of cold, unyielding stone.

“Typical. Always making things about you,” She scoffed, the bitterness in her voice cutting through the humid air of the warehouse. “You say you never asked me to change, but that’s a lie. You wanted the version of me that came home at night and left all the dirt and grime at the door. But look at where we are now. You’re standing in the mud, and I’m the one who’s actually covered in it.”

“This has always been who I am,” She added, taking a step closer, her boots grinding into the blood slicked earth. “You just couldn’t see it behind all those fancy dresses, estate dinners and meetings with royalty. You were blinded by the gold trim. I was never meant for that life, and unlike you, nothing was ever handed to me by mommy and daddy on a silver platter. I had to break bones just to feel the ground that was under me.”

The unfairness of her accusation made your vision blur. She was speaking as if you didnt know her at all. Like you were the one who had been blind the entire time. Blind to her nature, blind to the trauma of her upbringing like you hadn't held her those nights she'd wake up screaming from the nightmares of her past. Her words cut deeper than any stone she had ever thrown at you. Your anger and turned into something you could no longer contain.

The air between you turned ice cold, the sirens outside fading into a dull hum compared to the ringing in your ears. Your heart hammered against your ribs not with adrenaline, but with the agony of a woman who had burned every bridge she owned just to build a path to Toph.

“Is that what you tell yourself to justify this?” You asked, your voice dropping. “That I’m just some privileged rich girl who doesn’t understand what it’s like to have a hard life?”

You stepped into her space, forcing her to feel the heat of your fury. “I gave up everything to build a life with you. Not an estate, not a title, a home, Toph. I was disowned by my own family. I walked away from the silver platter and all the safety nets that I had and I did it without looking back.”

You leaned in close, your voice cracking under the weight your anger. “How fucking dare you stand here and act like I haven’t suffered. I lost my name just to keep yours. I gave you the softest, most vulnerable parts of myself only for you to stomp on them. I gave you my heart, Toph! And you just walked away with it, leaving me with nothing but this hollow, relentless ache in my chest that refuses to go away.”

Your gaze was piercing her vacant eyes now as if you could force her to see the wreckage she’d made of you.

“But unlike you, I actually sit with my feelings. I cry. I adapt. I don't throw my life away and hurt the only person I have left for a bottle of cheap liquor and dingy warehouses. I did the work to survive us, you just chose to bleed out in the mud instead of with me.”

Through the soles of her feet, she could feel the truth, the erratic, painful thrum of a heart that had been broken long before you stepped into this warehouse tonight. Toph opened her mouth, her voice smaller than you’d heard it in years. “I never asked you to lose everything for me.”

“No,” You whispered, the first tear finally spilling over. You quickly wiped it away. “You never asked. You just let me do it. You watched me burn it all down for you, and then you left me standing in the ashes alone.”

The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with the ghost of every choice you’d made and every bridge you’d burned. Toph's expression shifted to something close to anguish. Her jaw had tightened so hard you could hear the bone creak, and her bloodied hands curled into trembling fists at her sides.

“If I ruined your life and your precious reputation so badly, then why do you keep coming back?” She choked out, her voice vibrating with a mix of self-loathing and desperation. “Why don’t you just let me rot? If I’m such a disaster, why are you the one always pulling me out of the wreckage?”

Toph wasn’t mocking you anymore. She was pleading for an answer that would finally give her a reason to let you go. The tremors in her fists spoke of a woman who had spent her whole life fighting to be strong, only to realize she was drowning the only person who had ever truly seen her.

“Just do it,” She whispered brokenly, her head bowing as she thrust her wrists toward you again, the metal of her bracelets clinking. “Let me go. Put the cuffs on and take me in. Stop trying to find something in me that isn’t there anymore.”

You looked down at her, at the dirt in her hair, the smell of cheap gin clinging to her skin, and the way she still stood as if she were waiting for the earth to swallow her whole. The handcuffs felt like a cold, final barrier between the life you wanted with her and the reality you were living.

“You’re wrong,” You whispered, stepping into her space until the tips of your polished boots touched her bare, dirt stained toes. You forced her to feel your presence, to feel the heat of the person she had tried so hard to push away. “The woman I love is still there, Toph. She never left, she’s just hurting. She's drowning in her own trauma and sorrow, and she’s trying to take everyone else down with her because it's too much for her to deal with on her own.”

Toph flinched as if you had visibly struck her. But you didn't stop, you needed her to hear the sincerity in your words.

“You want to know why I keep showing up?” You continued, your voice trembling but firm. “It’s because I'm still in love with you and unlike everyone else in this shit hole that is here to watch you bleed out and kill people. I’m the one who cares about the person behind the mask and if they are still breathing the next morning.”

For a moment, the tension in her shoulders snapped, and she looked small, fragile in a way that no amount of earthbending or compartmentalizing could fix.

“Then you’re a fool,” Toph hissed, though there was no bite left in her words.

You didn't answer. You simply reached out and took her wrists. They felt so delicate in your hands now that you were seeing her for what she was. Her fingers were trembling as you brushed against her bloody knuckles causing her to hiss.

The metallic click of the cuffs echoed through the hollow warehouse, sounding more like a final slamming door than a piece of police equipment. The cold steel bit into her skin, and for a moment, you felt her pulse jump beneath your fingers and you recognized the feeling immediately.

Fear.

Toph didn't fight you. She didn't crack a joke or use her bending to shatter the restraints. She just let her hands go limp, her head hanging low as the weight of the cuffs dragged her arms down. The fight had finally vanished, leaving behind only the woman who was too tired to keep running.

“Let's go,” you said, your voice thick and devoid of the professional authority you usually wore like armor.

You placed a hand on her shoulder. Not to shove her, but to guide her. Toph leaned into the touch for a fraction of a second, a ghost of a gesture from a different life, before she snapped out of it and pulled herself upright. As you led her toward the exit, past the bloodstains on the floor and the discarded whiskey bottles, the flashing red and blue lights of the cruisers outside painted the warehouse in violent colors. It was a harsh reminder of what has become of you.

“Don't expect a thank you,” Toph muttered as you reached the cruiser, though the usual venom was replaced by a hollow exhaustion.

You opened the back door, the stale air of the police car rushing out to meet you. “Don't worry, I'm not looking for one. I just want you to survive until morning.”

‧₊°♱༺𓆩☠︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.‧₊°♱༺𓆩☠︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.

The next morning, the precinct was a sensory overload of ringing phones and the scent of burnt coffee. You hadn't slept. Every time you closed your eyes you saw Toph standing in that dirt ring, a ghost of the woman she used to be. You were haunted by the memory of the life you’d shared before her inner demons took hold.

You walked down to the holding cells, the metal heels of your boots echoing against the concrete. There wasn't anyone else down here besides her. When Toph was brought in, you made sure to keep her away from other prisoners out of fear she'd just hurt someone and get a longer sentence. It was just safer for everyone this way. The air in isolation was cold and smelled of floor wax and old sweat. When you finally reached the last cell, you stopped.

Toph was sitting on a narrow cot, her back against the damp stone wall. She looked smaller without the adrenaline of the fight to puff her up. The dirt on her face was clean now, her hair was still a tangled mess, but you had given her access to the showers and a fresh change of clothes before you left last night.

Toph tilted her head, her ears twitching as she recognized your footsteps.

“You're running late one of your guard dogs already delivered my pitiful breakfast.” She said, her tone borderline teasing, the old Toph flickering through the carefully constructed walls she had put up now that she was sober and of clear mind. “Usually, you're here with the sun, giving me that life lesson speech. The one where we both know you don’t even believe half that horse shit you’re spewing.”

She shifted on the cot, the rusted springs letting out a shrill protest. Even in a damp cell, smelling of iron and dried blood she managed to project an air of untouchable cool. But you could see the way she gripped the edge of the mattress, her knuckles still swollen and purple from the night before. A reminder of the weight she was still carrying on her shoulders.

“I was busy making sure the man you nearly killed doesn't have a funeral tomorrow,” you snapped, though the heat in your voice was fueled more by relief than anger. “Its hard to give a speech when I’m drowning in the paperwork required to keep you out of a cage for the next ten years.”

Toph let out a dry, rasping chuckle. “Aw, sounds like Ms. Perfect had a long night. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were losing sleep over me chief. Its unfortunate that it isnt for more pleasurable reasons.”

This woman was unbelievable, but she was also yours.

“So what did you come down here for? To read me my rights?” When she didn't hear your response, Toph turned her head toward you, an arrogant spark in her sightless eyes. “Or maybe you just missed the sound of my voice. I know the precinct gets a little lonely when there’s no one around to give you a real challenge.”

The metal door slammed against the stone wall with a violent clang as you stormed in. You were across the cell in seconds, your movements fueled by a sleepless night of worry and a decade of repressed longing. Toph shot up from the cot, her usual smirk vanishing in an instant. Her milky eyes went wide, and for the first time in years, she looked genuinely caught off guard.

You pinned her space, looming so close that your breaths mingled in the damp air. The heat radiating between you was electric, a sudden, sharp current that made the hair on your arms stand up.

“Is that what this is to you? A challenge? A fucking game!” You growled, your voice vibrating in the small space. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides, trembling not with fear, but with the sheer force of trying not to grab her. Because you knew if you did, you wouldn't be able to stop.

Toph’s breath caught suddenly, she didn't back away. Instead, she tilted her chin up, her nose nearly brushing yours, her skin smelling of salt and the lingering whiskey from the night before.

“Maybe it is,” Toph whispered, her voice losing its edge and turning into something sultry. “Maybe I just wanted to see if I could still make your heart race like that. Or maybe I wanted to see how far you'd go before you finally snapped.”

Toph reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of your uniform right over your heart. “You sound like you're about to explode. So go ahead. Snap. Do something that isn't in your precious rulebook Ms. High and Mighty.”

In that moment, the restraint you have been clinging to for years disintegrated. You lunged forward, grabbing her by the collar of her shirt and pulling her into a kiss that was less of a greeting and more of a collision.

It was fueled by a night of terror and a lifetime worth of resentment. It tasted of the bitter coffee on your breath and the sharp sting of whiskey combined with whatever they had given her for breakfast. There was no gentleness in it, only the raw desperation of two people who had spent too long trying to pretend they didn't belong to each other.

Toph let out a muffled gasp against your lips, her back hitting the cold stone wall with a thud. For a split second, she was still shocked by the force of your claim. Her fingers dug into the metal of your vest, fingers denting it as she pulled you closer until there wasn't a single inch of space between you. She kissed you back with the same reckless fury she brought to the fighting pits, her teeth catching your lip, marking you as hers even when she knew she didnt have any right to.

The heat between you was suffocating, drowning out the smell of the cell and the distant noise of the station. In this small, dark corner of the world, the heartbreak, the badge and the arrest didn't matter, only the agonizing reality that no matter how hard she tried to ruin herself, you were still there to catch the pieces before they even hit the ground.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed against hers, both of you gasping for air.

“I hate you,” You hissed, your voice trembling with a love that felt like a death sentence.

Toph’s smirk was gone, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated hunger. "Then why are you still holding on so tight?”

You didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, you fisted your hands into her hair, tilting her head back and crashing your lips against hers again. This time, the anger was being swallowed by a desperate, starving need. It was a chaotic mess of teeth and tongue, a frantic attempt to reclaim every part of her that she’d tried to give away to the fighting pits and the bottle.

Toph let out a low, guttural growl, her hands moving from your vest to the back of your neck, pulling you down with a strength that reminded you exactly who she was. She pressed you firmly against her, the metal buttons of your uniform digging into her chest, but neither of you cared.

Toph tasted like everything you have ever loved and you drank it in as if it were the only thing keeping you alive. You pushed her harder against the stone wall, your body acting as a shield against the rest of the world. In this moment, you were just two broken people trying to fuse themselves back together in the dark.

You left a trail of open mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, nipping and biting with a passion that left no room for doubt. Toph’s head fell back against the stone, a sharp, broken moan escaping her as your tongue found the sensitive hollow of her throat.

Your thigh surged upward, sliding between her legs and forcing them apart, pinning her more firmly against the wall. The friction sent a jolt through you both, a physical manifestation of all the years of tension and distance collapsing into a single moment.

“This has to be quick, we don't have all day,” You hissed against her skin, the words vibrating into her neck. “So be a good girl and take what you need, I want you to come on my fingers. Can you do that for me baby?”

Toph whimpered deep in her throat, as she nodded frantically. The endearment, that old, familiar spark of intimacy seemed to undo her more than any threat of prison ever could. Her fingers, still bruised from the fighting pits, gripped your shoulders with a desperate strength, her nails digging into your shoulders as she arched her back.

Toph didn't care about the risk, the damage this would cause later on when you both had to sit with what was currently happening. She just wanted the friction, the heat, and the soul crushing intensity of you.

And you were going to give it to her. Your hand slid beneath the rough fabric of her prison issue pants, immediately finding the hot, wet slickness of her cunt. Your fingers dipped between her folds, the familiar warmth of her slick coating your fingers. You had to bite down on your own lip to stifle the breathy sound that threatened to escape once you felt her. She was already so warm and wet and aching for you. Just like you remembered.

