txmbstone

She says that last part with a smile, that same one she gives him when he's caught staring, when he goes out his way to do something nice. It's a teasing smile, filled with secrets only the both of them know, the secrets and quick glances only they see.

He fights that fluttering feeling in his stomach with a scowl.

"Same as you," he shifts, knee brushing hers, burning fingers brushing over bare skin. It's comforting, as small as it is, to have him here.

They stay silent, as her fingers weave through his, calloused hands smoothing over the lines of his veins, the rough plane of his palm. "I dreamt of her again," her words are hushed, fluttering like feathers in the wind. "She looked so real, it felt so real. I tried running after her, but there was this wall of blue flames. I could hear her screaming, and for the life of me, my feet wouldn't move."

The tears mist her eyes before she has a chance to blink them away, emotion choking the words trapped in her throat. The breath she takes is shaky, unstable.

"Jordan...," his hand tightens around hers, another coming to rest of her neck, gentle fingers cradling her. "What happened was not your fault, alright? You need to understand what happened to the both of you wasn't your fault."

"Why does it feel like it then?"

"Grief does weird shit," he pulls her close, forehead kissing hers. He watches her, watches her close her eyes and lets herself fall into him. "One minute you're smiling at an old picture and the next you're sobbing on the floor. You can try to explain it away but it isn't going to bring her back."

He's right, she knows it. Deep down, she knows. But the surface of her wound is still raw and open. Too new to let it heal, too old to let it lie there to scar.

"...I miss her."

He pulls her even closer, so close his heat envelops her completely, a balm against the aching in her heart. He says nothing, but words aren't needed. Not for this.

So when a new member of their unsavory crew makes a pass at you, it takes the both of you by surprise

You’re both sat on a log by a quickly growing bonfire, passing a bottle between the other while you discuss the latest news of the day

When all of a sudden one of the newer Cowboys comes trudging along, bottle in hand and looking at you like you’re dinner

Brocius clocks it near immediately, that devilish smile of his fading just the slightest bit as the Cowboy takes a seat right up against you, thighs pressing together

Before he can get a word out, you’re already reacting

You shove the man, cheeks flaring red in your shock and anger. “You best remove yourself off my side before you leave here missing a vital piece of family jewels.”

The drunk man tries to fight back against you, until the clicking of a hammer stops the entire camp in its tracks.

“I’d take that warning if I were you. No one messes with what’s mine and lives long enough to tell about it.”

Johnny Ringo

There’s a certain…unhingedness Johnny brings to the relationship, and it’s always picking a fight with the inner gentleman his mother had tried to instill in him

He tries his hardest to be the man his mother had hoped to raise around you — ever so respectful and careful of his words and actions whenever he’s around you. He gets your doors, helps you bring in groceries from the market, ties your spurs onto your boots before your daily ride, but there are moments when that fearsome dragon rears its ugly head

It started during a cattle drive. The night before the final sale and you choose to sit against a tree just a little ways past the campfire, nursing your own bottle while Johnny tends to your horses

“Ringo? That man spells trouble, sweetheart. You’re better off with a real man who’ll stand up for his woman.” One cowboy says, walking up leaning into your space.

Your anger hardly has time you leave your lips when it’s splattered with whiskey and the man collapses at your feet, blood pouring from the new gash on his forehead

Johnny drops whatever remained of his now-shattered bottle, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Apologies, darlin’. He got too close when I threw it.”

He was always larger than life, the spark of a candle in a dark tunnel, a firework on the Fourth of July. He was the sun incarnate, so full of warmth and laughter and love.

He had made life with the Cowboys one full of adventure. Every day was something new and exciting. He made every sunrise and sunset one worth fighting for. He’d wake you with kisses and threaten to steal the blankets when you wouldn’t get up, and cover you with his jacket when the night’s chill set in.

He treated every day like his last, and he loved you just as such. Nothing he did was mediocre.

Especially when it came to protecting you.

You followed him into The Oriental, hand-in-hand, admiring the taxidermies on the wall as he made his way through the bar. It had easily become on of your favorites, where you and the Clanton’s spent much of your money playing poker or drinking each other under the table (if such a thing was possible with Billy; the man could inhale liquor like he needed it to breathe).

That night you’d met the Earp brothers for the first time. Dressed head-to-toe in all black, like grave diggers, dealing at the faro table. You’d heard the gun cock under the table as Doc Holliday continued to taunt Johnny, had felt how hard Brocius gripped your wrist, tugging you behind him as the air left the table.

