#creeypasta

‘Wanted Dead or Alive.’

Everyone knew that really meant dead.

When someone’s crimes grew so numerous they eclipsed ordinary legal procedure, they stopped having a bounty, or a charge, or even the luxury of showing their face in town.

A petty thief could wander back into the same store they’d robbed without anyone batting an eye.

A stagecoach hijacker could pay a fine, serve a short sentence, and be back on the road.

Even train robbers sometimes lived out the rest of their days with a roof over their heads and three meals in prison.

But you weren’t the average outlaw.

You hadn’t committed one crime.

Or five.

Or ten.

And there wasn’t some sprawling gang to spread the blame around.

It was just you.

Well.

You and Brian, if you could count him for much.

That lazy son of a bitch was the smoothest talker you’d ever met.

He could flash that crooked grin—all guile and gapped teeth—and sweet-talk his way out of just about anything.

As capable as he was, though, he’d dodge actual work whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Sure, he’d put a bullet through a man’s skull from two hundred yards if it meant saving your life.

But when the plan went to hell?

Funny how every punch, every kick, every fresh bruise somehow became your problem.

Even now, he was proving your point.

The two of you had made the catastrophic mistake of trying to rob a bank in Saint Denis.

Turns out, the city took exception to that sort of thing.

Nearly fifty lawmen and what felt like a thousand bullets later, you and Brian were down a horse, two revolvers, the promise of several hundred dollars…

…and every last option.

The city was locked down.

Every neighboring town knew your faces too well for a bandana to fool anybody.

Which left you with a bullet buried in your shoulder, slumped in the saddle atop Brian’s dark bay Shire, and one particularly useless lump of flesh draped against your back.

Brian’s chin rested on your good shoulder, his hands lazily hooked around your waist more for his own balance than yours.

He couldn’t even be bothered to hold himself upright.

His black Cattleman hat was tipped low enough that its brim shaded both your eyes from the setting sun while he stared dreamily toward the western horizon.

“Well, Cricket,” he sighed. “I think you’n I’ll be just fine. Everything good’s west, y’know.”

“Says the asshole from Alabama…” you muttered through gritted teeth, too exhausted—and in far too much pain—to muster any real venom.

“Now don’t go chirpin’ back, Cricket.” He smiled, giving your hip an absent-minded pat. “They call it Westward Expansion for a reason. Manifest Destiny and all that. ’Sides, Alabama can be considered west.”

“West of what, fuckin’ Maine?”

“If the boot fits,” he said with an easy grin, nudging your heel with his own.

Unluckily for the both of you, the horse beneath you took that as a cue to perform one of the many utterly pointless tricks Brian had taught him, rearing onto his hind legs.

“Woah there, Preacher!” the blond laughed, taking the sudden lurch far too well while you let out a startled yelp.

The jolt sent you sliding backward. Your hat slipped askew as you scrambled to stay seated, your wounded shoulder screaming in protest.

In his first genuinely helpful act of the day, Brian caught your hat with one hand before it could tumble into the dirt, pressing it back onto your head while the other gathered the reins and settled Preacher back onto all fours.

His long legs tightened against the horse’s barrel, keeping all three of you steady as you stumbled back into the solid wall of his chest.

“Christ!” You sucked in a sharp breath once the horse finally stilled. “What the fuck was the point of that?”

Brian only shrugged.

“Didn’t want a one-trick pony.” He gave Preacher’s neck an absent pat. “Boy’s got real potential.”

Your frustration was rapidly becoming immeasurable.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever fucking heard.” You twisted just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “And so is that name. Why the hell’d you call him Preacher? ‘Cause he’s a judgmental bitch like you?”

Brian barked out a laugh, leaning forward until his chin nearly rested on your shoulder again. His hands drifted back around your waist as naturally as breathing.

“That…” he grinned, “and because I get to tell folks I’m ridin’ a clergyman.”

He paused just long enough for you to think he was done.