“Ohhhh.”

Toph makes a strangled noise as you press more firmly against her, your thigh providing the heavy pressure she was starving for as your fingers found her clit and traced sharp, even circles around it, sending a continuous pulse deep into her cunt.

Toph grinded down onto your thigh and met the sharp circles you were tracing on her throbbing clit. Every movement was desperate, purposeful. You bit into the muscle of her shoulder to keep her from crying out, but she just arched higher, her body molding into yours as if she were trying to climb inside your skin.

“Please,” Toph choked out, her voice a raw, ruined whisper in your ear. “Don't stop, I'm almost there.”

Your hand moved with a relentless, focused rhythm, the pad of your thumb circling her clit while your fingers delved between her slick folds and slipped two fingers inside of her aching cunt. You curled them deep inside, finding every sensitive nerve she had tried to numb with whiskey and violence and replaced it with your touch. Toph’s hips bucked instantly, her thighs squeezed around your fingers, locking you in place as she adjusted to the intrusion.

You watched her jaw slacken and her lips part as your fingers were buried deep inside her, filling her with a familiarity, a completion no one else could ever replicate. Once she recovered, Toph’s thrusts turned desperate, her hips rolling and hitching as she began to ride your hand with a starving speed.

You muffled her whimpers with another bruising kiss, swallowing the raw sounds escaping her lips before they could echo down the hall. You could feel her fluttering around your fingers, her body instinctively pulling you deeper as you twisted and turned your fingers with a relentless, focused rhythm.

Every drag of your fingers along her inner walls as you hit that sensitive, spongy spot inside of her had Toph's eyes rolling back and her toes curling desperately against the cold stone floor.

There was no tenderness in your movements. It was a display of raw, overwhelming power. Each forceful thrust was designed to claim her, stealing the breath from her lungs as the wet sounds of her squelching pussy filled the air. You could feel every valley and rigid curve of her as your fingers came almost completely out before slamming back in. You fluctuated between long deep thrusts and quick short ones, edging her through every single moment of her pleasure.

Your fingers moved with a possessive intensity, a silent vow that no matter how far she ran or how many times she broke your heart, she would always belong to you. You were marking her from the inside out, reminding her with every curl of your fingers that no one else would ever be able to reach the depths of her like this.

Toph was trembling around you, her body tightening around you as she met your thrust relentlessly. Every roll of her hips was a plea for more, a reckless drive toward the edge that made the danger of your claim and the fear of letting you back into her heart feel miles away.

“I hate you.” You breathed against the damp, heated skin of her shoulder, the words trembling and broken. Tears pricked at your eyes as the agony of your devotion finally spilled over. “I hate that I’m still in love with you and that no one will ever be you.”

A particularly hard thrust of your fingers that were dragging deep against her inner walls, forced a sharp cry from her throat. Toph bit down hard on her lower lip to stifle the sound, the sudden metallic scent of copper making your nostrils flare as blood welled from the pressure. You leaned in immediately, your tongue soothing the broken skin before your own teeth replaced hers.

“I-I cant let you go Toph. I won't, not again.” You growled into the heat of her mouth, pulling her lip between your teeth and sucking it hard, marking her with the same possessiveness you felt in your chest. “You can push me away all you want. You can tear up this city if you want to. But I am not giving up on you.”

“And I bet you like that, don’t you? Knowing that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you cover yourself in, I’ll be right here waiting to pull you out.”

“Yes!” Toph mewled, the sound was so pathetic on her lips and it only made you keep the same steady rhythm. “Yes, f-fuck baby.”

You curled your fingers inside her again, focusing on that particular spot that you knew would push her over the edge. “Then cum for me and come home with me.”

“Fuckkkkk.” 

Toph buried her face into the crook of your neck as she shattered, her teeth sinking deep into your skin and biting hard enough to leave a permanent brand. Her body convulsed in your arms, her powerful limbs locking around you with such desperate strength that the air was crushed from your lungs. You were the only thing holding her up, Toph's legs hooked tightly around your waist as your fingers remained buried deep inside her, drawing out every aftershock until she released your neck and her body went slack against yours.

You gently guided her back to the narrow cot, lowering her down until she was laying on the thin, rusted mattress. But when you tried to pull back and return to your job and that mountain of paperwork on your desk she clung to you. Toph's fingers fisted into the fabric of your uniform, anchoring you there. Her breathing was labored now, the frantic thrum of her release replaced by the uneven hitching of someone drowning in their own grief.

She refused to let go, her forehead pressed into the hollow of your shoulder. And that's when you felt it. The first warm, silent tear sliding down your neck, right over the stinging mark her teeth had left moments ago. Something in you broke then, something ugly and raw and entirely human.

The silence in the cell was heavy, broken only by the hitching of her breath. Toph didn't need to speak. The way she clung to you, fingers white knuckled and digging into your back spoke of a terror she would never admit to. It was the grip of someone who had spent too long pretending she didn't need a soul in the world.

“Baby...” Your voice was thick, caught in the back of your throat. “I-I won't leave, I promise. Just let me take this chest plate off so you can be more comfortable-”

You didn’t even get a chance to finish. The metal of your uniform liquidated instantly. The armor melting away from your body like warm glue as she bent the components right off you, desperate to close the distance.

Toph released you now that she was sure you weren't going anywhere and lowered her head onto the thin prisoner issue pillow. You finally got a glimpse of the wreckage of her features now and it made your heart break in two.

Toph's cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and her tears were endless voids that were flowing down her face in a silent, steady stream that seemed to carry all the years of repressed sorrow with them. She looked at you not with her eyes, but with a soul that was finally, painfully exposed. It was almost as if she were waiting for you to tell her what to do next because she wasnt used to feeling so much at once without punching things.

You kicked off your boots, the heavy thud of them hitting the floorboards were the only sounds that could be heard in the cell besides her ragged breathing. When you moved to slide in beside her, Toph stiffened, her hands flying out to grasp your shoulders with a desperate strength.

“No,” She rasped, her voice hoarse and broken. “On top. Please. I-I need to feel the weight of you. I need to feel you everywhere. It makes them disappear.”

You paused, hovering over her, your composure breaking at the sheer vulnerability in her sightless eyes.

“Them?” You whispered, your hands framing her tear stained face.

“The voices,” Toph choked out, her head shaking frantically. “The ones that tell me I’m nothing. The ones that scream that I’m better off alone. When you’re on top of me, when I can feel your heart beating against mine, they finally shut up.”

You didn't wait another second, you moved over her, settling your body against hers, letting your full weight anchor her to the mattress. Underneath you, Toph let out a long, shuddering sob as she wrapped her arms and legs around you, pulling you into her as if she were trying to merge your two souls into one.

And it was there, in the cramped, cold space of the holding cell, you weren't the chief and she wasn't a criminal. You were just two people clinging to each other in the middle of a storm, trying to find enough light to survive the night.

Your blood ran cold and that bowl of yours slipped right out of your grasp. Mr. Cripps understood in a heartbeat what needed to be done and therefore rushed to the weapon box, rummaging around inside it. He came back cradling guns: your volcanic, a bolt action and a pump action shotgun. All of them packing a proper punch befitting of your rage.

Now you’re just outside of Tumbleweed with Mr. Jones following behind and unable to keep up with the pace of your mare that pushes on with the wrath of an entire cavalry and the speed of lightning. You pass a man who’s slouched on the side of the road, holding a bloody arm and pointing with his good one at something in the distance.

His words are a blur as they hit your ears but you can somewhat figure what he was trying to tell you. Hooves drum against the dirt road like thunder, undoubtedly announcing your approach like an unyielding storm. A tempest resembling the one in your guts. You haven’t known the Marshal for too long, having Mr. Horley introduce him to you just a month ago or two, yet you’ve grown fond of the lawman.

With his straight-to-the-point way and his gruff demeanor. It’s impossible to ignore the looks he gives you with his one eye, gleaming with something more than a thirst for a bloody kind of justice and the lingering touches whenever he shakes your hand or squeezes your shoulder for good luck before a job that he himself can’t be seen getting involved in.

Each and every payment received from the Marshal is a dollar you’re reluctant to part with, for it came from him. It’s ridiculous when put into words but it feels right in your heart. Your mare slides over the dust and sand as you order it for an abrupt halt and you swiftly dismount at the entrance of Tumbleweed.

The old church is to your right, lying empty with the graves surrounding it and before you unfolds a small army of men armed to the teeth. Far in the back, beyond the shops and the town square, you spot the gallows with a cluster of people pooling around it like ants on their hill. There are more standing on top of the structure and you squint against the scorching sun for a better look.

Voices are carried over to you where you stand, a stranger declaring both the Marshal and the Sheriff guilty of charge and there he is. Your Marshal with squared shoulders and his head held high as if he’s the one tying the noose instead of wearing it. Seeing the rope around his neck sends your heart into a frenzy and lets it drop all the way down into your boots.

It feels like the roles are reversed. Transported in your mind, you’re the one standing there with the rough material of the rope scratching at your skin and sitting firmly on your throat, cutting and squeezing. Against all your wishes and hopes, someone pulls the lever and the trap door beneath his feet falls open He drops at a frightening pace and your stomach flips as waves of nausea crash down on you.

For a split second, you could swear that you can hear his neck snap and feel yours break along with it. An invisible hand reaches into your mouth, down your throat and tears a gag out of your body. Bile and saliva gather inside your mouth that you’re forced to spit before your feet. The Marshal continues falling until the rope around his neck stops two feet above the ground.

But it doesn’t break it. Instead, he hangs there choking and kicking against empty air and you shriek at the sight, drawing the attention of the men closest to you. They all gape at you in sheer bewilderment, like one would at a sudden apparition. Then a switch is flipped inside each and every one of them and they spring into action in sync.

A bullet whizzes past your ear, only a mere inch or two away from your face and you snap out of it. By now, old Mr. Jones has finally joined and yanks you behind one of the boxes that are scattered around town. Splinters fly up into the air as bullets burry themselves into your cover, threatening to mow you down where you cower.

“You have to be careful, Miss!”, Mr. Jones shouts over all the noise as you ready your bolt action.

Its metal gleams in the sunlight and you clutch it close to your chest, letting your rage seep into the weapon as if to infuse it with it. After checking the ammunition and waiting for a pause in the hail of lead that has been raining down on you, you peek out from behind the boxes. A few heads are poking out behind walls and crates and you fire a couple of shots at them.

You hear something crack, followed by a wet splatter and that’s when you know that you hit true. That continues on with the gang members and you exchanging shot after shot and although it’s a gradual process, Mr. Jones and you somehow manage to push forward deeper into Tumbleweed, against all odds.

The men that were standing at the gallows have abandoned it for now, leaving the Sheriff still tied to the post and the Marshal still dangling in the air. You could try shooting at the rope but you’d run into the risk of hitting either him or the Sheriff. More gang members come riding in, seemingly appearing out of thin air and surrounding you in the town square.

Pain explodes inside your thigh and you let out a choked back cry. Gazing down on it, you find your pants darken rapidly and it spreads in a way that almost reminds you of how the flowers bloom in spring. A bullet must have grazed you as you examine the ripped fabric. It’s torn into a line like a cut from a blade and you press a flat hand over it.

It hurts like a son of a bitch. Nerve endings scrubbed raw, you grit your teeth until the pressure of a headache builds up behind your temples and you try to ignore the warm slickness of your own blood seeping out from between your fingers. At least the bullet didn’t lodge itself into it. Cursing, you discard the rifle and grab your pistol.

Pushing yourself up onto your good leg, you lean your weight against the wagon you’re using as cover and shoot blindly. You don’t manage to bring down every single man but when not even a handful remains, they flee. Taking their legs into their hands, you watch them scramble for the few horses that haven’t got spooked by the gunshots and ride off into the distance.

“Your leg!”, Mr. Jones points out and you wave him off with your free hand.

“That ain’t important right now.”, you wring out. “Help me get the Marshal down.”

Mr. Jones rushes to find a small box and carries it over for Marshal Davies to stand on while you stagger up the stairs with your hunting knife unsheathed. First, you cut his rope and then the Sheriff’s. You figured that the former of the two clearly needed it more. Sheriff Freeman reaches out to steady you with both hands, helping you down the stairs. The Marshal is with you in an instant, replacing Sheriff Freeman’s spot and filling it with his own body.

“You shouldn’t have come.”, he remarks with nothing in his tone that could indicate any ounce of relief or gratitude over your rescue.

“Is that how you usually thank people who help you?”, you snarl, running thin on patience with every drop of blood that escapes your body.

Mr. Jones has found a wagon in the meantime that’s waiting ready at the edge of town. Marshal Davies slings one arm around your torso and the other around your legs before carefully hoisting you up. Although he’s handling you with a caution that is untypical for him, the pain is nearly blinding as it sends jolts through your veins.

It feels like your entire leg is engulfed in flames and the fire travels through the rest of your body, scorching you from both the in- and outside. You’ve never been shot before, always having thought yourself lucky given the kind of work you do. Hell, you weren’t even properly shot right now but good Lord does it hurt like a bitch.

