In From The Rain
Oscar Piastri x plant nerd!reader
Masterlist
Summary: Oscar’s looking for an easy to care for houseplant. You have just the solution. Check out the moodboard here!
Word Count: 7.1k
Warnings: none
The greenhouse is quiet in the early morning. It’s one of your favorite things. Before the customers come in, looking for flowers for their porch or vegetable plants for their gardens, it’s just you and the plants and the sun streaming in through the glass. So when somebody interrupts your morning solitude, you’re not exactly happy about it.
Sure, you’re technically open, but nobody ever gets here this early. You’re watering plants in your rain boots, a mug of coffee in your hand, when the front door swings open. You turn to look, the noise startling you.
The man who walks in looks sheepish when his eyes meet yours. He ducks under a hanging basket, nearly trips over your garden hose. His cheeks flush red. You’d be more irritated with his presence if he wasn’t being so cute about it.
“Sorry, the- the sign said open,” he says, backing towards the door.
“You’re fine. We are open,” you affirm, flicking off the sprayer before you drown the petunias in front of you. “I was just surprised to see someone in here so early.”
He laughs. It’s a nice sound. Almost as nice a sound as his voice, with an Australian accent. He stops backing away. You should probably point out that he’s standing in a puddle, but you’re not sure if that’s really your place.
“Can I help you find something?” You ask.
He takes a step forward. A thick band of sunlight shines down on the top of his head, like a halo. He brushes his floppy hair from his face.
“No, that’s okay. You’re busy, I’ll just have a look around,” he says.
You nod. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
You turn back to the flower trays in front of you. They’ll need pruning, soon. And some of the hanging baskets are getting a bit unruly- it’ll likely be time to put them on sale in the next few days, to open up space for new plants. You can hear the man walking around behind you, peering at the plants. His footsteps are hesitant, and when you look, he has his hands held behind his back. He leans close to read the signs, brows tightly wound.
He obviously has no idea what he’s looking for.
You put the hose away and set your nearly empty coffee down at your workstation in the back of the greenhouse. Then you make your way back up to the front, where he’s standing near the succulents.
“Sure you don’t want help?” You ask.
He looks up with a sheepish grin. “Is it that obvious that I’ve got no idea what I’m doing?”
“A bit,” you say, and he laughs again. “That’s okay, though. It’s what I’m here for. What are you looking for?”
He stands up straight, eyes dancing over the greenhouse. “So. I’ve been told my apartment is boring. A friend suggested a plant to liven up the space.”
You nod. A tale as old as time. He’ll either kill the plant within a week or fill his whole place with them.
“But I’m gone a lot for work,” he says. “Like, a lot. So I need something that won’t wilt the second I’m gone, you know?”
You nod. “Does your apartment get good light?”
He laughs. “I don’t know what good light means.”
“Which direction do your windows face?”
“South,” he says, confidently. “Google said that was good. Right?”
You fight a laugh. He’s a bit adorable. Trying very hard to get it right. Like this is a test with right and wrong answers.
“Yeah, south facing is great.” You gesture towards the succulents. “You could get a succulent. They can go weeks without watering, but they need lots of light.”
He nods in understanding and purses his lips. “I thought these were cactuses. Or cacti?”
“Close,” you tell him, and he smiles again. “Cacti are the ones with the spikes.”
He nods in understanding. He crouches down, then, eye levels with the little plants. Your heart is melting. You scuff one of your rain boots against the ground. You could stand here and watch the way his long eyelashes flutter as he blinks all day, but that would be creepy and you have a job you’re supposed to be doing.
“How do I know which one to get?” He says, quietly. “Like… there are so many different kinds.”
Your face breaks out into a huge grin. He’s so endearing. “I think you’ll know when you see it.”
He appears at the front cash register ten minutes later, a succulent in hand. It’s a little one, the perfect starter plant. He’s eyeing the decorative pots next to you, brows furrowed again.
“Those are too big for that plant,” you tell him, and he breathes out a sigh. “There are smaller ones on the other side of the display.”
He moves to look. You hear him shuffling, hear him pick up pots and then set them down. Then he appears again, a little pot with black and white checkerboard print on it in his other hand.
“Perfect,” you say softly. “Have you got potting soil?”
He clears his throat. “Um. No, but I’ve got a courtyard at my apartment with a garden… but I’m sensing from the look on your face that that won’t do.”