“…Hard and long.”

You groaned.

“I am going to shoot you.”

“See?” Brian beamed. “That’s the spirit.”

“Oh, please. The only spirit we’ll be needing is yours when I bury ya six feet under.”

“And ruin those pretty little hands of yours handling a shovel?” he drawled, a teasing lilt creeping into his voice as his gloved fingers wandered lazily down your forearms, brushing over your knuckles.

You’d somehow ended up pressed even closer now, your back flush against his chest.

His heartbeat thumped steadily behind you.

Slow.

Even.

Nothing like your own.

Heat rushed to your face so suddenly the world tipped on its side. The trees blurred together, the horizon swaying as though Preacher had stumbled.

You blinked hard.

It passed.

Mostly.

You couldn’t afford to slow down.

Every sheriff, deputy, and Pinkerton in Saint Denis was probably combing the roads already.

“Oh, hush up…” you muttered, your voice coming out weaker than intended.

You squeezed your eyes shut for only a heartbeat, waiting for the dizziness to settle.

When you opened them again, the world was still hazy.

Murkier than it ought to’ve been.

But clear enough to keep riding.

“Aw, you know you like it better when I’m singin’ along with you, Cricket.”

A dry laugh escaped you.

“Good luck singin’ when I shoot you.” You swallowed, only then realizing how raw your throat had become. “I’ll wait ‘til I’ve got my own horse, though… so I can leave your ass behind if I miss.”

“I’m glad you’re aware.” Brian chuckled. “That’s why I keep ya around.”

He gave your side a light squeeze.

“Smart mouth…”

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

“…and a downright pitiful shot.”

He waited for your usual snappy comeback.

It never came.

Brian frowned.

“…Cricket?”

His hand lingered at your side a moment longer than necessary.

“…You’re shakin’.”

“Huah?” you managed, only half of his words cutting through the ringing in your ears. Your head turned toward him a fraction too slow. “Speak up. Since you like talkin’ so much.”

Instead of a grin or some lazy retort, you were met with knit brows and a tight, uneasy smile. The color had drained from your face—lips faintly blue, quivering at the edges.

He swallowed whatever he was about to say, like he already knew you’d brush it off.

“Hey now, why don’t—”

“’m fine,” you slurred, reading him too easily through the haze. As well as he knew you, you knew him right back.

There wasn’t much you trusted him to fix.

And right now, there wasn’t much time left to argue about it.

Before you could force out anything else, your vision slipped—world tilting hard and wrong. The sunset broke into smeared streaks of scarlet and lavender as your weight pitched sideways.

Strong hands caught you immediately.

Firm. Steady. Certain.

Brian hauled you upright with more care than you expected, careful not to jolt your injured shoulder as he guided you back against Preacher’s saddle.

A moment later, something warm and worn settled over your chest—his bandolier, loosened and thrown across you to keep you from sliding.

Then your reins were gone from your hands entirely, your arms dropping uselessly to your sides.

“How much blood have you lost, darling?” he asked, voice low now—stripped of all its usual ease.

“Just a bit…” you muttered, the lie slipping through your teeth like sand.

Brian didn’t answer right away.

His hands stayed on you a second longer than necessary, steadying you in the saddle as if letting go would confirm something he didn’t want to name yet.

Then, quietly:

“Cricket.”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

You blinked slowly, trying to focus on him over the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision. “What.”

His jaw tightened.

“Look at me.”

“I am lookin’ at you,” you shot back automatically, though your head lolled slightly with the effort.

That earned nothing from him. No grin. No joke. No easy dismissal.

Just that same tight, unreadable line of his mouth.

His fingers slid from your waist to your upper arm—careful, testing more than touching.

“…You’re cold.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted again, weaker this time.

Brian exhaled through his nose, something sharp and controlled, like he was biting down on every instinct he had to argue with you.

Then he shifted behind you.

One arm locked firmly around your middle.

The other pulled the reins in short, controlled motions.

