Chapter Text
Dark smoke billows out against the orange evening sky, smudging it with brushes of charcoal and marking the town grey on the map, each plume a beacon of disaster. Ash sat heavy in the air coating everything in grey, orange embers singeing tiny holes in limited vision.
The street was still alight, burnt wreckages against the desert dirt flickering with flame, the explosion unforgiving and cruel as the fire laps up what is left.
Bandits had ravaged this town, scurrying through the houses of townsfolk ripping each carcass of anything remotely valuable and setting their trail ablaze, and for the grand finale rigging the townhall with TNT.
An act of needless violence.
Gunshots ring out like thunder against the desert, the sounds carrying themselves across the plains, with the heavy commotion of the few remaining outlaws as they attempted to retreat from their explosive excursion.
With a heavy thunk a bullet pierces flesh, lodging itself against bone, stealing the last breath from the bandits’ lungs before he even began to fall. Limp the body slides from its place on the saddle and hits the dirt with a bloody thud.
This wasn't the first time Fit had found himself in the middle of a shoot-out that didn't need to involve him.
Parched and tired he had found himself at his destination, having received a generous tip about a dozen or so of shady gold traders that had weaselled their way into a small coal mining town in the south.
Who would he be not to squander some gold from people who didn't even have the decency to be subtle about it and their whereabouts.
Bandits from the organisation up north had got here before him, led by someone who clearly didn't think this through. With the littering of bodies holding stolen gold in the sand, they had bitten off far more than they could chew.
Fit was just the unfortunate bastard who stepped in at the same time as law enforcement did, caught red-handed ridding one of many corpses of its keep.
And then came the brave man in blue with the Jacket pressed with golden petals.
Arm outstretched poised to kill, staring down the barrel of a gun that only held one more live round as they came almost to a standstill. The flames from the explosion lick the side of his face hot, the searing gaze heavy on his trigger. He watches dark locks of hair illuminate orange, his opponent unflinching, holding his ground with an unexpected confidence from a man staring his own death in the eyes.
He had been running circles round this guy for minutes now, yet his barrel was nearly empty with the lack of precision he fired with. The sporadic nature of his shots left little to be anticipated completely unpredictable, and dangerous was a marksman's hand who is unafraid to miss.
He finds himself enraptured with the very mortality of it, he could be shot dead by this very man in a matter of seconds, yet the pressure of a bullet against another is the only thing keeping him alive.
He considers his odds, retreat and run the risk of his horse being taken from under him sending him into the dirt or simply his life stolen by a bullet right here.
One to his five but that was all it took.
A loud snapping tears through the silence, wooden beaming collapsing against the flames and sending a swarm of embers upwards- filling the air with ash and the ground with debris. The other man's horse veers back, spooked by the falling framework, quickly jolting its rider off kilter.
Gloved hands scramble to steady the mare, in a hushed tone he forgivingly talks her down from her panicked state, a care that rivals the coldness he held behind the trigger. The gun no longer watching him it tumbles from his grip clattering to the floor in the commotion.
The bandana that was secured around his face comes loose, the dark fabric sliding off and giving way to a vaguely panicked expression. And this man was expressive, clean shaven and handsome in a way that if he were to forego his expensive looking shirt, the cheapest of fabrics would still flatter him.
A shame.
Brown eyes find his own again, far more panicked as he continues to be jostled around by his horse and Fit pinpoints his moment as they break apart, where his gun is lost in the grass, and his path is clear and unwitnessed by a dozen unblinking yellow carnations.
There’s a moment of hesitation in which, something unknown holds him in place, an overwhelming pressure of importance in his decision as if fate had already decided the outcome no matter his choices. His body didn't seem to move as much as he willed it to.
He readies for turning but is pinned in place. A revolver cocks to his right, biting through the sound of the crackling flame, so loud his blood runs cold.
He's missed his window.
A breath clips in his throat as he steals a glance at the other to plot his predicament, he was far too close with a gun of such calibre to not miss with an exploding carnage of flesh and bone.
"Look, this whole situation has been a bit of a misunderstanding. Classic wrong place wrong time on my part." He voices, words slivering out with a deceptiveness that hissed through his teeth, playing the part of an unassuming traveller.
"I was just passing through to retire for the night, when my old boy here was nearly wrangled by one of those outlaws," he lets out a feigned chuckle, pressing his words with a whimsy he didn't care to have in normal circumstance, motioning towards his horse with a tip of his hat.
"I know who you are, you're not fooling anyone around here," the man to his right warns, breaking through the tense silence with a cockiness he’d only heard from those in high positions. All those expensive words spilt by foolish men.