You roll your eyes playfully. Then you reach under the counter and grab one of the small sample bags of potting soil you keep on hand.
“Here. On the house.” You say. “So you can put that plant in the pot.”
“Wow. Thanks,” he says. He sets the other items down on the counter. “Thanks for all your help, actually.”
“Just doing my job,” you say with a shrug.
You bag the items carefully, making sure the plant won’t be squished. You put a care instruction sheet in the bag, too. Then you slide it to him with a smile.
“There’s a care sheet in there that should help. Enjoy your new plant,” you say. “I hope it works out.”
“Me too,” he says.
He leaves, then, and you’re left with your quiet greenhouse once again. It’s odd. Usually you breathe a sigh of relief after a customer leaves. But this time, you almost want him to come back.
…..
Two weeks later, you’re back at your workstation re-potting a sad looking philodendron. You look up from it when you hear the bell over the front door ring. The watering is already done, the hose put away, so there’s nothing for the man to trip over this time. But it is the same guy, and he ducks under the hanging basket the same way. You should maybe move it, but he seems to be the only one who’s had an issue with it. You stand up, wiping the dirt from your hands on your apron.
“You didn’t kill that succulent already, did you?” You call out.
His eyes dart to meet yours, and he laughs. “No! Promise.”
“Good. That would be a new record,” you laugh.
You let him wander the store on his own for a few minutes as you get the philodendron correctly in the new pot. Then you give it some water and take it with you to set it back out on the shelf. He’s still the only other person in the store, and he’s currently eyeing the flats of flowering plants.
“It’s actually going really well,” he says as you walk by. “He has a new leaf.”
That’s when you know the guy is hooked. He has a new leaf. The plant is no longer just a plant to him. Absent-mindedly, you wonder if he’s the type to name his plants. You set the one in your hands down on the table in front of you, your back to him so he doesn’t see your wide grin. When you turn around, you tone it down.
“That’s great,” you say encouragingly. “So I’m guessing you want another one?”
He nods, rubbing his finger over the leaf of a fiddle leaf fig. “Yeah, but I’m thinking something different this time. Something bigger.”
“You don’t want that one,” you say, and he backs away from the fig tree slightly. “Fiddle leafs are notoriously dramatic. If you left her for a week she’d drop all her leaves.”
He sighs and stands up. “What would you suggest?”
You wave him over to another area of the store. He follows eagerly, footsteps splashing in the leftover puddles from the morning watering. You lead him to a section of spiky, tall plants.
“Snake plant,” you say, pointing at them.
He’s standing next to you, and your shoulders just barely brush. A shiver runs down your spine. You try to hide it.
“Snake plant,” he repeats. “The name makes sense.”
“People also call them mother in law’s tongue,” you add. You fight the urge to check his ring finger. “But if you’ve got a mother in law I’d suggest avoiding that name.”
He laughs, and his shoulder bumps into your again. “I don’t. But snake plant sounds cooler.”
You nod in agreement. “They do well with very little water. And, they can do okay in pretty low light, too. So if you’ve got a darker area that needs a plant, it would be a good fit.”
He’s up at the register ten minutes later, plant and a pot in hand. This one is plain terracotta. You like that he’s the type of person to buy the pots, too. Some people just leave them in the boring plastic, and it makes you sad to think about. All plants deserve a nice home. You say that to him as you ring him up, and he laughs. He’s also grabbed a small bag of potting soil this time.
Your repeat the process, same as last time, and hand him the bag. He takes it, and then he hesitates.
“Thanks again,” he says, juggling the bag until it’s held in one arm. He sticks his hand out to you. “I’m Oscar, by the way.”
You tell him your name, though you’re sure he could read it off your nametag, too. When you shake his hand, you swear the warmth of it runs all the way up your arm. He thanks you again, and then he disappears out the door once again. That ache is back in your chest. You find yourself hoping he’ll be back soon.
…..
He does come back. Multiple times. He buys more succulents on one trip, asking you to help him choose between them, and then he ends up buying all three instead. Another morning he comes in and you show him a ZZ plant you’ve just gotten in that you think will be perfect for him- you don’t tell him you’ve been saving it for him at your work station. It’s just… you know it’ll look great next to the snake plant he bought.