“Hey,” you protested faintly, “what’re you—”

“Shh.”

It wasn’t harsh.

It was worse than that.

It was focused.

Preacher slowed beneath you, the rhythm of hooves changing as Brian guided him off the main trail and into the tree line. Branches scraped lightly past your boots. The world tilted with every step, and your body stopped cooperating in small, insidious ways—first your grip, then your posture, then the simple act of staying awake.

“Brian…” you tried again, quieter now. “We can’t stop. We gotta keep movin’.”

“I know.”

That answer didn’t help.

It was too calm.

Too sure.

You forced your head up again, squinting through the blur. “Then why’re we—”

“Because you’re bleedin’ out,” he cut in.

Simple.

Flat.

No humor attached to it anymore.

The words didn’t fully register at first.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then laughed—small, breathless, wrong. “Oh, don’t start that again.”

His grip tightened slightly.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You always lie when you’re scared,” he said, quieter now. “And you always get quieter right before you pass out.”

That shut you up.

Not because you wanted it to.

Because your body decided for you.

The next breath didn’t come quite right.

The trees around you started to smear into each other—greens and browns melting together like wet paint. The sky tilted farther than it should have.

Brian’s voice stayed anchored in the middle of it all.

“Stay with me, Cricket.”

You tried to answer.

Nothing came out.

Your head dropped forward, and the last thing you felt clearly was his arm snapping fully around you—pulling you in tight against him like he could physically hold you together by force alone.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, and for the first time there was no performance in it at all.

Just him.

Just Brian.

“Hey—hey, don’t you do that.”

His voice sharpened slightly as Preacher moved faster now, breaking into a controlled, urgent canter.

“Not here. Not now. You hear me?”

The world flickered.

Your weight shifted completely into him.

And Brian stopped pretending this was just another ride.

Brian didn’t answer you.

Not right away.

His hands were still on you—steadying you in the saddle, keeping you from slipping sideways as Preacher’s gait shifted beneath the both of you—but there was a change in him now. Something quieter. Less talkative. Less Brian.

You felt it more than you saw it.

The way his grip tightened, then loosened.

The way his head turned slightly—not toward you, but past you.

Like something behind you had suddenly become more important than the fact you were actively trying not to pass out.

“Brian…” you muttered, or thought you did. It came out thin, stretched wrong in your own ears.

He didn’t respond.

That alone was enough to make something in your chest tighten.

You tried to straighten, or at least pretend you could, but the world immediately punished you for it—tilting sharply, colors smearing at the edges again. You gave up with a frustrated exhale and let your weight settle back against him.

“Don’t start actin’ strange on me now,” you mumbled. “I can barely keep my eyes open as it is.”

Still nothing.

That finally dragged your focus enough to notice it.

Brian had shifted behind you.

Not dramatically. Not enough to jolt you or the horse or even interrupt the rhythm of riding—but deliberate in a way that didn’t match his usual laziness. One hand stayed loosely around your waist, anchoring you in place.

The other had slipped away.

You heard the faint rustle of leather.

Fabric shifting.

The soft, controlled movement of someone trying very hard not to be noticed.

Your brows knit. “What are you doin’?”

No answer.

Another pause.

Then, quieter—almost distracted—

“Brian.”

That got you a reaction. A small one. His shoulder shifted, like he’d just realized you were still there.

“…Hm?”

You squinted through the haze. “What are you lookin’ at?”

A beat.

Long enough that it made your stomach feel heavier than the blood loss already did.

“Nothing,” he said.

Too fast.

Too smooth.

And that was worse than no answer at all.

You tried to turn your head, but your body didn’t cooperate the way you wanted it to. The motion came out sluggish, wrong, your neck barely lifting before fatigue dragged it back down.

“Don’t lie to me,” you muttered weakly.

Behind you, Brian let out a quiet breath—something halfway between a sigh and a decision he didn’t want to make.

The saddle creaked as he shifted his weight.