“No, that’s what I usually tell folk that I don’t want harmed who put themselves in harm’s way anyway.”, he answers as he lays you down on the back of the wagon and follows by climbing onto it as well.

“You don’t want to sit in the front?”, Sheriff Freeman asks over his shoulder.

“No, I’m all right where I am now.”, the Marshal answers.

Mr. Jones hops onto the shotgun seat and the wagon begins to move. The roads here in the far west of New Austin aren’t the most comfortable with their rough terrain and sharp turns. You feel like a sack of potatoes being tossed left and right and you hold your leg still with both hands to keep it from shaking so much.

The Marshal peels off his jacket and you watch him rip the right sleeve clean off.

“Lift your leg for me.”, he murmurs and you obey without a question.

He ties the dark fabric over your thigh to stop the wound from bleeding and pulls the knot to tight that you can’t help but yelp up.

“Did I hurt you?”, he asks though surely, he’s aware of the fact that there was no avoiding it.

“Just a little bit.”, you croak.

“Sorry.”

Craning your neck, you’re relieved to find your horse following closely behind the wagon and you slump back to lean against the edge.

“Should we head to Armadillo, Marshal?”, Mr. Jones asks over the deafening rattling of the wheels.

“No, I reckon those bastards might be waitin’ for us there. The Sheriff doesn’t have a proper grip over that town.”, Sheriff Freeman answers. “No, best to ride around it and stop at Blackwater. If that’s all right with you, Miss?”

The question is directed at you and you bite down on your tongue. If only you’d have the guts to be honest, then you’d tell him that you don’t care where you stop as long as it doesn’t result in a second attempted execution. You could never let the Marshal know of the terror that you felt not too long ago, nor could you voice the truth that’s hidden inside your heart.

Gazing up into his wind beaten face that is still reddened from being choked for so long, you’re itching to press your lips onto his.

“I can make it to Blackwater.”, you say and Marshal Davies shakes his head.

“Horse shit.”, he barks. “Sam, take us to Armadillo.”

“But Montez’s men-“

“We’ll gun ‘em down if they try anything funny. We need medicine.”

You shake your head and his gaze snaps to yours, narrowing his eyes as if he can sense the rising protest on your tongue.

“I’m fine, really.”, you argue and he runs a gloved hand through his white hair.

It’s a disarray the way it sits on his head. The normally combed back strands are hanging loose and partly masking the sheared sides. It’s a fine haircut, one you like seeing on him a lot but it’s also painfully obvious that he does it himself. You like to imagine him in front of a shaving mirror and trying his utmost to cut the hair.

It looks mostly fine and professional the closer it gets to his face, but on the back of his head, where one can’t see right even with the help of a mirror, it looks just a tad uneven. Normally it’s hidden well beneath that large hat of his, though to someone like you, who has spent quite some time staring at him, it’s unable to go unnoticed.

“If we ain’t going to Armadillo, I’ll shoot all of us up.”, he barks with such zeal that you don’t doubt for a second that he’s telling the God honest truth. You fail to see how that would fix your leg.

The ride from Tumbleweed to Armadillo is a bit of a blur that has you slip in and out of consciousness no matter how desperately and vigorously you cling to it. You don’t want to close your eyes that have grown heavy from exhaustion and you don’t want to lower your head that feels like a spinning ball of clay.

Cholera has left the small town a wreck, a shadow of its former self, though you don’t believe that it had been the pinnacle of society before the sickness either. There are scarcely any people out and the ones that are, turn their gaunt faces away from your approaching wagon. You heard that the doctor long fled this corner of New Austin that lies seemingly forgotten by the Lord and any other higher power.

To nobody’s surprise, the local saloon has only free rooms and offers them at outrageously low prices. You snake your arm over the Marshal’s shoulders and lean into his side. Despite the grim circumstances, you still find it within yourself to relish the close proximity and his warmth mingling with yours.

It doesn’t take long to get you into the room and once inside you practically collapse onto the bed, letting darkness wash over you.

---

By the time you come back to your senses, the moon has replaced the sun and a few candles illuminate the room with their lone, flickering flames. They’re perched on top of the dresser and you sit up, wincing at the sharp pain the action causes in your leg. You’re completely alone and as you look to the side, you find fabric piling on top of a stool that has one of its legs broken.

Reaching out and leaning over, you grasp the clothes and pull them close. It’s a simple wash skirt that one of the men must have either bought or borrowed. Figuring that it’s better to wear this than those broken pants that are torn beyond saving, you carefully get changed. It’s a chore to loosen the Marshal’s knot and peel off your trousers.

By the time you’ve pulled them down your knees, you’re drenched in sweat and have bitten your cheeks raw. You’re relieved to find that nobody has taken off your trousers while you slept, but the wound has clearly been cleaned and tended to. The skirt is much easier to handle but you take a generous break before slipping into it and right as you close the final button, the door opens with a squeak.

You startle and scramble to grab the nearest object which is an empty vase with a chipped handle and a washed-out motif painted onto the porelain. Marshal Davies stands in the frame, gaping at the improvised weapon in your hand and you relax at the sight of him.

“I thought you’re someone else.”, you breathe out as you set the vase back down.

“Anything makes a decent weapon in your hands, don’t it?”, he comments as he closes the door behind himself. “I went to check on you. You’ve been out cold for hours.”

“What time is it?”

“Shortly after midnight.”

When did you arrive in Armadillo? It must have still been around noon or so, judging by the position of the sun when you rode into the town but you can’t trust your memory much.

“How’s your leg?”, he asks, nodding downward and you follow his gaze.

“It looks good. Hurts though.”, you answer and he clears his throat.

“Mind if I take a look?”

There’s not an ounce of embarrassment in his voice as if he didn’t juts asked you if he could peek under your skirt. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your leg and rest your foot on a short stool. Your hands tremble as you grasp the hem of your skirt and slowly lift it up. By now, Marshal Davies must have realized the gravity of his request because once your ankle is revealed, you catch his throat bobbing.

Whether he feels uncomfortable at the intimate exposure or not, he doesn’t let it show and instead kneels down to bring himself on eye-level with your thigh. Burning up from the inside, you continue until your knee is bare and then finally, your thigh. The wound is on the upper half, right beneath your bloomers and you push them a few inches higher as well.

The material burns on your skin and a shiver runs down your spine that you can’t quite decipher the feeling of. It’s both cold and delicious. Something about him on one knee so close to your warm core invokes a sense of scandal inside you. You imagine one of those novels that can be bought for a penny or two at local store describing a moment such as this.

It’s a guilty pleasure of yours to read those, despite their reputation and outrageous wordings. They’re what feeds your wild imagination. When the Marshal’s fingers brush over your naked skin, they do so with the utmost respect. His hands don’t wander one bit while he inspects the injury and you catch yourself wishing that he’d travel higher even if just a little bit.

You want him to play with the band of your bloomers, slipping underneath and inching closer to the spot that is practically melting away from his proximity. His eye is narrowed as he brings his face closer to your thigh, so unbearably close that you can feel his breath caress it.

“It don’t look too deep.”, he mutters under his breath. “We’ll keep it clean, bandage it and it should heal up nicely.”

“Hm.”, you hum. “I told you that I’m fine. We could have easily driven to Blackwater.”

“I didn’t want to risk it.”, he argues with a voice that leaves no room for protest. Much to your delight, he isn’t removing himself from the spot on his knee.

“Why not? You sent me out on dangerous jobs before. It’s not like hunting down Montez could have ended up any better than this.”, you protest anyways, earning a half-hearted scowl.

“Montez was a menace to every decent citizen in this country.”, he says in his typical low grumble. “Today, it was just my life on the line. That’s different.”

“And Sheriff Freeman agrees?”

“He sees things the same as I do.”

Crossing both arms in front of your chest, you sigh. “And what would you have wanted us to do? Watch you hang?”

“For starters.”, he counters, finally looking up at you. “You may not have gotten shot at if you did.”

“You’re impossible.”, you snap, scoffing.

He grunts as he gets back onto his feet and reaches behind himself. A generous stack of cash appears before you and you gawk at the bills, not having considered any payment for his rescue at all.

“You ought to be paid though.”, he says to fill your stunned silence.

“What?”

“Ain’t that why you did it?”

Anger gathers in your mouth like saliva and your fingers itch with the urge to rip that cash into shreds. Swatting the “reward” away, you stare at him in utter disbelief and betrayal. Eyes dropping down onto his neck, you shudder at the dark line stretching over his skin. Black and blue bruises are left behind as evidence of what occurred today and the memory alone is enough to turn your stomach upside down.

Still, he sincerely believes you only did it for the money. Fretting over his life, nearly wailing on the way there like a widow at a funeral and then actually crying out when you saw him fall through that trap door and he still thinks that…truly impossible.

“I didn’t do all that for the money. I did it for you.”, you spit. “You dumb fool.”

“Excuse me?”, he sputters.

Cupping your hands over his, you curl his fingers around the cash and push it close to his chest. “Mr. Jones showed up at my camp and I was…beyond terrified. We came as fast as we could. I didn’t have any type of reward on my mind at all.”

Even after all this, you can’t bring yourself to admit what really drove you out of camp this morning. You can’t admit your feelings but instead, paint it as a group effort. We were worried. As if you didn’t watch your life flash before your inner eye when you were faced with the possibility of losing him for good.

“Well, I don’t know what to say.”, he whispers. “Thank you.”

As much as it pains you, you let go of his hands and he glances over his shoulder at the door. Something tells you that he’s slipping through your fingers, that once he steps through that threshold, all your chances will be lost forever.

“Horley sent a telegraph. Said he’s awaitin’ for you in Blackwater or something.”, he mutters and disappointment weighs heavy in your stomach.

This is it then? This is where you part ways. Where he goes back to his work and you go back to whatever it is you did before you met him. He will find other guns to hire and you will find another employer.

“You’re leaving now?”, you ask, terrified of his answer.

“In the mornin’. It don’t feel right to leave you here alone for the night with Montez’s men out there.”, he answers and a glimmer of hope flickers behind your chest.

“I see.”

“Listen, Miss. You’re a fine woman. Any man with two- or rather one functional eye can see that.”, he starts and when his gaze locks into place with yours, you’re shaken to the core.

Something grave swirls in his pale iris and you seek out the bed post for balance. Throat closing up, you hear your blood pumping in your ears in sync with your heartbeat. You thought about this very moment a million times while tossing and turning in your bedroll during yet another sleepless night. To be honest, you always pictured yourself handling it with a little bit more grace than you are right now.

“But I know that you’re too fine for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”, you blurt out, unable to comprehend his words.

Like him? Attractive, broad and bad in all the good ways? You can scarcely come up with anyone better from the top of your head.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Miss. I’m a good bit older and a good bit unpleasant or so I was told.”

Although he’s speaking in a light tone, you can tell by one look into his face that there’s a certain sorrow as if he has thought those things over many times before and come to the conclusion that you are too good for him.

“Nonsense, Marshal.”, you push back fiercely. “Would it change anything if I told you that I think you’re a fine man as well?”

“Don’t do this to me, Miss. You ain’t cruel like that.”

“I’m serious.”

“And that’s the frightenin’ part.”, he shoots out. “You can’t give an old dog like me hope ‘cause what’ll that bring? You ‘n me? I almost got hung today and you almost got gunned down.”

“Tom.”

It’s the first time ever that you used his first name and it works on him like a spell. His mouth snaps shut and his jaw works with frustration. His upper body is leaned back as if to create a safe enough gap between the two of you that will prevent him from being drawn into your orbit. Meanwhile his feet are planted firmly onto the floor, not making any attempt of moving away.

You take advantage of this and step closer, crossing the line that apparently both of you have drawn without telling the other. It’s liberating to shed all pretense and commit to your feelings for him even under the pressure that you have to do it now otherwise the opportunity will never arise again. This is your one and only shot.

He looks even more handsome up close when you can count every wrinkle and scar and beard hair on his mustache. There used to be a time when you disliked that style, when it made your nose wrinkle up in displeasure and you believed every man sporting that thing looked like a deformed walrus. Now you wish to feel it on your skin and between your legs.

Your palm finds his chest and you stifle a gasp at how solid it feels. He leans into your touch, closing the gap further to a point where you detect the remnants of his aftershave and the smell of his favorite cigarette brand. One time you asked him why he doesn’t smoke cigars (he has always struck you as the type in the way he carries himself) and he said that he dislikes the pretentiousness surrounding it.

It’s a statement those men are tryin’ to make and I don’t much feel the need havin’ to compensate in size, he had said to you then.

“Miss…”, he murmurs and you answer with a breathless ‘Marshal’.

There’s no more pretending. The very moment your lips are on his, you can practically feel his defenses crumble down like a house of cards. His strong arms snake around you, pulling you close and you melt into his body that welcomes yours so perfectly. Your curves and dips fit into his as if you’re two puzzle pieces belonging to the same picture.

Kissing him is exactly as you’ve dreamed this entire time: fierce, rough and a battle. His lips devour yours the same way yours devour his, cut from the same wood. The tip of his tongue darts out of his mouth, flicking over your lips and you part them. It’s a gap big enough for it to fit through but still so narrow that allows you to taste him.