Each time he comes to the store, he hangs around a little longer. You chat about the weather, about the plants in the store, about his plants at home. You tell him funny stories about other customers and complain to him about the rude ones. In return, he tells you about his coworkers, specifically one named Lando who he seems to get into a lot of mischief with. He hasn’t said what he does for work. You field weird about asking, so you don’t.
The 4th time he stops by, you suggest a pothos. He eyed the leaves and vines skeptically.
“The other ones looked tough, you know? Like they’d survive even if I fucked up.” He tugs at one of the vines. “Are you sure about this one?”
You nod encouragingly. “You can handle it. I promise. Plus, the cool thing about these is you can cut parts of the vines, like this,” you say, holding up one you’d taken from the workstation. “And then you stick it in water for a bit, it grows roots, and you’ve got a whole new plant.”
He raises his eyebrows. “That’s cool.”
“I know,” you laugh.
He joins you up at the front to buy the plant. You go through the same routine. This time, he’s picked out a pretty blue ceramic pot for it. It compliments the leaves well. Then he leans on the counter and the two of you start chatting. You’d had a shipment that came in last week with a bunch of dead plants, so you regale him with the story of trying to deal with the company’s customer service. In turn, he tells you a story about his family back home- one of his sisters had a dance recital, his mother tried to videotape it for him, he received a video of his mother’s face as she watched the recital. You don’t realize how long the two of you have been talking until Jane, the next person on the schedule, walks in.
You stand up straight, face growing hot suddenly. “Hi, Jane!”
“Hi, hun,” she says, walking past the two of you. “Sorry I’m late. Bet you’re dying for your lunch break.”
She’s late? You and Oscar must’ve been talking for… forever. It had felt like only minutes. He smiles sheepishly and pushes away from the counter.
“Well, I should be going,” he says, taking the bag in his arms. “Thanks again!”
You watch him walk out the front door, unsure why it feels like you’ve been caught. It reminds you of the feeling you’d gotten years ago, when your teacher found you and the boy you had a crush on in the hallway alone. You hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but it still makes you feel strange.
“Friend of yours?” Jane asks when you walk past her to take your break.
You blink, shrugging. “I think he might be.”
…..
Oscar always comes in on Tuesdays. You avoid taking Tuesdays off and won’t admit to yourself that he’s the reason why. But when you wake up with a raging fever and a pounding head, you know you have to call in. Jane, always a sweetheart, takes your shift. When you see her two days later, it’s after you’ve already done the opening shift.
“Did you see your plant?” She asks as she breezes through the greenhouse.
You shut off the hose you’d been using to water a particularly thirsty chrysanthemum. “What plant?”
“The one your friend brought,” she says, and you only feel more confused. “He dropped it off Tuesday, said he was looking for you. It’s on the desk.”
You walk over to the workstation. Sure enough, in a tiny plastic pot- likely one from one of the succulents he’d bought-there’s a small pothos vine growing. You pick up the little plant, knocking over the piece of paper propped up on it in the process. You reach for it, finding a note written in rushed, messy scrawl.
I know you’ve probably got tons, but it felt right that you would have my very first propagation. Learned that word from the internet. Feel better soon! -Oscar
You turn to look at Jane. She’s at the register, not paying you any attention. You cradle the tiny plant close to your chest and do the same with the note. Then you tuck the paper away for safekeeping.
The plant, however, you carry with you all day. You place it in a sunbeam at the front register. When it catches your eye every so often, you feel a warmth in your chest.
…..
The next time Oscar comes in, he eyes the little plant at the register. You’ve stuck a little stake in it and tied a bow on top. He smiles softly and turns back to the display of pots. He chooses a tiny one with checkerboard print, the same as his very first purchase. You ring him up for all his items, but when you go to put that one in the bag, he grabs it and shakes his head. He slides it towards your tiny vine.
“For your plant,” he says, smiling softly.
You break into a face splitting grin. “You’re too sweet.”
His fingers brush against yours when you take it from him. You swear you feel sparks. You wonder if the red cheeks he sports as he leaves the store means he felt it, too.
…..
Another man comes into the shop early in the morning. It’s a Wednesday this time. You know it won’t be Oscar because of that, but you still look up eagerly. The guy nods, waving politely. You smile and go back to your watering. He walks the aisles, looking at the plants and never picking them up.
“Excuse me?” He says, after you’ve put the hose away. You turn, trying to hide your surprise at his American accent. “Um. Could you tell me where the succulents are?”