And now you could definitely hear it.

Something being opened.

Something being checked.

You swallowed, throat dry enough it almost hurt. “Brian.”

Still no response.

Which meant whatever he was doing mattered more than arguing with you.

That alone made your chest feel colder than the wind cutting across the trail.

You forced yourself to sit up again, slower this time, ignoring the way your vision tried to swim out of focus the moment you moved.

“Brian, I swear to God—”

A pause.

Then finally, a reluctant shift behind you.

“Just relax.”

That wasn’t an answer.

That was avoidance.

Your fingers curled weakly against the saddle horn. “What is it?”

Another rustle. Softer now. Controlled.

You felt him lean back slightly, like he was putting something away—or deciding whether or not to show you.

And then, just as you were about to snap again, your gaze caught it.

The saddlebags.

Open.

Half-hidden beneath a jumble of spare clothes and wrapped supplies.

Leather.

Worn.

Not yours.

You frowned harder, forcing your fogged mind to focus. “Brian…”

He didn’t look at you.

That was the worst part.

He was looking down into the bag like it had stopped being part of a robbery and started being something else entirely.

Something that didn’t make sense.

His fingers moved carefully—too carefully for a man like him—as he pulled something out from beneath the fabric.

A book.

Ledger-sized.

Dark leather, old enough to feel like it had already survived too much before either of you ever touched it.

He flipped it open.

You saw his eyes track the pages.

And you saw, even from your unfocused angle, that it wasn’t reading like anything normal.

Lines of ink.

Neat columns.

Names stacked like they were inventory instead of people.

Numbers that didn’t correspond to anything you recognized.

Strange markings in between them—symbols that looked less like handwriting and more like someone had tried to remember something they weren’t supposed to understand.

Seals stamped into corners of pages. Government ink, faint but unmistakable.

Land surveys folded into the margins like they didn’t belong in the same world as the rest of it.

Payments listed in codes that made no sense even when your brain tried to force them into shape.

Brian stared at it for a long time.

Long enough that you almost forgot to ask again.

Almost.

“What is that?” you finally managed, voice weaker than you meant it to be.

That got his attention.

The pages stopped moving.

His thumb held the edge of the ledger a little too tightly.

For a second, you thought he might actually answer you.

He didn’t.

Instead, he closed it halfway.

Not fully. Not like someone who understood it.

Like someone who didn’t want to look at it anymore.

“…Nothing,” Brian said.

Simple.

Flat.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like it wasn’t something that had been weighing heavier than gold since the moment he pulled it out of a hidden compartment during the robbery and instinctively shoved it into his saddlebag with everything else.

Like it wasn’t the first thing he’d absently taken when the shooting started.

And definitely not the thing he couldn’t stop thinking about ever since taking a closer look.

Afternoon bled into evening without either of you really noticing.

The light shifted first—gold thinning into something duller, heavier—then the sounds followed. The wind. The birds. Even Preacher’s hooves seemed quieter, like the world itself was losing energy.

At some point, you stopped talking.

Not all at once.

Just… less.

A few sharp comments here and there. A muttered threat you didn’t quite have the strength to finish properly. Then nothing at all.

Brian noticed before you did.

Of course he did.

He felt it in the way your weight kept settling more against the saddle horn than against him. In the way your answers started arriving late—like your thoughts had to travel a long way just to reach your mouth.

“Cricket,” he said at one point, low and careful. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” you answered automatically.

Too fast.

Too soft.

Wrong.

The next time he asked you something, you didn’t answer at all until several seconds had passed—and when you did, your voice sounded like it belonged to someone standing behind you instead of you.

The warmth of the day didn’t touch you anymore.

You started shivering.

Brian felt it when his arm tightened around your waist—subtle at first, then unmistakable. A tremor that had nothing to do with the horse.

“Hey,” he said under his breath. “Hey—look at me.”

You didn’t.

Not properly.