The kiss is wet and warm and you run a hand over his hair, enjoying the feeling of his sheared sides on your fingers. Desire throbs between your legs and you curse yourself out for not keeping your skirt hiked up. What you would give to shove him into that spot, to feel his hard crotch on your clothed cunt and hump him like a bitch in heat.

The Marshal undoubtedly shares that sentiment the way he wedges his leg forward for you to feel the rough material of his pants through the skirt and bloomers. You part your legs to grant him access, then his thigh accidentally brushes over your injury and you let out a high-pitched yelp. He breaks free from the kiss, looking absolutely mortified.

“What is it? Where did I hurt you?”, he asks almost frantically. It’s a state you’ve never witnessed him in before.

“It’s just my leg.”, you answer through gritted teeth and sink down onto the edge of the bed.

The wound throbs and burns and you quickly pull up your skirt to inspect it. Marshal Davies is there in and instant, kneeling down in front of you for the second time today and bringing his face close to the inside of your thigh.

“It don’t look like it’s bleeding.”, he points out and you sigh in relief. “But I reckon we should continue this on another day.”

“Good call.”, you say and cup his cheek with one hand.

He takes you by your wrist and plants a kiss in your palm. His lips are still wet from yours and his saliva.

“Marshal?”, you continue. “What does this mean for us?”

There’s a pause following your question but it isn’t daunting at all. You doubt that he is the type to kiss you in one breath and disregard you in the next. No, Marshal Tom Davies is the kind of man who follows through.

He left you alone at first, thought he'd let you come to him. But it's been well over an hour and you're still in the same spot.

So he approaches. Real careful, boots barely heard against the soft ground until he sinks into the sand a few steps behind you. It's a dance he knows well, memorized the choreography of.

"You about done now?"

The glare you send him over your shoulder is scalding. He rests his hands on his gunbelt, shifts his weight to one leg. The hour you spent looking over the lake didn't stop the anger boiling up inside you, only letting it simmer. And now it's ready to burst and overflow.

You turn back to the lake. He steps closer, the water splashing around his boots until he's stood right behind you. "What's gotten into you, huh?" His tone is gentler now. He puts his hands on your waist and when you try to move away from him he tightens his grip, following your steps.

He placates you easily, and he knows he does. Despite your refusal to look at him, he feels you ease the slightest into his touch. He’s too close for how angry you are at him, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him turn you, the water splashing about your ankles and further drenching the hem of your skirt.

He cups your jaw, tilting your head back gently for you to look at him. “Talk to me, sweet girl.”

And when you refuse, lips twisted into a frown he leans in, presses a kiss to the corner of them.

“Let me fix it.” He murmurs against your cheek, pressing another kiss there. Your eyes flutter closed, resolve melting. You’re at fault this time, snapping at him when you shouldn’t have. Yet he stands there, pacifying you the only way he knows how, waiting for you to tell him what is going on.

He thinks it’s endearing, the way you try to avoid his gaze, yet lean into his touch, melting into him. He hums, lips moving along your jaw and your head tilts back instinctively in response. Any and all attempts at pushing him away futile. 

You want to make him frustrated and angry just to see if that'll make him sick of you. Yet it never does. Every attempt at pushing him away leads to him pulling you back in again, with a patience you know him only to have with little Jack.

"C’mon.” He urges again and you huff, trying to step away from him in a small moment of clarity. But his arms around your waist are firm and he simply follows you deeper into the water. You refuse to meet his gaze, glaring at his chest instead. You'd burn a hole straight through if you could.

Arthur sighs and looks over the lake behind you. A fisherman sits in a small boat with a line cast out into the tranquil water, and he is half of mind to envy him. He brushes his lips against your hairline instead.

"Why haven't you left yet?" Your voice is barely audible over the water lapping at the shore.

"I've been waitin' on ya."

You huff. "Right. 'Cause you were so eager to take me with you earlier."

"Y'know I ain't mean it like that." His attempt at an apology kept simple.

You know he didn't. But from spilled coffee first thing in the morning to a lecture from Miss Grimshaw about badly washed linens, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Maybe I'll ask Sean to take me into town instead." You counter, tracing your finger along a button on his shirt. "I know he won't refuse."

"Alright, now you're taking it too far."

Your resolve melts. You bite back a smile, smoothing his shirt down his chest. And he sees it, so he tries again.

"C'mon, we can see if the fence has anything you might like.”

With each passing second, it becomes more difficult to will your limbs to move. To force your legs to pedal and your arms to flail. Like a rock climber, you try to grab handfuls of the water to push yourself upwards, but you only sink into the opposite direction. With stiff fingers you pull at the laces in a poor attempt to loosen them, but they don’t budge at all.

They’ve soaked up too much water and have become as tight as a metal coil. Your steel your nerves and clear your mind, but you’re too consumed by fear. The temperature of the water paralyses you entirely and your muscles grow sluggish. Clumsily you will your hands to move, but to no avail. You’re left with nothing but wiggle around in hopes that it’s going to take you up.

Suddenly something touches you and you flinch away, scared it might be ropes or seaweed that you will get tangled up in. Then you seem to make out movement right in front of you and something akin to a voice or more so a muffled grunt. Narrowing your eyes, you try to make out what it is that’s grabbing at you, but it’s too dark to even see an inch in front of you.

It takes a long moment for you to recognize what exactly it is you feel on your skin: a pair of hands. Over the moon that one of the men has turned around to help, you want to cry out in relief, but you lack the air. As the severity of your situation dawns on you, your pulse picks up again. The pressure on your chest rapidly grows, building up beneath your skin.

It reaches a point where you get the overwhelming sense that your eyes are going to pop out at any moment and that your entire face will explode. There is no way mere flesh and skin will be enough to hold it in. Against your better judgement, you part your lips and greedily inhale, only to be met with pure agony.

Water fills your throat and lungs, burning you from the inside and your body convulses. Overcome with the need to force it all out, you cough, but only end up getting more of the coldness into you. You’re swallowing a thousand needles at once, digging into you from all sides. They’re forcing their way out of your body, ripping through organs and tissue.

Suddenly you feel weightless. Not like a chunk of stone that’s gradually sinking to the bottom. A light appears somewhere far away, getting closer and closer. Every cell in your body wants to squirm and fight it. To run and flee, but your drive is gone. Something solid hits your body then, pressing uncomfortably into your back and you desperately try to feel around you.

Your muscles are cramping and quivering like a leaf in the wind. A voice is yelling something, but your ears are still too filled with water to understand anything at all. More pressure meets your chest, but oddly enough from the outside now. It pushes down in a steady rhythm, squeezing the molten lava up your throat.

Your nose is being pinched shut and your chin frantically pulled down to open your mouth. It feels like a foreign object is trying to leap out of your mouth. Blinded by pain, you roll to the side and throw up the Grand Korrigan with all its factory waste. It tastes bitter and musky and something scratches the inside of your mouth as if you’ve swallowed sand as well.

You can’t stop retching. It’s a never-ending torture that refuses to cease even after you empty out all the contents in your stomach. Snot is running down your nose and tears are streaking your cheeks. The mascara and eyeshadow have run straight into your eyes and you reach up with a trembling hand to wipe it all off.

It stings and burns and over all hurts like a bitch.

“Talk to me.”, someone above you says. Arthur.

Unable to follow his request, you simply wave the other hand around and hungrily gasp for air. Pain ripples through your throat with every inhale, but you power through the pain. People are surrounding you, but you barely pay them any mind. Instead, you stay on all fours, wondering how you haven’t collapsed onto the cobblestones yet.

They’re all exchanging hasty words before scrambling all over the place or maybe they aren’t. It’s impossible to follow what’s going on around you. A broad frame appears in the corner of your eyes and Arthur kneels down until he’s on eye level with you. His palm is rubbing soothing circles into your back.

“C’mon. We need to get ya warmed up.”, he murmurs with urgency swimming in his voice.

Shivering, you nod and grasp for his hand. He helps you up, but even then, you heavily rely on his support. Leaning into his side, you let him guide you into the maze that are the streets and alleys of Saint Denis until you enter an unfamiliar building. It seems like you walked several miles, but it could have easily been just a block or two.

While Arthur talks to the man standing behind the counter, explaining that you tripped and fell into the river on your way home, you for the first time look down on yourself. You’re standing in nothing but your chemise, corset and one single skirt. The beige fabric clings to your drenched body, much like it did when it had rained during Jack’s party.

If you weren’t so exhausted you might have been bothered by the fact that the clerk has a full view of your body. Before you know it, Arthur leads you to the back and pushes open the door. Inside awaits a burning fire and a filled bath tub. The sight of water almost leaves you trembling with fear, but alas. Reason prevails.

“I’ll be waitin’ just outside.”, he tells you and you only manage a weak nod.

He shuts the door behind you and you take a few unsure steps towards the tub. Steam rises from the bubbles and you wonder how they managed to prepare it so quickly. Perhaps it’s just sitting here all day, every day and just waiting to be booked for an hour or two. You reach behind you to undo the knot on your corset.

Your fingers are too stiff to grasp the string and so you twist your shoulders into an uncomfortable position. Pain shoots down your arms and you let out a choking gasp.

“Is everything all right in there?”, Arthur calls out from the hallway.

Instead of answering, you give it another shot. Bracing yourself with one hand on the edge of the tub, you reach with the other behind you. Your knees buckle and you collide with the floorboards. During the fall, you take a candle with you that was perched on top of a stool and the hot wax spills over your naked feed.

Yelping, you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hands, burning yourself further. Luckily the flame got snuffed out by the fall. Your knees throb.

“I’m comin’ in.”, Arthur warns and reluctantly opens the door.

Upon seeing you crouched down on the floor, he nearly rips the thing off its hinges before throwing it shut and rushing to your side. Your fingers are wedged in between the corset and chemise, yanking at it in a desperate attempt to rip it off. With your remaining clothes soaked to the core, it clings to you like a second skin.

The corset feels tighter than ever and you’re unable to tell whether it’s the lasting effect of almost drowning or that wretched thing itself that’s cutting off your air flow. Arthur, having obviously caught onto your distress, is mumbling words of comfort, but they all fly straight over your head.

“Help.”, you then croak in a hoarse voice as if you’ve been doing nothing but smoke several packages of cigarettes a day since the day of your birth.

“I’m here.”, he whispers and you slump into him.

“Take it off.”, you plead, catching him off-guard.

His face drops into a frown as he regards the wet clothes. Is he seriously debating whether he should preserve your life or your dignity?

“Have you never seen a naked woman before?”, you bark and your tone would have been mocking if it wasn’t for it cracking at every word.

God, you sound pathetic. Pressing his lips into a tight line, he remains silent and instead, gets to work. His fingers fly over your laces as if his only goal is to get this over with as soon as possible. When he helps you peel off the rest, you pull yourself up at the edge of the tub. Still unsure on your feet, you nearly topple over if it wasn’t for his lightning reflexes.

Arthur stands right behind you, his chest almost touching your back and his hands are holding your waist firmly. You can feel the tip of his thumb just an inch away from the underside of your breast and he must have noticed it as well, because he removes it from that spot as if he got burned. Glancing over your shoulder at him, you notice that his eyes are flickering all around the room.

He’s trying very hard to look anywhere except at you.

“Can you, uh, make it in?”, he then speaks up after clearing his throat.

It baffles you to see him in such a state. Arthur Morgan, one of the most wanted men in the states is flustered over your naked body? If you’d take a wild guess, then you’d assume he’s slept with plenty of women before and has therefore seen plenty of bodies as well. The again, this isn’t exactly an intimate situation and whether he’s even attracted to you is a matter between him and God.

Besides, you’re over here still freezing your ass off and if someone would hold up a mirror to you, you’d most likely get scared by your own reflection. That isn’t exactly screaming sex appeal.

“I can try.”, you answer and try to lift a leg while maintaining your balance.

Seeing that it won’t end well, Arthur shakes his head.

“Gimme a second.”, he protests, followed by shuffling.

You can’t see what he’s doing, but suddenly he has switched positions and has one arm wrapped around your torso.

“Hold onto me.”, he says close to your ear.

Without having even come close to the hot bath water, you’re already beginning to heat up. His breath caresses the side of your face and leaves goosebumps behind. Following his request, you snake a stiff arm around his neck. Then he dips down, taking ahold of your legs with his free arm and hoisting you up in one fluid motion.

Carefully he hovers you above the tub and slowly brings your feet down. The moment your toes touch the water, you let out a sharp hiss. It burns like hell against your frozen skin and he immediately lifts you up again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just hot.”, you explain, your voice still incredibly hoarse.

It hurts to speak, which isn’t exactly ideal considering you’d love nothing more than to throw around curses at the world. You want to curse out Desmond Blythe for calling you a whore, the racist staff member for pulling out a second gun and Josiah for not organizing a fucking escape boat. Most importantly, you want to curse out Francis for still not having shown up.

“I’ll try ‘n put you down again, okay?”, Arthur speaks up, ripping you out of your thoughts.

“Okay.”