You grin and nod, walking over towards the area. You point them out.
“These right here,” you say. “Anything I can help you with?”
He stares at the tiny plants. “I have no idea what I’m doing. My friend, he’s gotten really into plants, and he talks about this shop all the time. Figured I’d see what the hype was all about.”
You tilt your head. He’s probably not, but it almost sounds like he’s talking about Oscar. You try and shake the idea from your head. Oscar is just a customer, he’s not going around and telling his friends about the greenhouse he goes to. He’s definitely not telling them about you.
“Succulents are a good place to start,” you say.
He sighs. “I don’t have much of a green thumb. I don’t think I’ll be very good at this.”
“Well, it’s worth a try.” You say with a shrug. “You might surprise yourself.”
He ends up picking out a little succulent. He doesn’t go for a decorative pot. He seems wholly unconfident in his ability to keep it alive for more than a few days. Still, he smiles as he’s leaving. He pauses in the doorway.
“You know, I thought Oscar was exaggerating when he told me about you,” he says. “But I get it now.”
He’s out the door before you can even form a syllable, let alone a word or a sentence. You think about chasing after him and asking what the hell that even means, but you stay rooted there. Oscar talks about you. To his friends. You swear your heartbeat doesn’t slow all morning, and the heat in your cheeks stays there all day.
…..
Oscar comes rushing into the shop the next Tuesday. He has a brown paper bag in his arms, and his eyes are wide. He’s breathing heavily, like he’s been running. You stand up, setting the garden hose down. He nearly slips on a puddle as he rushes over to you, and you reach out to steady him.
“I just got home last night,” he rushes, “and something’s wrong with- with Greg.”
“Greg?” You ask, leaning to peer into the bag.
“My succulent,” he says. His cheeks have gone red. “I name my plants. Is that weird?”
You laugh. “No, it’s not.”
You don’t tell him you’ve named your tiny pothos vine after him. You take the bag from his arms and walk to the back of the store, towards the work station. You reach in and pull out the succulent. It’s a little withered, a bit droopy. It’s also doubled in size since he bought it.
“I’ve been watering him when the soil gets dry,” he says, “and he’s still getting sunlight. I’ve tried everything- I left music playing for them when I left, so-“
Your eyes flicker up to him. He plays music for his plants. He’s the cutest man you’ve ever met. You want to take his face in your hands and kiss his forehead. Or his lips. He has these cute little freckles and moles- you’d like to draw constellations between them. Your face feels hot again. You direct your attention back to the plant as he rambles on. You frown, tugging slightly to see the roots.
“Osc, babe,” you interrupt, and he stops and stares at you. “He’s just a little root bound.”
You don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve just called him babe. It’s too late now.
“What’s that mean?” He asks, the panicky tone still in his voice.
“It means,” you start, nudging his side softly with your elbow, “that you’ve taken such good care of him that he’s outgrown this pot. He needs more soil. More room to spread out.”
His shoulders drop. The panic melts off his face. “Oh.”
You laugh. “God, I can’t believe when you came in here the first time you had no idea what a succulent even was. And now here you are, all panicked over a little wilting. You’ve become a true plant nerd, haven’t you?”
He shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe.”
“It’s cute,” you tell him, just to watch the blush creep up on his cheeks again. “Come on, let’s get him a new pot and some fresh soil.”
You lead him up to the front. He starts to pick through the display, holding the succulent up to the different options until he finds the right one. It’s a light orange.
You nod in approval. “Now you’ve got an empty pot,” you say, pointing at the original pot for the succulent. “Which means if you want, you have an excuse to buy another plant.”
“You’re so smart,” he says, eyes wide.
He rushes over to the display of succulents. While he’s picking one out, you carefully re-pot the plant into its new home. He takes his time, like always, indecisive to the very end. When he makes it up to the counter, he grins widely at the sight of the plant in its new pot.
“Thanks,” he says, softly. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
…..
When Oscar comes into the shop on a particularly rainy Tuesday, you’re trying hastily to hide your tears. He doesn’t come in every week, but it’s just your luck that he’s here today of all days. You wave and turn your back to him, sticking to the workstation. You hear the soft fall of his tennis shoes, though, even over the sound of the rain against the greenhouse roof, and you know he’s making his way towards you.