Your head lolled slightly forward, resting against the front of the saddle horn like it had become the only thing keeping you upright.

“’m fine,” you tried to say.

It came out broken.

Brian went quiet.

That was worse than anything else he could’ve done.

The next mile blurred.

Then another.

Then you stopped responding entirely.

Your body slackened against him all at once, like someone had cut the string holding you together.

“—Hey.”

Brian’s voice snapped sharper now.

“Hey, no—no, no, no.”

His arm locked around you immediately, hauling you back before you could slip off Preacher’s side completely. The horse jolted once, irritated, but Brian barely noticed.

He had you pulled tight against him now, one hand pressing hard against your back like he could force you to stay conscious through sheer will.

You were burning.

He felt it instantly.

Skin too hot.

Breathing uneven.

The kind of fever that didn’t come from nothing.

“Damn it…” he muttered, not at you—at the situation, at himself, at whatever invisible line he’d crossed without noticing.

He shifted Preacher off the trail without thinking, guiding him into the tree line with sharp, controlled movements. No jokes. No distractions. Just urgency.

“Stay with me,” he said, quieter now. “Stay with me, Cricket.”

Your head tilted slightly.

No answer.

That did it.

He didn’t stop riding.

But something in him changed.

The hesitation was gone now—replaced with a single, unpleasant certainty.

“There’s only one person,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

Your eyelids fluttered faintly at the sound.

“…Huh?” you managed weakly, like you’d surfaced from somewhere deep and unpleasant.

Brian glanced down at you for half a second.

“Hey,” he said, softer. “Don’t go driftin’ off on me now.”

“Who…” you tried, barely audible. “Who’s there?”

He hesitated.

Just long enough for it to mean something.

“…A bartender.”

That got a faint, confused laugh out of you—or what might’ve been one.

“A bartender?” you slurred.

Brian’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t become a smile.

“Yeah.”

You squinted up at him through the haze. “Are you drunk?”

A pause.

Then—

“Not yet.”

That earned another weak breath of something like laughter, but it faded fast.

Brian exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on you again as Preacher kept moving.

“You’re gonna like him,” he added after a beat, almost casually.

“…Do I?” you mumbled.

He glanced away.

“Not usually.”

That made you quiet again.

The trees thickened around you as the light started to drain from the sky, and Brian’s voice dropped lower, rougher around the edges than it had been all day.

“I owe him,” he said after a moment.

Then, like it annoyed him to admit even that much:

“…A lot.”

Another pause.

Preacher’s hooves thudded steadily beneath you.

Brian’s grip tightened slightly.

“And he hates my guts,” he added, almost fondly.

You didn’t respond.

Not really.

But you were still there.

And for now, that was enough.

You reach a tiny, dust-choked settlement just before dark.

Population: maybe a few hundred if you were being generous.

Everything is too still.

No voices drifting from porches. No children running between buildings. No horses tied up outside the general store. Just closed shutters and empty streets that feel like they’ve already decided not to care whether you pass through them alive or not.

Most of the businesses are shut tight, dark windows reflecting the last smear of daylight.

Except one.

A single building still has light bleeding through its front windows.

The saloon.

Brian doesn’t slow down when he sees it.

He just shifts in the saddle like he’s already made up his mind.

“Hold on,” he mutters, more to you than anything else.

You barely manage a sound in response.

Your weight is wrong against him—too loose, too unsteady—and every step Preacher takes feels like it’s happening farther away from you than the last. You can hear Brian talking, but it’s underwater now, stretched and muffled, like the world forgot how to stay in focus.

The horse comes to a stop outside the saloon.

Brian swings down first, boots hitting the dirt without hesitation.

Then his hands are on you immediately, firm and practiced, catching you before you can slide off the saddle entirely. You try to push yourself upright, but your arms don’t really agree with you anymore.

“Easy,” he says under his breath, guiding your weight against him. “I’ve got you.”

The door swings open.

Warm light spills out into the street.

He doesn’t bother knocking.