Again, he lowers you slowly. Another pained noise leaves your lips, but you hastily shake your head when he tries to get you out of range again. Understanding, he nods and keeps you like this to give you a chance to get used to the sudden change of temperature.

“Let’s do some more now.”, he warns before continuing. “You’re doin’ just fine.”

He talks you through the entire process, muttering a ‘You’re good’ and a ‘That’s it’ every now and then, which results in your mind wandering to the most inappropriate of places. At this point, you’re trembling less from the cold Grand Korrigan and more so from his low drawl. Once you’re laying comfortably in the tub, he let’s go of you entirely.

As he rounds the thing to walk back to the door, your hand shoots forward to grab his. His entire body stiffens. You can’t explain your actions, having no idea what possessed you to hold onto him this boldly. In all honesty, you hate the thought of sitting alone in this foreign room and waiting for the heat to drive away the pain.

“Please don’t go.”, you say and your voice is barely a whisper at this point.

Squeezing your hand, he drags a stool to the edge of the tub and sits down on it.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of you is letting go of the other as the fire crackles softly in the background. Water laps at your collarbone, its warmth seeping into the very marrow of your bones. A layer of bubbles stretches over the surface, covering your bare body, not that it would have been necessary. Arthur seems nigh frightened to catch a glimpse of you.

Now with the fog in your mind all cleared up and your heart not thudding in a desperate attempt to outrun death, you can think clearer. You imagine yourself floating in the river, flailing and choking on factory oil and catching all sort of diseases. You’d be surprised if your lungs are still healthy after sucking in gallons of the grime and slime.

“Thanks for saving me.”, you break the silence.

Words could never dare come close to the immense gratitude swelling in your chest. Getting shot at and beaten has left its marks on your soul, but drowning is truly a gruesome way to go. The pressure that threatened to tear your flesh apart is edged into your being forever. You’re convinced that the sound of splashing water is going to haunt you for a very long time from now on.

“Don’t. We’re even now.”, he speaks, brushing over your knuckles with his thumb.

“Are you seriously keeping score?”, you ask in sheer disbelief and search for his gaze, which still remains locked away from you.

You stare at his chin, noting the speck of scar tissue on it. His beard usually does a good job of covering it, but you’ve noticed it before after a fresh trim. He doesn’t reply and a grim shadow is cast over his face from what you can make out in this angle. Leaning back, you watch the water slosh uncomfortably close to your face and you adjust your position.

“Well, who’s in the lead?”, you meekly ask, uncertain where the need to cheer him up comes from.

Arthur huffs out a laugh.

“Wouldn’t you want to know? If I tell you, you might throw yourself in front of a gun again.”

“I don’t do it to spite you, you know.”, you counter and spot one of his brows rising.

“You sure ‘bout that? Seems like you do nothin’ that isn’t out of spite.”, he explains and you ponder over his words.

Granted, spite has become part of your nature by now. You’re a liar if you claim that you don’t enjoy watching him squirm whenever you push his buttons. If he’d tell you to jump, you’d probably crouch down. But your actions as a whole stem from something else entirely. They’re driven by a homesickness so merciless that it’s stifling.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Arthur.”, you confess, clueless to where this is suddenly coming from.

You guess that the weight of the Grand Korrigan has deepened the cracks in your resolve to power through this mess alone. What seemed to have been a simple plan has turned into a complicated whirlwind of questioning your own morals and mortality. The lines of how far you’re willing to go have long been crossed.

Now you’re standing on your hill on which you’re not just ready to die on, but to kill as well.

“I’ve been trying to make a name for myself, but not like you think. It’s not like Dutch and his need to be this hero in one of his storybooks, you know?”, you continue and he listens. “I’m just trying to make a trail for Francis to follow. I thought that if I become somewhat famous, he’d find me.”

“I see.”, he murmurs, but otherwise doesn’t question the logic in your plan.

Surely it must sound absolutely insane to him. To him, there must have been million other ways to contact your friend, but that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You could have written a book or invented something great. With your knowledge of the 21st century, you could have done literally anything, yet you chose the most damning path of all.

“But I’m at a loss. Oh, Arthur, I can’t believe what I’ve done to myself.” Silent tears streak your cheeks. “Am I bad person?”

You must be after all this blood-shed and the worst part is, you wouldn’t change a thing. You’d stab and shoot all those men all over again if it meant you’d safe Arthur and Sadie. For a lot of the gang members, you’d even murder ten more.

“If you’re a bad person then I should seriously start fearin’ for my soul.”, Arthur replies with a humorless chuckle.

“But I am, aren’t I?”, you press, desperate for a proper answer.

Expecting decent judgement from a criminal like him is surely a result of your own contorted morals. Compared to his sins yours pale. Of course, you’re a good person next to him. Looking up, you realize that he’s been staring at you this entire time and now he’s meeting your gaze unflinching.

The fire casts long, flickering shadows over his face and his eyes sparkle from the orange light. He’s absolutely devastating right now, the way he pins you in place and suddenly you become painfully aware of your naked body and the fact that a few bubbles are the only thing separating it from his curiosity.

“You’re the finest woman I know.”, he says, voice hard from conviction.

His name leaves your lips as a shaky breath as you process the severity of his words. Not even in your wildest dreams could have imagined him say anything like that to you, let alone feel that way.

“Don’t you lie to me right now.”, you hiss, clutching his hand closer to yourself and pulling him along with it, leaving his palm rest right where your chest begins.

Arthur lets you drag him along without resistance and without breaking eye contact. You don’t think any of you have even blinked yet out of fear to disrupt the moment.

“I’m not.”

Believing him, you let out a long sigh and reach up with your wet hand to hold his cheek. His skin feels surprisingly smooth against your fingers that have become wrinkled from being soaked for so long. Some soap bubbles follow along, running down his jaw and throat and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

His eyes flutter shut for a very brief moment as he leans into your palm and basking in the touch. Satisfaction fills you at the sight and the knowledge that he craves your body at least a little bit as much as you crave his.

“Then what is wrong with me? Why aren’t you letting this happen?”, you question, fixing him with an expression made out of steel.

You’re scared that he might pull out the usual excuses.

Oh, it’s not you, it’s me.

I got my heart broken a bazillion years ago and now I can’t love anymore.

“I just ain’t your man and I can’t ever be your man.”

When you bring his face even closer to yours, he doesn’t fight it but simply lets it happen. His words are devoid of all meaning and candour as he allows you to handle him to your liking. It only takes the slightest of tilts to close the gap between your lips. Your breaths mingle into one until you’re inhaling the air from his lungs and sending it right back into him with a part of your own soul.

“Do you not want me?”, you whisper and feel a shudder run through him.

“It’s not whether I do or don’t-“

“Do you not want me?”, you press with more purpose this time.

“Yes!”, he shouts into the loaded quiet of the room. “I want you so bad ‘n it kills me. I’m dying just thinkin’ about you.”

“Then what’s holding you back?”

As you voice the question, your lips brush ever so slightly over his and his head jerks forward in an attempt to capture them. You’re already out of his reach by then and only tasting the after-shock of his desire to claim and devour. It pleases you to pull the strings and watching him unravel without inhibitions.

After your confidence has taken such a blow from his rejection at Jack’s party, you’re reveling in watching him fall apart into pieces by your own doing.

“I’m tryin’ to be good. I’m tryin’ to do right be you. It ain’t fair to keep you here when you deserve so much better.”

“Oh, Arthur.”

Whatever it is in that sentence, it snaps him right back into reality. You feel him pull back like a mighty wave and it takes all your willpower not to beg him to come back. You don’t know whether it had been your tone or his name alone, but he’s building his walls back up. One glance at the clock and you know that it’s time to leave.

“We gotta go.” He scrutinizes you. “I wouldn’t push you like this if it weren’t necessary, but people will be searchin’ the city for us.”

“I know.”, you say through gritted teeth.

Humiliation burns beneath your skin, replacing the desire that has been all consuming and overpowering just a few seconds before. Suddenly, you feel like an absolute moron for toying with the man for so long instead of simply seizing the chance to take the step towards him. You could have met his lips halfway, yet you were busy acting foolish.

Like a glutton at a banquet, you had filled your hunger with his pining, relishing in the fact that a man like him could fold under your command. When Arthur helps you out of the bathtub, there is nothing tender or intimate about it. Of course, he’s handling you with the utmost care, but his touch his shallow.

It lacks the depth and heat from before, now only meant to get the job done as soon as possible. Thankfully your clothes have had enough time to dry by the fire and when you slip back into them, they don’t cling to your skin. The man behind the counter bids you farewell and voices his hope of possibly seeing you again.

“My horse is just down this road.”, Arthur tells you, the words leaving him clipped as if he didn’t lay his heart out to you only a few minutes ago.

Your naked feet slap over the cobblestone as you hurry after him, heart racing at the prospect of getting caught by the guards on the ferry. Judging by how much time has passed, they should have docked the boat by now and are on their way to the local police office.

Cold sweat breaks out on your forehead, leaving you feeling sticky and filthy despite your skin still smelling of sweet soap. Suddenly, you feel silly for dawdling by entertaining your feelings that don’t matter anyways in the grander schemes of things. After all, what could you have possibly gained from Arthur’s confession?

As if you aren’t making it difficult enough by befriending the other gang members. Now you’ve gone and opened a can of worms that should have been left alone. There is no future for the outlaw and you. This little romance of yours will inevitably end by your leave to the future, or in your case, the presence.

You’ll forget about him over time when you stumble upon the next person to fall for or he’s going to leave you in shambles. It was naïve of you to believe that you could get out of this unscathed. Once Francis finds you, you’ll be forced to break both your hearts. Arthur is smart of avoiding this and you, for withholding his affections and locking you out.

Oh, but who are you kidding? How long are you going to feed that hope of yours? He has sent out two letters by now and Francis hasn’t replied to either of them. He has all the means to allow him to arrive five seconds from now. Hell, he could have shown up yesterday or the day before, but he didn’t.

He hasn’t appeared once and you’re still stuck with the sins weighing down your soul. As you run past closed stored and dark windows, you realize that you won’t ever leave and it triggers the strangest thing inside you: relief.

A hysterical laugh bubbles inside your throat, forcing its way out and you clasp a hand over your mouth. Arthur stops dead in his tracks to turn around and look at you. You meet his eyes with an enthusiastic gleam in your own.

“What’s wrong?”, he asks in bewilderment.

“Nothing.”, you declare through chuckles. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Then what are we waitin’ for?”

“Wait!”, you blurt out and dart forward to get ahold of his hand.

He turns to you once more and glances urgently over his shoulder. Probably to either check if anyone over there has recognized you or perhaps because his horse is right around the corner. A million thoughts race through your mind and all of them are holding his face in it.

There’s no way that you will be able to return to society and with Francis having either left you or being unable to track you down for some reason, you won’t have to worry about it. Not letting go of the hand that is tightly holding yours, you beam at Arthur.

“I have to tell you something.”, you say.

I want you too. Arthur, I want you so much that I can’t even sleep at night. I don’t care that you’re not a good man. I want you as you are and I could kick myself for not saying this sooner. Francis won’t come to pick me up and at this point, I don’t even think I want him to. I belong here with you and the others and oh my God, I belong with you.

None of that manages to leave your lips.

“Looking for some company?”, a sultry voice from the shadows speaks.

A woman steps out of them, wearing clothes as revealing as yours, though more worn in every way. The skirt hugging her legs is thin, allowing the light of the street lanterns to shine through and illuminate the outlines of her body. Her blouse is tattered and unbuttoned so far that it’s a wonder that the peaks of her breasts aren’t popping out. Brown, messy locks are framing her scarred face.

Edith Downes gapes at you and you stare right back.

Two sides of the same coin, in a way.

Two women, ruined by the same man for vastly different reasons.

The sight is too much for your tormented heart. Having caught her at her lowest, the corners of your eyes well up with tears and she flinches away from your pity. Sparks fly in her face as she soaks up the scene before her. It must look horrible the way you cling to the man who killed her husband, in nothing but your flimsy little undergarments.

Suddenly, the tables have turned and she’s the one to pity you. You want to open your mouth and explain yourself. You want to defend Arthur’s honor and yours, telling her that he saved your life back in the river, that you would have died a thousand times over without him.

“Mrs. Downes?”, Arthur asks and takes a step forward.

She reels back, features contorted with anger and hatred that she directs at the both of you. You might have thrown yourself over her dying husband to protect him, but now you’re fraternizing with the enemy.

I’m a good person, you want to yell at her.

“Officer! Help!”, she shrieks and you jerk awake. “Officer, they’re robbing me!”

“No, we aren’t-“, you rush as defense, but Arthur is already dragging you away.

Heavy footsteps thunder right after you as you sprint and wince at every pebble and glass shard that digs into your heels. After only a few seconds, your feet are scrubbed raw and hurting as if you dipped them into boiling oil. Your eyes are burning and you fully rely on the outlaw to get you out of this.

Allowing him to pull you through the maze of alleys, you find yourself in a dark nook between two doors. He pushes you into the wall and shields you with his large body. If the lawmen decide to shoot, only he will end up hit and you squirm to break free from the stifling cage.