“Everything okay?” He asks, voice low.
You turn and find him with his hands in his jeans pockets. You wipe at your cheeks hastily, hoping he can’t tell how upset you are, but knowing you look a wreck. Your hair is soaked in rainwater, and your eyes likely red rimmed and puffy. It’s confirmed when his soft smile drops into a frown.
“I’ve had a shit morning,” you tell him with a sigh.
He pulls one hand from his pocket. “You, uh. You have dirt on your cheek.”
You groan and try to brush it away. Oscar chews on his lower lip. Then he reaches out, his fingertips sweeping against the skin of your face. His hand is warm, despite the chill in the air. Tiny sparks seem to spread across your skin, following the trail of his touch. Your face grows hot.
“There,” he says.
“Thanks,” you reply.
He nods. “What’s going on? If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, but…”
You sigh and turn away slightly, back to the plant in the pot in front of you. His gaze is so warm that you can’t stand to look at him, afraid you might start crying all over again.
“Just. Woke up late, so I was in a rush. And then I locked my car key in the car because I forgot something in the flat, and my mum has the spare key and she’s not even awake yet, so I had to walk here in the rain. And I couldn’t find my umbrella.” You brush a wet piece of hair away from your forehead. “And I slept like shit, and haven’t had any caffeine because I was late. So, yeah.”
“Shit morning,” Oscar agrees.
You nod. You finally turn to look at him again. There’s a soft look on his face, one you can’t quite place. He reaches out, places his hand flat on the counter next to yours. If you shifted your thumb just slightly, you could touch his. You want to, but you don’t.
“Sorry, I- Can I help you find anything?” You ask, blinking at him.
“You don’t need to be sorry, I asked,” he says. He rocks back on his heels and pulls his hand back. “I actually just remembered, I’m- I have to- I’ll be right back.”
He turns around and walks quickly to the front of the store. The bell dings as he walks out through the front door. You stare at the spot where his hand had been for just a moment and feel your heart shatter in your chest. You’d gone and over shared with your favorite customer, the one you thought might actually be your friend, and now you’ve scared him off. Yet another tally to add to the shit morning. You collapse into the chair behind the counter and rest your head in your hands, trying to will the tears away.
You’re not sure how long goes by before you hear the bell over the door again. And really, nobody comes in this early, so why are they choosing today of all days? You hastily wipe your face on the sleeve of your sweatshirt and stand up, plastering a smile onto your lips to greet whoever is in the store.
Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s… Oscar. He’s walking towards you, though he’s not looking at you. He has three takeout coffee cups balanced precariously in his hands. His hair matches yours now, soaking wet and hanging over his forehead. You burst into laughter as he sets them down.
“Oh my god, I thought I scared you off,” you say, brushing a stray tear from the corner of your eye.
“No,” he says, eyes wide. “You said you needed caffeine. There’s a coffee shop just down the road.”
You laugh and press your hands to the counter, leaning towards the cups. “Three cups?”
He smiled sheepishly. “I got you coffee, but I didn’t know if you wanted cream or sugar. So,” he points at the smallest of the three cups, “this is cream,” he says while digging in his pockets. Then he places an assortment of sugar packets on the counter. “And here’s sugar. The other cup is mine.”
You grin at him, shaking your head. “I knew you were my favorite customer for a reason.”
The smile he gives you in return is bright enough to make up for the lack of sun, to wash away the rain clouds, to warm your cold hands. You open the lid to the coffee and pour a bit of cream in, and then add two sugars. Oscar watches, nodding.
“I’ll know for next time,” he says.
Your heart flutters in your chest. Next time. You like the sound of that. You wrap your hands around the paper cup and let the warmth seep into your fingers before you take a sip. You sigh happily, meeting his eyes over the lid. The cup in his hand has something written on it in messy pen. You wonder if the barista tried to give him their number, and you fight back the jealous feeling at the thought.
“Thank you,” you say, softly.
“It’s no biggie,” he insists. “I owed you anyway, for saving Greg.”
He hangs out for a while that morning, leaning on your counter and chatting. You re-pot some plants and then bring them out to the displays, and he follows along. There’s something about his presence alone that warms you up from the inside out. By the time he looks at his watch and curses, muttering about having a meeting, you’re feeling much better. His hand brushes your shoulder before he leaves. You call after him to thank him again for the coffee.