He just walks in.

The room inside is dim but clean in a way that feels deliberate. Polished wood. Quiet corners. The faint smell of whiskey and soap trying to cover something older underneath.

You can barely keep your eyes open as he carries you in.

The bell over the door doesn’t even finish ringing before a voice comes from behind the bar.

“You’re late.”

It’s calm.

Not surprised.

Not welcoming.

Just… factual.

Brian doesn’t stop moving.

You feel him pause for half a heartbeat, like he’s deciding whether or not to be offended.

Then, just as easily, he answers with a crooked smile you can’t quite see but can hear in his voice.

“Miss me?”

The bartender still doesn’t look up right away.

He keeps polishing the glass in his hand, methodical, unhurried, like nothing about Brian standing there matters in the slightest.

Only when the silence stretches does he finally glance over.

His eyes land on Brian first.

Then shift.

And stop on you.

The change is immediate.

Whatever detachment is on his face flattens out completely, like something in him clicks into place that has nothing to do with recognition and everything to do with assessment.

Blood.

Too much of it.

Too fresh.

Too close to the edge.

He sets the glass down slowly.

“…No,” he says at last.

Not to Brian.

Not really.

Just to the situation standing in his doorway.

Brian doesn’t bother easing into it.

“Room,” he says first, still holding you like you weigh less than you should. Like it’s automatic now. “Just one.”

The bartender doesn’t even blink.

“No.”

Brian huffs a quiet laugh, like he expected it and asked anyway. “Whiskey?”

Another pause.

“No.”

That one actually earns a reaction—Brian tilting his head slightly, as if reconsidering his entire relationship with this man. “You always this hospitable, or is it just me?”

The bartender finally looks at him properly.

“It’s you.”

You don’t have the strength to track all of it, but you catch the shape of the room shifting around the tension. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud. It’s contained, like something both of them are used to holding down.

Brian adjusts his grip on you when you sway.

The bartender’s eyes drop to you again.

Longer this time.

He sees more than he says.

That much is obvious.

“…You gonna remove a bullet or just stand there collecting dust?” Brian adds, tone light—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

A beat.

Then Tim exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he’s been handed a problem he already anticipated and still hoped wouldn’t show up tonight.

“I hate you,” he says flatly.

Brian smiles like that’s fondness.

“Missed you too.”

Tim’s gaze flicks between the two of you again.

Sharp.

Measuring.

And then, without asking anything—no names, no story, no explanation—he turns slightly and jerks his chin toward the stairs.

“Up.”

Brian doesn’t argue.

That alone shifts something in the air.

You feel it more than you understand it.

Brian just… moves.

Like that word mattered more than all the jokes he’s been making since the moment you met him.

He carries you past the bar with a steadiness that feels almost wrong for him—no hesitation, no sarcasm, no performance. Just obedience.

And Tim watches him do it like he’s cataloguing an old habit he thought he’d broken.

You force your head up slightly, squinting through the haze.

“…This the bartender?” you manage, voice thin.

Brian glances down at you.

“Yeah.”

You study the man behind the counter.

Clean lines. Controlled posture. Eyes that don’t miss anything. A saloon that feels more like an operating room than a place meant for drinking.

Unimpressed, you murmur, “Doesn’t look like a bartender.”

Brian gives a small, almost amused exhale.

“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “That’s the point.”

Ahead of you, Tim is already moving—setting things in order before you even reach the stairs, like he’s preparing for damage he’s seen too many times to be surprised by anymore.

And when you glance between them, something sits wrong in your chest.

Not fear.

Not relief.

Something in between.

Because Brian didn’t hesitate.

And Tim didn’t ask.

And whatever they were to each other once… clearly didn’t stop being real just because it stopped being allowed.

The room upstairs is quieter than the saloon below.

Not peaceful—just controlled. Like everything in it has been arranged to stay out of the way of whatever usually ends up bleeding across the floor.