Arthur hisses something in your ear, most likely an order for you to keep still. Burying your face into his broad chest, you silently sob into it, muffling it just about enough to avoid drawing attention. The men that have been pursuing you sprint down the alleyway you’re hiding in and for a terrifying moment, you’re convinced they will find you.

But they dash right past you, not even glancing in your direction and you allow yourself to relax after the drumming of their boots fades away. The two of you remain in this position a while longer and you might have relished the proximity, if it wasn’t for Edith’s face flashing before your inner eye.

“I’m so sorry.”, Arthur mutters and you shove him away from you.

“You dare apologize to me? You ruined her life!” You pull at the collar of your chemise in order to catch a breath, even though it’s far away from your throat.

A shadow is cast over his grim features.

“What choice did I have?”

By now it feels like you’ve had this exact same argument a hundred times before.

“You had the choice to take my money. I offered it to you every single time, but you insisted-“

“That wasn’t your debt to settle.”, he interrupts you and you scoff sharply.

“What’s wrong with you?”, you snap with a shrill voice, uncaring to the possibility of alarming the police officers of your location. “You’re such a…”

His nostrils flare and he brings his face close to yours. It’s like the bath house all over again, but this time the air is loaded with resentment. It enters your body and poisons you from the inside, corrupting the feelings and dreams you entertained not too long ago.

“A what? C’mon say it. Say it to my face.”, he challenges, but your mouth refuses to cooperate. “Admit, you only like me sometimes. You complain about me, but you only want me when you’re drunk or think I’m tame.”

“Excuse me?”, you gasp, appalled at the mere suggestion.

“Ya heard me. You like the idea of me.”

“That’s not true!”, you argue and he scoffs bitterly.

The sound leaves a sour taste on your tongue.

“It ain’t?”, he spits and you bite down on the inside of your cheeks so fiercely that copper begins to flood your mouth.

“Do you think I want to love you?”, you blurt out, catching the both of you completely off-guard with your bold confession. “Do you think I enjoy falling for a murderer? You think I like craving the attention of a man like you?”

“Then why do you?”, he drawls and narrows his eyes.

“Because I believed you were better than this. I thought you’re able to change, because I’ve seen the good you’re capable of doing. You’re not the man that people make you out to be. Not entirely.”

Now that the cat is out of the bag, you’re able to breathe freely again. Not only have you unloaded the truth of Francis’ real role and the reason you’re doing Dutch’s bidding so vigorously, but your feelings towards the outlaw are now finally out as well. It has been lying tense on your chest, souring every interaction with him.

This is the brief sensation of flying during a fall. The crash follows shortly after as you stare into Arthur’s face and note the contorted features. He’s done quick work to snuff out the expression of shock and fondness if it had ever even been on there. Emotions were flashing over his face so fast that you barely had the time to register any of them.

Now that your words have sunken in, there’s nothing aside from a sour scowl edged into his hardened lines. He looks more like you just insulted him and spat on his boots instead of confessing your love and believe of his ability to be a good man. Or a decent one at least.

“You’re there to bolster Arthur, of course! It would look odd for a fresh oilman such as him to show up without a beautiful lady on his arm.”, Josiah explains and if your spirits haven’t been low already then they certainly are now.

“But is that really necessary?”, you press.

“Absolutely.”, he insists. Of course, he insists.

“Can’t one of the other women do it? Mary-Beth maybe?”

Dutch’s barking laughter booms through the room and he glances at you with an amused gleam in his eyes.

“My dear, you make it sound like our Arthur is the worst fate to man.”, he points out and you find yourself tempted to agree.

To a lot of people, Arthur Morgan may be the worst thing to strike their lives. In a way, he is exactly that to you as well and struck you he did. You squirm at the prospect of having to stay glued to his hip and bat your eyelashes at him for an entire night.

“I can go. That’s not a question.”, you lie in a desperate attempt at damage control. “I’m just worried that it looks suspicious if we’re that many people.”

“No worries, dear! I’ve handled it. We’re all on the list.”, Josiah answers with a dazzling grin.

Stifling an aggravated sigh, you force a smile onto your own lips and nod. Actually, you wanted to head into the city to send out the letter to Francis and meet up with Charles again, but you’ll be too busy with preparations now. A part of you is relieved that you don’t have to suffer through hours of uncomfortable silence with the outlaw though.

You haven’t spoken all morning and quite frankly, you don’t want to. Last night’s liquor clouded your judgment and washed away all inhibition. Without sense, nor reason to guide you, you had gone on a rampage and blurted out words you’d love nothing more than to take back again.

Some days I feel like you want me.

Jesus Christ, who even says that? Now more than ever do you long for Francis’ mop of red hair to appear from around the corner to whisk you far away from Arthur and all memory of him. Finding yourself in front of the mirror, you stare at the dress that you wore at the mayor’s and can’t help but feel like a lamb being readied for slaughter.

“This doesn’t feel right.”, you mutter to nobody in particular.

Karen, having heard you, nods feverishly.

“You’re absolutely right. This is way too formal.”, she agrees as she examines the fine silk and many laces.

“Isn’t this going to be just another fancy party?”, you ask, confused as to what exactly she meant with her observation.

“No, this is different. No rich man’s gonna boast with this.”, she says and vaguely gestures towards the dress.

Wincing at the harsh words, you furrow your eyebrows. “Wow, thanks. You really got a way with words, huh?”

Karen immediately shoots you an apologetic look and shakes her head so hastily that her blonde curls bounce energetically from side to side. Today, they look more composed than usual and you can’t even smell a sliver of booze on her. If you remember correctly, you saw actual smoke coming out of her coffee cup this morning.

No liquor as replacement or to dull the heat. Just plain coffee. Something warm flutters in your chest at the observation and you can’t help but smile in relief. With how things have been going downhill after all these losses and Jack’s abduction, you’re overjoyed to see your friend do a little bit better again.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I swear. Of course, every man with common sense would show off with you. Hell, I would!”, she exclaims and her praise sounds sincere as it drops from her mouth. “But we gotta fix some things for this occasion.”

With that, she turns to you, blocking your reflection in the mirror and you watch her hands get to work. They practically fly over the laces, tying some knots here and loosening others over there. It’s impossible to tell what exactly she’s changing, but it becomes very much clear when she deepens your cleavage.

Shrieking in surprise, you clasp both arms protectively over your chest and gawk at her like a Victorian lady that just got her wrist or ankle exposed.

“What the fuck are you doing?”, you demand and peek over her shoulder to catch a glimpse at the mirror.

But this isn’t how these things work, you realize and mentally chastise yourself. Her body is still blocking the view.

“What? I’m just showing off your assets and my God, do you have ‘em.”, she answers with a low whistle, making heat shoot up into your face.

Granted, the compliment bolsters your confidence though. With Karen’s eyes fixed on the newly exposed skin, you can’t help but feel a bit better about yourself. Relaxing again, you drop your arms down to your sides to let her finish the job.

“Jesus, I feel like you’re going to eat me up.”, you comment when you notice that she keeps getting eyefuls of you.

“Can’t blame a girl for admirin’ her work, can you now?”, she coos and finally steps aside to reveal the end result.

The dress has transformed entirely, turning from high society to the deeper intricacies of said society. The corset underneath the smooth silk has been adjusted to push up your breasts more, which is definitely the first thing that people are going to notice with how low the cleavage is.

Karen managed to fold the lace hem in a way to still show off its complex pattern, but to avoid drawing attention off your skin. Your collarbone is visible as well and the fabric is drooping to the sides, allowing a clear view to a big chunk of your shoulders. You have no idea how on earth she was able to change the fabric in such an extreme way without tearing it apart in some places.

“I was thinkin’ of some accessoires.”, she murmurs as she fishes out a necklace from a box.

Standing behind you, she carefully places it around your neck and closes it up without catching your skin or a small rogue hair strand in between. Examining the piece, you marvel at the thin metal that’s cascading down your collarbone and the fat gem dangling in the middle. It gleams and glitters as the sun rays hit it through the shattered windows.

It’s lying comfortably at the top of your chest and if the tight corset and its push-up magic won’t be doing the trick, then this stone definitely will. Every person and their grandma is going to stare at your tits tonight.

“Isn’t this too much?”, you wonder, feeling suddenly a tad insecure about all the potential attention you’re going to inevitably draw to yourself.

“This is just right!”, she confidently argues. The corners of her mouth drop when she spots your sour expression. “What’s wrong?”

A sigh escapes you. It’s good that you’ve built so much trust with her and the other women. Having to deal with these doubts all by yourself would have killed you.

“I don’t think I’m the right person for this job.”, you admit.

Inspecting your own reflection, it’s impossible to drive away the gnawing suspicion that literally anyone would have been a better choice. This dress is lost on you with your callouses and hardened mien. The shape of your body is too clunky, lacking the curves for the art of seduction. No amount of cleavage is ever going to balance all of this out.

“What on earth has gotten into you?”, Karen drawls and places both hands on her hips like a scolding mother. “You’re the one to always strut about the place ‘n telling the men what’s what! Where’s all of this comin’ from all of a sudden?”

“I strut?”

She ignores your question. “You’re a sight! My Lord, any person with two workin’ eyes and a right mind is going to trip over their own feet to get to you!”

“I don’t know-“ She instantly shushes you sharply.

“Don’t make me mad now. I hate nothin’ more than when a stunning woman like you fishes for compliments.”

Offended at the accusation, you let out a hissed gasp.

“I am not fishing!”, you loudly protest and she gestures hastily.

“Then what’s wrong with you?”, she shouts back and Tilly pops her head around the corner.

“Do you two mind telling me what all this noise is for?”, she asks, frowning at the two of you.

Your small argument may have interrupted her with something. Before you can jump to your defense, Karen beats you to it and explains the situation. Once she’s all finished, Tilly shakes her head and grants you a disapproving glare.

“You’re beautiful.”, she says, sincerity swimming in her voice with a hint of frustration. “It’s unfair, really.”

The groan forcing its way out of your throat turns out harsher than expected.

“You two are unbelievable.”, you grumble under your breath.

“So are you and now sit still. We ain’t done yet.”, Karen snaps, having run out of patience for your self-pity.

It steals an amused smirk from you that you’re trying to hide beneath the palm of your hand, but she’s quick to swat it out of the way to apply lipstick of an alarmingly red color. By the time she’s all finished, Mary-Beth has joined, having caught wind of Karen’s noisy complaints. Her and Tilly are sitting patiently on the sidelines, throwing in some suggestions and corrections here and there.

For the second time today, you thoroughly examine yourself in the grimy, long mirror. The make-up is definitely bolder than last time, meant to draw attention. It elevates your eyes and the color of your irises, making them look more vibrant amongst the long lashes and colored lids. Gazing at your own face, you almost pick up a sense of seduction.

The glossy, redness on your lips doesn’t look as striking as you thought it would when you saw the tub for the first time. It blends in perfectly with your complexion, complimenting the swing of your mouth instead of screaming at you. As much as your stubborn head refuses to admit it, you look quite attractive.

“So?”, Karen asks from behind you and you try your utmost to stifle the delighted grin on your face.

“It’s all right, I guess.”, you reluctantly bite out and earn a slam across your shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!”, she snaps, though her voice lacks all bite.

“Are you ladies done now?”, someone far behind you calls out into the house and your whirl around on your feet.

You’re wearing heels again. They’re still far from stilettos, but the Shady Belle floor makes it impossible to walk in pretty much any shoe or boot. Javier stands in the doorframe, stopping dead in his tracks when his gaze drops on you. Even from this distance, you notice the way his eyes briefly flicker downwards.

Then his face is firmly set on yours. Too straining for your taste. It’s obvious that he’s struggling not to stare inappropriately. With him it doesn’t bother you too much, but imagining some stranger gawk at you like a strip of meat, leaves you almost nauseous.

“She’ll be out in a second.”, Mary-Beth tells him when you fail to speak and he quickly vanishes.

Oblivious to your inner turmoil, they cackle in triumph.

“We told you so!”, Tilly exclaims and Karen nudges your arm.

---

Molly let you borrow one of her nicer coats, which you are only too grateful for as you arrive at the docks and step out of the stagecoach. Josiah stays seated and drives off to meet Arthur at the tailor. Now it’s just Javier, Herr Strauss and you and you can tell that the latter of the two isn’t quite fond of you.

He must have found out that you intervened with Thomas Downes and his debt, meddling with his business that he claims to be perfectly okay since it technically isn’t illegal work. Well, the sourness wafting from him over to you is only mutual, given that you’re holding a grudge after he sent Arthur to ‘deal’ with a sick man.

And with the family afterwards! Knowing that there’s no use to argue about what’s right and what isn’t, you mainly focus on avoiding him around camp, lest you blow up on the elderly man. Something tells you he feels the same way about you. Leaned against the railing, you watch the many boats and ships sway in the waves.

Javier is smoking a cigarette next to you and when he holds one out to you, you’re too nervous to decline. Clutching onto it like a lifeline, you inhale slowly and watch the cloud leave through your mouth. It drapes over your vision like a filter and you listen to the steady ripples of the waves and rustling of dock workers.