“I’ve seen your bounty, and you sell for a pretty penny Mr 2b2t.” he practically purrs, popping his ps with an amusement he hadn’t yet earnt.
He steals a look at the man in question, his eyes catch sight of a golden badge, and he feels the excitement swell in his chest, it’s been quite a while since he found himself a man of the law and with the look of the other man, he'd found two.
"Is that right sheriff?" Fit hums allowing his demeanour to shift. He watches as dark eyes falter against his words, flickering over towards his partner for a moment for the other to exchange a knowing look.
"Those gold smugglers were sure as hell fooling you though weren't they sheriff?" He irked, voice rumbling in his throat, dripping with that suffocating charm he had learned could keep him alive. He hears the way the man to his right tenses, a heavy breath and the revolver shifting in hand, dancing with the trigger
"They're the talk of the out towns, the way they were blatantly snatching gold from under your noses. We all thought you were playing the long game, turns out you're just a bunch of fools," he chuckles watching as they crumble beneath his words, he's positive he struck a nerve with the shake of his grip.
"An outlaw like you has no place to talk on our operations and our men,” The sheriff snaps, his voice rough in his throat with the way it battled the anger rising in his chest and Fit has him right where he wants him. Emotional and rash.
Something prickles his neck, pulling a glare of his attention toward the burning debris with the very idea of a third-party bearing witness to this pathetic display of ego. The sheriff is still talking but his mutterings fail to be as important as the burning behind him.
“I’m asking you sir to lower your- “
A movement and a glint of metal.
A ringing shot and a snarl of crimson, the body hits the floor. Fit's barrel empty of its last round staring at its final reaping smeared in the dirt.
The pair hushed silent with a quick inhale of anticipation; they now stare him down with eyes far more weary. The paper sheriff now crumpled with a fear that creased his ego and made him look small, oh so small.
Fit laughed a hearty laugh, the type of laugh that stagnated the very air with a cold warning, slicing a spread of goosebumps into exposed skin and completely puncturing any semblance of safety the pair had.
"Now, how do we all feel about coming to a little agreement? A little I help you; you help me?" He starts as his laughter evens out to bargain, dropping down into that rumble that made pockets loose.
"I walk away as I am, you get all the credit for stopping this gold bust, retrieving the stolen goods and equipping yourself with a lead you've been waiting for months?" He asks into a silence that whipped and thrashed with unease, a decision undiscussed but heavily considered.
The sheriff splutters on his words before he hushes himself clearly struggling with the idea, he seems to want to stand his ground but is hushed to silence by the smoking gun in his grip.
"Or if that doesn't sound good enough for you how 'bout I blow your friends pretty little brain out then yours," Fit speaks up for him, the threat falling on ears with far more ammunition than he possessed, but with the glances exchanged he knew they took the bait.
"No?" He sneers after a brief pause.
"So, what's it going to be sheriff?" He awaits an answer impatient.
"You never show your face here again, not a breath in our direction and I'll consider your offer," his words come out sharper than anticipated, clearly still irritated by his earlier comments.
“Alright okay, now we’re talking,” he muses a filthy grin overtaking his pronunciation.
"I’ll stay out of your hair and if I show my face again you can shoot me dead, and for that you have my word," he accepts, pressing his free hand to his sternum in dramatic display of earnest.
"A deal?"
"Mike." The man in blue warns, with such grave eyes so grave he was seeing right through him and out the other side. Then and only then did Fit know he had hit the jackpot.
Mike's brow falters, easing up toward his hairline in a pitiful display of surprise, dropping into something that Fit thinks is realisation. He exchanges one last look at his partner, with a curt nod his revolver begins to lower until he slides it round his back.
"A deal."
He's lucky I'm not bluffing. Fit thinks as he returns the favour, burying his pistol back into its leather holster solidifying his intentions, and sliding down off his horse.
"Pleasure doing business with you sheriff," He hums smugly, patting down his jacket to straighten it against his frame and holding out a gloved hand to shake.
They solidify the deal as they catch each other’s hands with a shake, Fit holding him there for a fraction of a moment too long to clap his shoulder.
It's like most agreements he's come to, not many people really had the guts to turn him in they knew the potential trouble they put on their heads, well the smart ones did, and would rather take the shitty offer of no trouble than the bounty.
And the ones who didn't? Fit wasn't one to bluff, he already had far too much blood on his hands to be morally lenient.
"Officer." he acknowledges with a nod hoisting himself back up onto his saddle, readying himself up to head off for the night.