You couldn’t recall ever feeling so scared as you did in that moment, waiting for the tension to break, watching to see who was going to draw first, and Brocius had sensed it (he had also felt your hand drift from his arm to his belt where he kept a knife hidden for this exact reason.)

"Watch it, Johnny." His grip holds even tighter, slowly tucking you further behind him as the gunslingers play their dangerous little game. "I heard he's real fast."

It's almost like Johnny can sense the growing fear bleeding into Brocius' words, hammer down and tucking his pistol back to spin through his fingers in a dramatic flair.

It hardly helps the pounding of your heart, the air fighting its way into your lungs, the numb adrenaline tingling through your fingers, but the laughter throughout the saloon seems to ease it just a bit.

You relax completely when Doc Holliday does the same with his shot cup, spinning the handle between his fingers just as Johnny had done. He makes a mock out of himself, but for once, you're glad Holliday had the insight not to start a shootout for the sake of his pride.

Brocius laughs, taking the wind out of your anxious sails immediately, tugging you closer as he takes his earned money and leads the both of you back into the bar. "Drinks on me!" He says, covering the both of you in a shower of money.

You leave shortly afterward, finally breathing a sigh of relief as you two step out into the cool air, all fight leaving you instantly.

Brocius notices. "You alright back there, sweetheart?"

Your head shakes. "I don't want to be there when they are Curly. Something's not right about 'em. 'Specially if Johnny is gonna play with that Holliday. They're both too high-spirited to let that go a second time."

Curly hums, tucking you further into his side. "Them two are cyclones ready to collide. But, alright sweetheart, we won't be there when they aren't."

And now, here, on the edge of the river, hiding out from the Marshall you had never hoped to encounter again, you wished you had never walked into that saloon.

Not if you knew it would lead to this.

It's a shootout the minute any man notices the other on the opposite side of the river. One moment it's quiet, and the next you're diving for the closest trees to hide behind as bullets fly past your head and into their bark.

You can hear Brocius a few paces over, laughing like a man gone mad (you imagine he has after losing Cowboy after Cowboy to the Earps.)

“Curly!”

You ignore everything; the other Cowboys, the lawmen, the chill of the river, the bullets whizzing past. Everything is lost — all you can think is get to him.

S a v e h i m.

You slam to your knees right as he goes under, dragging his limp frame up into you, just enough to keep him from drowning. The rest is a blur; you just remember your heart hammering in your ears so loud it might as well have been thunder rolling overhead.

You collapse once you drag him up the embankment, doing the best you can to provide the both of you cover as bullets fly in every direction. It's then you notice the warmth coating your hands.

You pull away to see your hands soaked in blood.

Blood...

Brocius' blood.

Oh god.

He smiles at you through bloodied teeth, beautiful, tanned skin already paling. He's cold when your hands touch his face, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The sob is already choking your throat, croaking pleas and prayers.

"You can't leave me, Brocius. We'll-we'll get you all pat-patched up and starting mischief in no time," you hiccup. You gasp as a bullet flies into the branch a few inches from your head, instinctively covering Brocius as you hit the dirt.

Shaky hands weakly push at you. "It's not safe, sweetheart. You need to leave. I ain't got no more fight left in me."

You shake your head.

"‘M not goin’ anywhere, y’here me?” You’re saying it more to yourself than you are him, you realize.

His shaky fingers find purchase on your cheek. “I think we have had too much fun, sweetheart. This isn’t somethin’ I can shoot my way out of.”

“Don’t say that, Curly. We can go find a doc and he’ll patch you up real good. You’ll be back to thievin’ and ridin’ in no time. No time at all.”

His grip is crushing as he takes your hand, tucking it up to him, feeling his heart beat against it. “I’m all out of fun, darlin’. My train stops here, it seems. God, I wish I could go back to the night we met. You looked so radiant sittin’ at that bar, all dolled up and ready for the show.”

You’re silently sobbing, remembering how he made you laugh so hard your side hurt and tears poured down your cheeks. How he shielded you from the rowdy Cowboys and made sure you made it home safely before returning that next morning with a bouquet of flowers and that wide, cheeky smile.

“Barnes shot that pin out of the juggler’s hand and I’d never seen you laugh so hard.” You smile through your tears. His grips lessens.

His laugh is barely audible, and you sob as a bullet flies into the tree right above your head.

His eyes don't look at you.

Through you, you realize.

God, please, don't take him from me just yet. We haven't had enough time.

I need more time!

I want more time...

His eyes close. His hand doesn't hold onto yours anymore, and hiding out in the brush, you let yourself fall into grief, begging for more time.