“We’ll be in the middle of the river then?”, you ask, not realizing at first that you voiced your thought out loud.

“Sounds like it.”, Javier answers and follows your gaze.

“How does Josiah expect us to run if something goes wrong?”

A heavy silence stretches on.

“No clue.”, he admits. “I guess, we just gotta be smooth about it, no?”

“I guess.”, you murmur.

“Hey, cheer up! When have any of our jobs gone that wrong?”

When you shoot him a look of discontent, his smile drops and his shoulders slump down. None of you utter a single word afterwards, even though you’d welcome the distraction. Still, you won’t go out of your way to strike up a conversation with Herr Strauss, knowing it will aggravate you only more.

After what feels like eternity, you finally hear the rattling of wheels and you glance over your shoulder back at the street. A stagecoach comes to a halt. The same one you arrived in and you watch two men march up to where you’re standing. Josiah’s voice booms enthusiastically over the docks.

“Ah! Hello there!”, he greets you, earning some curious looks from the other people around. “Champagne is on dear Arthur tonight!”

That’s when you notice him. He’s wearing a fine suit, even nicer than the tuxedo that he wore at the mayor’s party. It rests comfortably on his shoulders this time, instead of stretching over his arms and chest. His hair has been washed and combed back, the pomade glistening in the sun. When your eyes land on his missing beard, you gasp.

“Oh no!”, you blurt out and immediately regret your lack of restraint.

Arthur squirms uncomfortably under your reaction and guilt gnaws at you.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”, you quickly explain, but notice that words won’t fix the damage.

“It’s fine.”, he grumbles and waves it off.

Before you can continue uttering one apology after another, Josiah is ushering you all towards the ferry, reminding you of your roles tonight. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you hook your arm with Arthur’s and follow the others. After making it through security, you peel off Molly’s coat and hand it over to one of the staff members.

Javier and Herr Strauss have left already and now it’s only Josiah and Arthur waiting on you. The former insisted to enter with you two, to make sure that you’re being seen with him. It sounds like these circles are his terrain. So much that it seems like he’s a regular amongst these people.

When you make it back to the men, you pinch and pull at your dress in a poor attempt to adjust it. Perhaps you could have tried to sneak Karen in to help you fix the dress whenever it calls for it. How suspicious could two women in a trench coat possibly be after all? Joining Arthur’s side again, you can’t help but notice his gaze.

If you had squirmed with Javier, then you’re positively dying under his stare. His eyes aren’t lingering on any places for too long, just taking in your appearance in its entirety before breaking away. Vicious disappointment swells in your chest and you look down on yourself with a frown. For someone who dreaded this role so much, you had kind of hoped for more from him.

You feel ridiculous in this attire now. The dress isn’t hugging your body the way it ought to and your make-up is too thick and clumsy. Insecurity poisons your mind and you catch yourself shrinking into yourself. Then you huff in disbelief, wondering when you started measuring your worth based on what a man (a criminal!) thought of you.

You might not be a Mary Linton with her good manners and background, but you don’t have to be. Goddammit, you didn’t survive hypothermia, a bullet wound and Colm O’Driscoll to crumble under the pressure of acting. Straightening your back, you fix your frown and fall into a confident walk or a strut, as Karen called it.

Josiah leaves you at the bar to go mingle with the crowd, most likely to greet some people here and there. Arthur orders a round of drinks for you and you swiftly stop the bartender before he can get to work.

“Can you make it a sherry for me please?”, you ask him and he nods.

“Developed a taste for the finer things in life, I see?”, Arthur remarks and you shrug.

“Maybe.”

It doesn’t take long at all until the man behind the counter brings you your order and you take a sip. A familiar sweetness coats your tongue and you wait a second longer before you swallow.

“I sent the letter out for you this mornin’.”, Arthur tells you, keeping his gaze set in front of him.

Is it your fight from last night that makes him refuse to look at you? Is he so scared to leave you in the believe that there’s even a sliver of a possibility that he might want you? Shame burns in your face and you take a second, generous and hastier sip from your glass. You really did make a fool of yourself yesterday.

“Thanks.”, you curtly murmur.

With tension pulled taut between the two of you, it’s near impossible to act as his date tonight. Josiah told you to smile and laugh and keep up the contact, but you can’t bring your muscles to heed your command. Holding him by his arm alone had been a great effort and now you’re just relieved at the space separating you two.

“I’m sorry about my reaction earlier. You don’t look bad. I just had no idea that you had anything under that beard of yours.”, you break the silence for some much necessary damage control.

Much to your surprise, Arthur huffs out a laugh. A genuine one.

“No need to apologize. I don’t like it much either.”, he mutters into his glass and you tilt your head to the side.

“But I must say that you cleaned up nice, Mr. Callahan.”, you say and nudge his shoulder.

When he finally looks at you, truly looks and not briefly sweeping his gaze over your body, your breath gets caught in your throat. Shit, you’re doing it again. Pinning your mood based on how he’s treating you. It’s inevitable. His eyes trail from your face down to the necklace and landing on your chest.

It kills you that you’ve been anticipating it, wondering whether he’ll be indifferent like he was with the French woman at the saloon or if you’ll find more in his expression. It’s been so difficult to recreate the situation back in the forest after you burned the tobacco. Perhaps you ought to lift your dress a little and flaunt your ankles at him.

Or Jack’s party, but you can’t trust that memory fully. Your intoxicated mind could have easily conjured up the illusion of mutual desire. After all, he must have rejected you for a reason back then. Gauging his reaction like a hawk right now, you desperately search for any hints on his face.

Given that it’s free from facial hair or the cowboy hat he likes to use as armor for his emotions, you should be able to read him without a problem. His lips are pressed together and his expression is pure steel. Whether that’s good or bad, remains a mystery, because he looks away again. Too fast for you to continue interpreting his expression.

“You look nice too.”, he says and that’s all you’re getting.

Well, shit. Okay. This is absolutely fine. With your mood at an all time low now, you turn to harder liquor and suck on some fine brandy. You tell yourself that you’re only offended on Karen’s behalf. She has worked her ass off to make you look the way you do just to get a clipped ‘nice’.

“I met Charles too. You know, the artist.”, he continues, ripping you out of your thoughts and you groan.

“Seriously?”, you whine, earning a confused look from the man.

“What?”

“I really wanted to go!”, you exclaim and throw your hands up in frustration.

A smile curls at his lips.

“It was quite a sight. Folks weren’t too happy about his work. I never thought I’d have to fight people in an art gallery.”

“You had to fight?”, you blurt out and gawk at him.

“Oh, sure. Turns out our friend has been paintin’ the wrong kind of people. Your drawing is probably someone’s husband.”, he explains and you fall silent as his words sink in.

Finishing your brandy, you thoughtfully stroke your chin.

“Did he get punched in the face?”, you ask and he shakes his head.

“No, he managed to get away just in time.”

Your shoulders slump down in mild disappointment. “Huh. I like him, but he would have deserved it.”

Arthur’s body shakes as he laughs and nods in agreement. The air around you becomes lighter after your conversation or perhaps it’s the buzz of your drinks. Suddenly Josiah appears at your side, startling you and you almost sweep the glasses clean off the counter. With your hands shooting forward, you steady them just in time.

“You two got to start playing the part right. I’m freezing just looking at you!”, he scolds lightheartedly.

“Did you find our friend? Mr. Blythe?”, Arthur asks, ignoring the comment entirely and thankfully steering the topic into a different direction.

“Yes, Desmond just joined a table over yonder.”, Josiahs answers and nods towards the middle.

All these players look the same to you. Same hair, same mustache, same suits. It’s like there’s an unspoken dress code that everyone needs to follow. Cigar smoke hangs in the air, reminding you a lot of the factory district in the city. As you continue searching for your target, you actually to spot someone standing out.

He’s at the table in the middle, just as Josiah said. Now that you found Desmond Blythe, you wonder how you missed him in the first place. He’s the loudest of the lot and sporting a bright red jacket. Smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress, you snake an arm around Arthur’s and melt into him.

His muscles seemingly jerk away and his head snaps in your direction. Bewilderment is edged into his features as if he forgot what you’re supposed to do here in the first place. Granted, it did almost feel like you just visited this place to have some drinks. Almost. You give his side a good pinch and he jumps.

“What the hell?”, he hisses after shoving your hand away.

“Get a grip, Mr. Callahan.”, you retort and smack your hand against his back as a reminder to straighten it.

Reaching up, you place a finger beneath his chin, feeling his heat even through the glove and you give it a light push. Afterwards, you adjust his shoulders, pushing them back to make it look like he’s puffing out his chest. Arthur endures the treatment in complete silence and once you’re done, you smile.

“There. Now you look like the part.”, you declare, satisfaction oozing in your voice. “Now make sure to act like it. That means no shuffling and mumbling.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

Before he could ask any further questions, you practically drag him towards the table. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that people’s gazes are lingering on the two of you, noting Arthur’s new face and your striking attire. You wish there’d be a mirror somewhere nearby for you to check how the two of you look like together. Do you make an attractive pair? You can only imagine.

“Gentlemen! Arthur Callahan.”, Arthur calls out in a clear voice, so unlike the way he normally sounds. It’s uncanny.

Everyone at the table reacts at once, turning their heads and sizing him up. Some of them are already shrinking into their seats, overwhelmed by the energy. You regard Desmond and realize with much astonishment, that he only has eyes for you. Before you could lose yourself in the pressure, you manage a sly smile. Or you hope you do.

“Sorry, I’m late. I had some, uh, unfinished business at the bar.”, the outlaw continues as he lowers himself onto the free chair.

“Desmond Blythe.”, the other man replies and raises his glass to you as a greeting. “Good evening, Miss.”

With his eyes piercing you, you frantically try to figure out what to do next. Remaining rooted behind that chair feels too silly and stupid, but it’s not like you can just walk away or anything! Glancing at one of the other tables, you spot a woman similarly dressed to you. She’s nestled comfortable on a man’s lap and observing the game from there.

Liking the idea, you will your legs to move. Placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, you drag it over his back as you round his chair. Slowly you make yourself comfortable on his lap and tell yourself that the heat of it won’t affect you too much. What a lie. You already feel dizzy from it. He stiffens beneath, almost as if his body is stuttering.

This close, you detect a hint of soap and cologne. All of a sudden, you’re growing a little bit fonder to the clean shave that Josiah had forced upon him. You rest a hand on his chest, fidgeting with the tie and the buttons of his shirt underneath. It’s supposed to be the hands-on contact that Josiah keeps fussing about and gives you something to busy your hands with.

Arthur clears his throat and you get a good look at his face. The hint of a flush spreads over his skin, but it might as well also be the aftermath of a sunburn. Not wanting to feed your pride with false interpretations, you settle for the second explanation. Arthur gathers his bearing quickly, filling the silence with his ‘Mr. Callahan-voice’.

You’re thankful that he doesn’t normally sound like that. It’s obnoxious and leaves your ears ringing. You watch the game continue, tuning out the conversation. When you notice Herr Strauss sitting on one of the arm chairs right behind Desmond, you rest a bit easier. You’ve been wondering how Josiah had planned to have Arthur win.

He’s not a poor poker player per se, but still.

“Mr. Blythe wins with three queens.”, the dealer declares and you inspect the table.

None of the other players have any chips in front of them and now, way faster than you anticipated, it is just him and Arthur.

“You should have brought your second wallet, Arthur.”, you tease, earning pleased laughter from the man across.

“You should see me on a good day, my lady!”, Desmond proudly jumps in.

It’s impossible to pay attention to their words once the table clears. You’re fully focused on the cards in front of you, not daring to glimpse at Arthur’s hand out of fear to give it away based on your expression. Instead, you silently watch the dealer shuffle.

“Shit!”, Desmond barks and you flinch.

Arthur’s hand finds your waist, giving it a squeeze as he gathers the chips. With wide eyes you realize that he won and you join in on his laughter. You hadn’t even notice him peeking at Herr Strauss for any hints, so it’s safe to assume he won entirely on his own accord. Overpowered by a sense of victory, you grab his chin and press your lips against his cheek.

“You won!”, you squeal in delight after leaving a red lipstick stain on his face.

Surely, he must know it’s on there, yet he makes no effort of wiping it away. Instead, he beams at you.

“Are you done?”, Arthur then asks, directed at Desmond. A hidden taunt swims in his question.

“Done?”

“Bust. Or you got somethin’ else to play with?”

“Meaning?”, Desmond presses, reluctance gleaming in his eyes and you know that if you don’t act now, you’ll lose him.

“We were told there’d be some big boys on this boat, Sir.”, you coo and throw a meaningful glance at Arthur. He catches on immediately.

“Right.”, he agrees. “Maybe that’s not you, no offense.”

Just as the two of you go to theatrically take you leave, Desmond’s voice cuts across the table like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Sit your hillbilly as down.”, he growls, which is just as ridiculous as it sounds.

Sparks fly between him and the outlaw and you can tell that he doesn’t like the idea of letting this slight slide.

“Why?”, he drawls, pulling you close to him.

The gesture oozes with certainty, like you fully and truly belong with him. It sends a jolt through your body, being handled by his hands with such confidence and it pools into a delicious ache at your core. He’s fully submerged into the role now. Mr. Arthur Callahan.

