#is....

He found inns back then, to sleep, to fuck. Or were they alleys? Or rooms. He was young, but he was old too. Sometimes a home is a little box you carry full of other people's sins, and kind strangers' cash. Sometimes it's a greeting. Sometimes is a goofy smile and the familiar smell of leather and gunsmoke. And sweet things.

It was back when he was still finding out how far he could go. When the world was scary but scotch was warm and the cigarettes gave him an excuse for the buzzing in his head, all the time, all the time.

There were sweet things at the orphanage, occasionally. But he wasn't there now, that was gone, lost. He'd been protected--no, he'd been doing the protecting--no, he was the one people were protecting against--

He was young, and he was old. Alone in a desert. Afraid on a doorstep. Thinking of homes, heat. Powdered sugar and dirty money. Time alone was common. Time comfortable was rare.

Time with him was...

His hands were clumsy when he chose them to be. It was an act. Gloves slid along chambers and touch-worn handles like the tools of a craftsman, or like the steel was just another living part of him. But then again it was, wasn't it?

And wasn't Nick the same? Didn't his gun carry his soul? He'd exchanged it, for that cross. Full of mercy for everyone else.

Full, full, full.... Aching with ammo, with purpose. Heavy with it. It hurt, to carry all the time. It was too much on his own. But if there were other arms to hold, hands to undo the buckles, fingers to slip under and around and--

It was nice, to be understood. To see another man carrying his demons on his back and dancing with them. To get to take a spin with him sometimes.

Did they dance? Certainly they drank. They ate and drank and got full and got hot and--and there were rooms, back there beyond the bar. With floors that were perfect beds for old leather, beds that were perfect refuge for new touches--

Scars are still soft, even though they make the owner hard. Scars are armor and targets. Scars are "X"s on maps.

He was covered in them. In "x"s, maps, in crosses, in steel, in life too long lived--or maybe just too coveted. He hid ancient eyes behind modern glasses and a boy's smile. He was old. He was young.

His body was built with purpose, but not tonight. Please, just one night.

He was aching. He was boiling. His nerves were raw and begging and--and there was only whiskey aftertaste and dumb quips and hands and heat and--

And if sand is time they had enough of it, if treasure was buried Nick could trace his way to it. If life was was breath and beat and blood pumping fast he could give it, give it, give it, please--

Please...

In this in between... This dark, this wish. This hidden no-man's land.

Let the hunters fall away, and leave just the bounty. They'll lose it in the morning when they wake up. They'll be old again, when they wake up.

But for now, while the dream is young...