Tim lays you down on the bed without ceremony, but not roughly either. Efficient. Careful in a way that feels practiced more than kind.

Brian hovers for half a second too long.

Then Tim flicks his eyes at him.

“Sit,” he says.

Brian actually listens.

That alone makes your fogged brain snag on something important before you can lose it again.

Tim doesn’t wait for permission after that.

He cuts.

Fabric gives under the blade with a clean, quiet sound that feels too intimate for how much it stings when it pulls away from your skin. Cold air hits the wound immediately and your body jerks on instinct.

Brian shifts in his chair.

Not forward.

Not back.

Just… tense.

“Hold still,” Tim says without looking at you.

“I am still,” you mutter automatically.

“Mm.”

That’s all the acknowledgment you get.

The shirt is peeled back further. The wound exposed properly now. Tim leans in closer, steady hands pressing just enough to make you hiss through your teeth.

There’s no hesitation in him.

No panic.

Just assessment.

Then, after a long moment—

“…You’re lucky,” he says.

Brian lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I am?”

Tim doesn’t look up.

“If you’d gotten here a day later, you’d be dead.”

That wipes the humor out of the room completely.

Brian doesn’t respond.

No joke.

No deflection.

Just silence.

You manage to tilt your head slightly, trying to see him through the haze. He’s sitting back in the chair now, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped—but there’s nothing relaxed about it. Like he’s holding himself still on purpose.

Like if he moves too much, something will break.

Tim continues working.

Clean cloth. Alcohol. Pressure that makes your vision spike white at the edges.

You bite down hard enough on your own breath to keep from making noise.

“Try not to pass out again,” Tim says, almost bored.

“Not tryin’ to,” you whisper.

“Good.”

Another pause.

Then—

Metal shifts.

Tim pauses mid-motion.

Not because of you.

Because of something behind him.

You don’t see it clearly at first. Your vision is still slipping in and out like the world can’t decide whether you’re allowed to stay conscious. But you hear it—fabric rustling. Leather moving.

Brian.

He’s not talking.

That, again, is the most noticeable thing about him.

Tim’s eyes flick sideways.

Just slightly.

And stop.

There’s something half-hidden in Brian’s saddlebag where he set it down earlier—worn leather, edges frayed, sitting too casually in a room that suddenly feels like it can’t afford casual things.

A ledger.

Tim doesn’t move right away.

He just looks at it.

Long enough that the air shifts again.

He sets the cloth down slowly.

Too slowly.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before.

“…Where did you get that?”

Brian doesn’t answer immediately.

And when he does, it’s careful in a way you’re not used to hearing from him.

“Picked it up,” he says.

Tim’s expression doesn’t change much.

But something in his eyes does.

Recognition, sharp and immediate—like a door in his head just unlocked whether he wanted it to or not.

He doesn’t touch the ledger.

Doesn’t open it.

Just stares at it like it’s already open inside his memory.

Then he exhales through his nose.

“…Of course you did.”

Brian finally looks up at him.

“That bad?”

Tim doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reaches for the cloth again and presses it back to your wound with steady hands, like anchoring himself back into the present before he says anything he can’t take back.

“You two don’t steal things,” he says flatly.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…You bring them home.”

The words sit heavy in the room.

Brian’s jaw tightens slightly.

For the first time since you met him, there’s no joke trying to crawl out of his mouth to fix it.

Tim glances at him again—just once.

Then back at the ledger.

“…You have no idea what you’re sitting on,” he says.

And for the first time, his voice loses its detachment completely.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Something more controlled than either.

Concern that has teeth.

Outside, the saloon below creaks softly with movement—life continuing like nothing has changed.

But upstairs, in a quiet room above it all, something has.

Because whatever Brian stole in that bank wasn’t money.

And Tim has just realized that the people looking for it won’t stop at killing strangers.

They’ll burn towns for it.

And for the first time, all three of you are in the same room… with the same unspoken understanding forming between you:

This was never just an escape.