He stops in the doorway, rain falling on his arm that’s extended to hold the door open. “I’ll see you soon!”
Then he disappears into the storm.
…..
You don’t see him soon. It’s not abnormal for Oscar to go a couple weeks without stopping in, so at first you don’t think much of it. Each Tuesday, though, you look up eagerly when the bell over the door rings, and your heart sinks when it’s not him. Maybe you really did over share, maybe he did get scared off. You try not to think about it.
It’s just… he was cute, and kind, and fun to talk to. He brought you coffee. You wonder how his plants are doing, if he’s still playing music for them while he’s gone. You have fleeting images in your brain of him watering the plants, taking the time to look for new leaves and check the roots. You almost wish he’d have another plant emergency, just to give him a reason to stop back in.
Eventually, after a month goes by and he hasn’t been back, you give up almost entirely. You’ll move on eventually, find a new favorite customer. You couldn’t have expected him to keep coming around forever, after all. To him, you were just another retail worker.
You do end up seeing his American friend one more time. He comes in on a Wednesday morning, just like before. He doesn’t stop and look at any of the plants, instead beelining for you. You’re working on bagging some potting soil and watch him with wide eyes.
“Hi,” you say. “Can I help you find something?”
“No, I just-“ he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I super killed that succulent.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re Oscar’s friend, right? He didn’t help you?”
The guy shakes his head. “He made fun of me, though. Said I overwatered it.”
“How is he, anyways?” You ask.
Logan frowns. “He’s good.”
You nod. “Well, d’you want to try again?”
“No, that’s not why I-“ he sighs, rubbing his temples. “He won’t shut up about you, you know.”
You cross your arms over your chest. “Find that hard to believe, since he hasn’t been here for almost a month.”
Which is maybe a little mean spirited. And probably not something you should be saying to his friend. You wince.
Now it’s his turn to blink wildly. “So you miss him too?”
You squint at him. “Why are we having this conversation? I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Logan,” he says. “You haven’t like… reached out to him or anything?”
“How would I?” You ask. “I don’t even know his last name, let alone his phone number.”
“His last name’s Piastri.”
“That feels like information you shouldn’t be giving away to strangers.”
He’s not listening, though. Something seems to have clicked in his head. His eyes go wide and he starts to back away.
“I have to go,” he says. “Thanks!”
You’ve had a lot of strange interactions while working retail, but that one comes in pretty high on the list. And it leaves you wondering about Oscar, which is something you’re trying desperately not to do. All in all, not a great day.
…..
Two weeks later, you clock out of your Tuesday shift around lunchtime and head down the street. It’s raining again, but at least this time you’re armed with a raincoat and an umbrella. Your car is parked nearby, but you’re in the mood for coffee and warm food, so you head to the cafe nearby. You try not to think about the time Oscar had brought you coffee from there. You can’t help picturing his soft smile, eyes trained on the cups balanced precariously in his hands.
You make it halfway to the cafe before a gust of wind hits your umbrella at just the right angle and snaps the metal supports. Then, as if the universe is playing a cruel trick on you, a car speeds by on the road next to you, hits a puddle, and sprays you with muddy water. It soaks through your clothes and onto your skin nearly immediately. You fight the urge to ball your hands into fists and yell dramatically at the sky.
“Shit,” someone says, and the sound of his voice makes your breath catch in your chest. Then he says your name.
You turn, coming face to face with Oscar. Well. Okay. He’s studying you with a pained look on his face and standing under an umbrella.
“Yeah, shit,” you mutter, shaking water from your hands. “Oh my God. Hi, by the way. It’s been a bit.”
“It has,” he agrees, shuffling closer to hold the umbrella over you. “Here. Um. You okay?”
You shrug. “S’just water. I won’t melt.”
Oscar laughs- god, you’ve missed that sound- and nudges your shoulder. “You’ve got bad luck with rainstorms, huh?”
You nod. You’re trying not to freak out at the fact that he’s here. Oscar is standing next to you, holding his umbrella over your head. He’s here and he’s talking to you and he’s feeling sympathetic, which maybe means he doesn’t think you’re completely crazy.
“S’what I get for trying to go get coffee,” you say over the sound of raindrops on the umbrella. “And lunch. Now I’ve got to drive home like this.”
Oscar frowns, his whole face crumpling with it. “Hey, you know… I live just a block down. If you want, you could come and change into some dry clothes.”