"Deputy." he corrects, and Fit finds himself grinning behind his bandana as he turns to him once more.
"Sure thing officer," He sends a wink his direction, basking in the expression he earns, the fluster of disbelief creasing his brow.
Mike retreats toward his second in command, shotgun still resting between his shoulder blades in surrender, he retrieves his partners pistol from the ground making a point of putting the safety on before handing it over.
The other studies his for a moment before sliding it into its holster at his hip, the sheriff hoists himself up onto the mare tight lipped and unimpressed.
He readies up, pressing down the creases in his jacket once more and landing two pats against his stallion before setting off east with as little as a few handfuls of gold and a pile of corpses.
It’s about half a year later when Fit lays eyes on that same blue jacket dressed with yellow petals that had come close to stealing his life, though his shoulders are as unfamiliar as much as the rest of the man is.
He had spotted a fire light in the middle of the barrens, expecting the usual down on their luck adventurer with a few rations to their name but he was stopped in his tracks when he catches sight of a horse clad in black and white checks.
He’d be in for a couple of bandits, stupid ones but definitely not unarmed.
Fit was always a nosy one.
Now he’s watching as the man in the stolen jacket drunkenly makes a show of his keep, a couple golden pieces and the clothes on his back
Clothes that are far too clean to have come off a corpse, but the likelihood of his survival was low if they’d left him out in this place.
He’s about to retreat into the night with a couple of things he’d managed to slide from some of the bags on the horses, but he’s pulled back into his vantage point between tents by a single sentence.
“We’ve got a fighter on our hands; you’ve got a lot of nerve huh deputy?" he growls with quite the amusement as he reaches out of Fit’s view.
He pulls a body up into view by his dark hair, his left eye blooming purple and bloodshot, dried blood smearing up his face from his busted lip and the gnarly split across his nose- clearly having taken a beating and some more.
He holds the man at eye line and his face twists into a scowl as the bandit presses him for an answer, so close hot breath grazes aching skin.
It's exactly the man he wasn’t expecting to see so soon, the man with the jacket laden with yellow carnations unlike anything he'd ever seen.
“Fuck you,” he snarls spitting bloody bile into the dirt, holding far too strong a ground for a man currently a reflex away from becoming an exploding mass of searing flesh and bone, clearly not bashful to the concept of becoming a corpse.
A scenario Fit had seen played out far too many times.
He’s dropped from where he’s held, the air audibly expelled from his chest upon impact, before the guy lands a few kicks on him and he’s pinned by an unforgiving boot.
“I’d watch that dirty mouth of yours if I were you pretty boy, can’t get you out of everything,” he grates the sole of his shoe across his face leaving a bloodied dark smear that will surely match his busted eye.
The man falls silent, seemingly resigned to his punishment, he coughs through what's probably a set of bruised or broken ribs and spits up more blood.
He beats on him for a few more painful minutes, and Fit isn't sure why he's still here, or why he feels it twist and turn in his stomach when he considers the man on the floor, a pull that he couldn't quite tug away.
But who would he be if not a complicated bastard.
The man of the hour lands his final blow before taking a step back, a kick of dust and a low chuckle as he claims his weapon from his holster.
Staring down the barrel locked and loaded, the man is unflinching, big brown eyes peer through thick eyelashes bloodshot and watery. He speaks up.
"Go on. Shoot me." his words come out cold, a demand through parted lips.
The bandits face twists something adjacent to amusement that flickers red and dangerous, he laughs but it rings out humourless.
"What was that?" he tests.
"Shoot me." He supplies, a tilt of the head and dry swallow.
He laughs again, this time the gun stutters in his hands. Hesitation. He plays with the trigger fighting the dare like a challenge he doesn’t know how to win.
A crack of a bullet paints the sand red, ringing across the plains like a lightning snap pressing the air with silent static, the world tilts with an adrenaline rush and Fit practically buzzes with the sight before him.
A thousand yellow petals now crumpled and bleeding.
The others begin to scramble kicking up dust and trembling, a few let out panicked pleading then they all drop like flies, smattering after smattering they're dead in the sand. There one second, gone the next.
He gathers himself retrieving some supplies, giving a moment to steel the rushing in his ears and tremble in his hands to get himself out of this place as quick as the situation willed it.
The deputy lays unmoving, barely outlined by the dull glow of the fire.
"Funny seeing you here," Fit chuckles still prickled with the high, breathing beneath the crackling of the fire and between the stilted night air.
The other man remains unmoving, quiet, his dark eyes flicker up at him for a moment before returning to stare straight ahead without as much as a sigh.