“I got a watch.”, Desmond argues.

“How wonderful for you.”, Arthur scoffs and you turn your head away to mask the grin.

“An expensive one. Real fine. Swiss. A Reutlinger no less.” It’s as if he’s convinced that if he adds enough adjectives, it’s going to rise in worth. “It’s in the safe upstairs. It’s worth more than you or your lady.”

The way he drags out the last word leaves your blood boiling. Anger coats your tongue like acid and for a brief moment, your features derail. Thankfully Desmond’s attention is on Arthur instead of you, otherwise he might have caught onto your glare. Somehow you manage to muster up the necessary patience to not hurl the chair at that bastard.

Acting as the embodiment of tranquility, you resume your previous position in Arthur’s lap. His presence grounds you and you dig your nails into his arm. As always, he takes it all in, catching your wrath without as much as flinching. At the blink of an eye, the stakes are higher than ever as Desmond goes all in.

The dealer hasn’t revealed a single card yet and there’s not one signal from Herr Strauss. Sweat forms on the back of your neck as you frantically try to figure out how to navigate through this situation. Given that it’s entirely out of your hands, you shouldn’t be fretting so much over it. You trust the outlaw’s judgment above all else.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Callahan.”, the dealer suddenly chimes in, surprising you with his forwardness. “Everyone is the author of their own fortune.”

Something shifts inside Arthur. It’s impossible to put your finger on what, but his eyes begin to twinkle with certainty. Without taking another look at his cards, he shoves the neatly piled up coins into the middle of the table. He reveals his hand: a pair of kings.

Desmond mimics the action, showing off a pair of aces. You don’t want to start doubting your companion and nitpick his way of playing, but you’re pretty sure that aces are better. Your heart is beating all the way up to your throat as the row of cards is being turned over. At the final one, you’re holding your breath and lean forward in anticipation.

Staring at the revealed set, you feverishly try to figure out what this combination means, but it must be something good. Arthur lets out a noise of triumph that cuts straight into your ear and leaves your head throbbing.

“Mr. Callahan wins with an ace-high diamond flush.”, the dealer declares and you part your lips, letting your jaw drop.

His words sound like music to your ears and you turn to Arthur to revel in the high. His entire face is beaming and he’s sporting a grin so wide that you’re sure his cheeks must be cramping by now. Throwing both hands around his neck, you pull him close into a hug. Etiquette be damned. You just won yourself a small fortune! Including a watch with many, many adjectives.

“Goddamn you…”, Desmond grumbles, clenching his hand into a fist.

A vein is visible on his forehead and judging by his flushed visage, he’s one of the sorest losers in Lemoyne. Quite pleased with himself, as he should be, Arthur adjusts the tie around his neck and you jump off his lap. You immediately miss his hard body against yours, but you soon find yourself not lacking any of it, because he quickly resumes his spot next to you.

His hand is on your back, bordering the lower half by just an inch and you lean into his side. All tensions and quarrels are forgotten when one wins a good game of poker apparently. Another man appears at the table, one of the staff members you realize. You recognize his face from earlier.

“Now, forgive my lack of discretion, but where might I find this watch?”, Arthur asks into the round.

He looks absolutely dashing in his victory glow.

“It’s upstairs! Right this way, Sir.”, the staff member answers and you go to make your leave, when Desmond extends an arm to stop the two of you.

His face has gone from beet red to ghostly pale. Almost sickly even as if he aged several years just from this one loss. What on earth is this watch worth? Then you remember that it comes with loads of cash as well and you begin to understand his misery a bit better. But it raises the question whether you all even have the space to carry all that money.

“What? Care to play a third round?”, Arthur boasts, clearly finding delight in provoking the man.

You guess you can see the fun in kicking him while he’s down.

“No.”, he bites through gritted teeth and his eyes are entirely fixed on you. “I just wanted to ask if the lady would want to share a drink.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”, the outlaw answers in your stead.

If you weren’t so overjoyed by how well Josiah’s plan is going, you may have gotten angry at him for that. Desmond, clearly still sulking about his loss, scowls even more.

“And what’s it to you? You can buy ten whores like her now.”

The fury from before pours back into you tenfold. Nostrils flaring, you entertain the thought of either slapping him clean across the face or whacking one of the platters that the waiters are carrying around, over the back of his thick skull. Driving your nails into your palm and most likely ripping straight through the delicate fabric of your gloves, you steady your voice.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Blythe, but I am quite certain that you lack the funds for any kind of company right now.”, you drawl as you pin him with a venomous glare. “So, excuse us while we go collect your money. Pardon. Our money. I hope you weren’t too attached to that watch of yours.”

Arthur, finally not being the one on the sharp end of your blade, looks as pleased as a child on Christmas morning. Not giving Desmond the chance to clap back, because you just know that men of his caliber simply must have the final word in any situation, you spin around on your heels and drag Arthur along with you.

He is only too happy to follow and you seem to detect a certain spring to his step as well. Arriving at a double door, the staff member stops dead in his tracks and musters one of the guards. They’re all wearing the same, hideous striped uniform and as you see what he’s looking at, you almost chuckle.

Javier looks uncomfortable in these clothes and upon closer inspection you notice that it’s a few sizes too big on top of that. He’s clutching the gun close to his chest and shoots the other man a lopsided smile.

“I don’t think I remember ever seeing you here.”, the man points out.

“I, uh, just started working the other day.”, Javier awkwardly explains.

Seriously, why was Josiah so adamant to drill you and Arthur about your poor acting? Javier couldn’t fool a child with this performance and yet, the other man merely nods.

“Good.”, he says, still a bit caught off-guard by the ‘new face’. “Then you could escort us upstairs to the office.”

“Of course!”

Together you leave the gambling area and walk up a flight of stairs. Your hills sink into the plush carpet and Arthur extends a hand out to you after noticing you wobbling about the place. The man comments on Arthur’s successful night, not really mentioning anything that requires your ear. Until-

“I can’t believe someone gave a greaser a job.”

Mouth hanging open in sheer shock, you stare at the back of his head, hoping to somehow conjure up a killer migraine with it. You can’t see Javier’s face from this angle.

“We live in strange times.”, Arthur murmurs in response.

“Personally, I wouldn’t trust one with a gun, but fear not. I’ve got my own law giver right here.”

He slides his hand into one of the pockets that are out of your sight and fishes out a gun. It gleams in the warm light of the lamps that are lined up on the walls and Arthur and you exchange knowing glances. He’s going to have to get to this thing somehow. Or perhaps even you. You’ve grown so frustrated with the men here that you’re certain you’d actually enjoy whacking one over the head.

“Very good. I always feel a bit safer knowing that my life is in capable hands.”, you reply and throw Arthur a meaningful look.

“Then you have nothing to worry about, my lady.”

Javier opens a door that leads out onto the deck and you immediately begin to shiver. Ice cold wind bites into your bare skin and you sling both arms around yourself. Perhaps you really should have waited downstairs at the bar. A stinging sensation spreads in your fingers, closely followed by your toes as well, despite the fact that both are covered.

Though it’s only a thin layer of fabric, not exactly meant to keep one warm. Biting down on your tongue, you try to avoid your teeth from clattering too loudly on one another. After pushing your trembling body up even more steps, you finally reach the top and enter an office. The staff member who has been leading you and spewing all sorts of nonsense this entire time, saunters over to a safe.

A series of clicks follows shortly after as he spins the number wheel and you frantically rub both palms over your arms. A sliver of warmth flows gradually back into your veins at that and you let out a long breath.

“It’s quite a cold night, wouldn’t you agree, sir?”, you fill the silence as distraction.

“Oh, indeed! I apologize for the long walk on the deck.”, the man at the safe answers.

There’s another guard standing in the corner. Most likely he’s supposed to stay posted here for the entirety of the night. In one fluid motion, Javier swings the back of his repeater into the guard’s face and he instantly collapses. Blood gushes out of his nose that is standing up into a sickening angle. Then he points the barrel at the man who just unlocked the safe.

“Don’t reach for that gun.”, Arthur threatens, having completely slipped out of his Mr. Callahan role.

With confident and deliberate steps, he marches up to him and quickly pats him down before finally taking ahold of the weapon. The next thing happens in a blur. One moment the man is still standing and in the other, Arthur has shoved him into the wall with full force. Then he turns his full attention to the open safe.

Your eyes detect movement in the corner of your eyes and a warning is dancing on the tip of your tongue as the man pulls out a second gun. Without an ounce of hesitation, you extend both hands out in front of you and dart forward to push the outlaw out of the way. You meet his confused gaze before he notices the revolver that’s aimed at him.

No, not at him. It’s pointing straight at you. Staring into the empty barrel, you brace yourself for the inevitable. One single peng cuts through the air and every cell of your body cramps up in response. Looking down on yourself, you note the lack of blood and entry wounds for that matter. As you raise your head, you realize that Arthur had been faster.

How, you can’t even begin to fathom. The other man had his gun out already after all and Arthur didn’t even take aim yet. You gawk at him. Your head and heart are both racing too much for you to grasp any coherent thoughts. His hand finds your shoulder and he gives you a curt inspection.

“Are you hurt?”, he barks.

“No, he didn’t even get to shoot.”, you answer breathlessly.

“What were you thinking jumpin’ in front of me?”

“Guys!”, Javier snaps.

Body jerking away, you immediately drop down to your knees to pick up all the dollar notes. Some of them fit into your cleavage, but you don’t have any space for the rest. Arthur and Javier pocket the remaining cash, jewelry and at long last, the watch. Without looking back into the office, you follow them outside and rush towards the opposite direction of where you came from earlier.

When a group of guards are sprinting by on the lower deck, you all slow down into a normal walk to avoid suspicion. You very much prefer it this way, since you find yourself back in the poker room in no time. Arthur pulls you close, stealing a bewildered look from you until you remember that you’re not quite done with your acting yet.

It’s only a matter of minutes (or maybe even seconds) until someone stumbles upon the dead body upstairs. Heading straight for the bar where Josiah is, you hastily tap on his shoulder to get his attention, but he’s fully engrossed into an argument with Desmond Blythe.

“At least I have the good manners to keep my mouth shut!”, Josiah exclaims, appalled by whatever Desmond must have said to him before you reached the pair.

Herr Strauss is nearby, immediately sensing that something isn’t right and abandoning his drink. He opens his mouth to no doubt ask what happened, but he doesn’t get the chance to even squeak. One of the large double doors to the side are being swung open and a man in nothing but a union suit barges in.

The upbeat piano music quiets down and people are craning their necks to get a better look at the disruption. Union suit-man is holding the back of his head and points with his free hand at Javier. It’s a daunting gesture, reminding you a lot of a bad omen. As if some deeply buried instinct is kicking in, knowing that you’re about to get caught into a whirlwind of chaos, you tense up.

“It’s him!”, he shouts, loud enough for the people outside to hear.

Javier responds by opening fire. Two guards and union suit-man collapse and the other guests are scrambling to their feet to get out into safety, stumbling and stomping over each other. They’re stampeding towards the doors with such intensity that you can feel the vibrations of it in the floor. Grasping the edge of the bar counter, you brace yourself against the ocean of bodies that threatens to drag you along.

Josiah and Herr Strauss have found cover behind the many pillars lined up on the side and you throw yourself at one of the tipped over poker tables. Arthur is right next to you, holding a repeater and firing shot after shot. Crouching down low, you make yourself as small as possible and kick off your shoes.

You will have to make a run for it soon and you don’t want a pair of heels be the cause of your death. Josiah is yelling something, but it’s impossible to make it out over the sound of gunshots. As you strain your ears to understand him better, your entire body goes rigid. You detect a faint hum in the distance, too far away to fully focus on.

Its presence fills you with naked fear and you clutch the heavy gem hanging around your neck. The coolness of it grounds you and you steel your raw nerves. How is this possible? You weren’t even scared up until now and it’s only because you spotted it in the first place. Fingers wrap around your arm and your gaze snaps up.

“We have to go!”, Arthur urges and drags you up to your feet.

In the corner of your eyes, you watch the others bolt towards one of the doors that leads outside and you follow their lead. Holding up your dress to avoid tripping over the many skirts underneath, you sprint and duck under the many bullets. They bury themselves into the wall next to you.

As much as your mind urges you to do it, you don’t dare look behind you to make sure Arthur is still there. His steps thunder through the hallway. At least you hope that it’s him and not one of the guards that has taken up pursuit. The door outside lies wide open and you’re hit with a cold gust of wind.

Ignoring the ice-cold shiver running through your body, you press on with gritted teeth. Your side is stinging from the sprint as if a long, sharp needle is stabbing into your flesh and the longer you run the louder the humming becomes. It grows with each step you take until it feels like your head is being split in half by it.

Javier, Josiah and Herr Strauss disappear into the darkness in front of you and without a second thought, you dive into it as well. Barreling over the railing, you shriek as you find yourself in nothing but air. Surely Josiah must have planned something for your escape. Surely there’s a boat waiting at the bottom and you’ll land rather clumsily, but at least not in the water.