He sees that familiar empty pit that wedges itself between that deep utter hopelessness and a hunger that is barely discernible between broken bones. He’d be a liar if he didn't feel that same sickness creep up on him at the mere sight of it.
A reminder of the bleary set of stars that squinted back at him as he struggled for breaths between the ringing in his ears and searing pain, disassociating against everything in his sight swimming red caught between being alive or dead.
Fit suppresses a hum as he crouches down to deal with the rope, cutting away at the tight bands rubbing pale skin red raw, only then does the man flinch at the cold sear of the blade.
The ropes fall slack around his wrists hitting the sand before he makes quick work on the ones that pin his legs together, less intricately tied but definitely tighter. The man remains still under the mess of rope not showing any signs of movement. Fit takes it upon himself to pull it away with as much care he could have in the low light, he needs to start moving.
He gives a moment to the man in front of him to engage in his newfound freedom but his limbs remain dead weight against the sand, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indication he hadn't untied a corpse.
"Can you sit up?" He asks, partly because he isn't sure he can, but mostly because they don't have much more time.
"I didn't think you the type to take ransom, lucky me." The deputy finally speaks up, voice course and quiet, with an edge of irony Fit supposes he's earnt.
He lets himself chuckle but doesn't bite, it won't help them now.
"Well...You can't drink this down there," he muses hoping to sway him, removing his waterskin from his hip and holding it out.
The man shifts, glancing up through displaced hair, dark eyes connect with the object in question, easing into something of resignation. Fit holds out an arm but doesn't overstep, allowing the other man to make his own choice.
He watches as the man slowly lifts himself into sitting position, wincing with every incremental movement ignoring Fit's outstretched hand in favour of struggling through full body tremors.
When he gets there Fit passes the flask down and the first mouthful gets immediately spat into the dirt, red and sandy.
He takes a drink in silence, Fit shifts around for a moment more, removing himself from in front of him, he then places his shoes and jacket down in his lap returning them to the rightful owner. The deputy finally meets his eye.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Can you stand?" Fit brushes him off in favour of trying to get him up, he peers up at him unmoving before beginning to get himself off the ground it's shaky, but he manages.
Legs tremble beneath his weight with a slight sway in his step, he pulls his duster slowly not to disturb any injuries he might have sustained in his beating. He watches for a moment, worried his legs would buckle beneath him, or he'd pose some sort of reaction to the events over the past few minutes. But he doesn't.
"My horse is stationed just past these tents west, we need to make a move before we have company," Fit begins to explain, hauling a bag up off the floor from by the fire.
When Fit looks back to him, he nods, quiet, his hazed expression telling Fit all he needed to know. Gently does it.
"Is there anything else? I've grabbed some of their food and supplies you-"
"I'm not leaving without her," He speaks over Fit, staring just past him to connect with that same mare he rode months ago, the one he nearly stole his life on.
Fit just looks down at him and presses his lips together, he holds his gaze like it’s the most trivial thing he's ever said, and Fit can't find it in him to argue it wouldn't hurt to have a secondary horse, but it takes minutes off their undetermined timer.
"Okay."
Fit retrieves the mare and loads her with a few extra supplies; the deputy presses his palm to her neck and just leaves it there while he makes quick work with gearing her up- looting off the men in the sand like it was his in the first place. There's a couple of minutes where Fit is hurriedly shoving things in bags and the only sound is the rustle of bags and slight crackle supplied by the fading fire.
"Thank you." The deputy croaks, so quiet and watery Fit nearly misses it.
"Don't thank me yet, we're not in the clear till we're out of here." Fit chuckles out, crouching down just beside the dark mare and meeting deep brown once again.
The man swallows hard, watching Fit so carefully he feels it against his skin, eyes scanning the way his nerves twitch and contract with every motion.
“Okay.”
They make their way west, into the silent darkness of the desert. Fit leading them into nothing like it was his rightful path, into nothing but the glow of night with nothing but two horses far too tired to get them to the next town along and stolen supplies.
The deputy shifts in his peripheral for the seventh time in the past few minutes, each time drawing his eyes over in blinks, caution mixed with worry keeps him quiet as they walk but it's beginning to wear through his composure.
Fit wants to ask, to pry, but he doesn't.
He steals a longer glance, Brown eyes blink slowly through the darkness, heavy, pressed dark and swollen.
He yawns, so does Fit.
The minutes stretch on.
"It's Fit by the way,"
"You can call me Fit." He clarifies clearing his throat.
A soft expression finds him, before his eyes shift away.
"Pac."
Fit's lips press into a grin.
"Pleasure to see you again, officer."