Your mother would kill you for even considering it. You can practically hear her yelling in your head. But god, it’s Oscar. It’s Oscar and you haven’t seen him in a month and you might never see him again. There’s something about the soft look on his face that makes you trust him.
“Okay,” you say, quietly. “That would be… really nice. But only if you’re sure.”
“Of course,” he says.
Your shoulders brush as you walk, the umbrella over both of your heads. The two of you are nearly silent on the walk there. It’s like neither of you quite know what to say. You know you don’t. You worry he’s regretting inviting you to his place. But he lets you in the front door, leads you to the elevator, and all the way up to flat. When he opens the door, warm air pours over you like a river. You step in and toe off your boots, wincing at the squish of your wet socks.
Oscar winces, too. “Here, the bathroom’s right there,” he says, pointing at a partially open door. “I’ll go grab you some dry clothes. There’s towels in there too.”
You nod and step into the room. So far, the little bit of his apartment that you’ve seen matches up with what he’s told you. There are no shoes sitting out in the entryway. The bathroom is nearly spotless, which makes you feel a bit guilty about the dirty rainwater you’re dripping onto the floor. Oscar’s only gone long enough for you to take off your jacket.
He knocks on the door. “I’ve got clothes for you.”
You open the door, and he’s standing there, eyes squeezed shut. The clothes are held out in midair, like he’s trying to keep his distance. You laugh and take them, murmuring out a thanks. As you go to change, you hear him walk away.
You shuck your wet clothes off and drop them in the tub, shivering when the air hits your bare skin. You wipe the rainwater from your skin. Then you pull on the clothes he gave you- a t-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of sweatpants. Plus a pair of thick, warm looking socks. All of them are baggy on you, but luckily the pants have a drawstring so you can pull them tight around your hips. You wring the water out of your hair with the towel and then wrap it around your shoulders before you step out into the hallway.
You can hear him moving around in the next room, so you head there. He’s standing at the kitchen island, which is open to the living room. He looks up when he hears you walk in, and a soft smile spreads across his face. His living room is neat and tidy, too. His plants are all lined up on the windowsill. You recognize them all from your store, and you smile.
“D’you have a plastic bag I can put my clothes in?” You ask, and he tilts his head at you. “I don’t wanna get more rainwater on your floor. Or in my car, really.”
“I mean, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Or… you could throw them in the washer. Hang out for a bit.”
He’s not looking at you anymore. You’re glad, because you’re sure you have a dumbfounded look on your face. It’s then that you notice the coffee machine running on the counter behind him, and the snacks out on the counter. Your mind is racing. He hasn’t stopped by the shop in nearly a month, but now…
“I don’t want to be a bother,” you say, unsure what else there is to possibly say.
He shakes his head, still not looking up. “You’re not.”
You cast your eyes to the window. It’s raining harder now. And god, you’ve missed him. You didn’t realize just how much until you were standing here.
“It’s been a while,” he says, turning his back to you when the coffee maker beeps. “We have some catching up to do.”
You think about letting it go. Maybe it’s enough to be here. Maybe you just shouldn’t bring it up. But really, you’re confused about the fact that he stopped coming to the store.
You tilt your head at him. “Yeah, you stopped coming in.”
“Well, you never texted me,” he says. “So I figured I’d freaked you out or something. But then Logan said he stopped by and you asked about me-“
You stare at the back of his head, bewildered, and you break in. “Oscar, I don’t have your number.”
He freezes, hand in midair, reaching for a coffee mug. He turns his head over his shoulder, and his eyes meet your again. He looks just as confused as you feel. Suddenly, your heart is racing in your chest.
“I wrote it on the coffee cup,” he says, voice quiet.
You stare at him, wide eyed. “There was nothing on my coffee cup.” He shakes his head, opens his mouth, but you keep talking. “I’m sure of it. But there was writing on yours. I know because I wondered if the barista was trying to give you her number.”
Oscar just stares at you for a moment, his lips barely parted. “Shit. I gave you the wrong cup.”
Shit, you repeat in your head. He tried to give you his number. He thought he gave you his number, and then you never texted him. He thought you rejected him. No wonder he stopped coming in.
“You could’ve just asked me for my number, you know,” you tell him.
“Yeah, but this was cuter,” he says. “It was- it was my number and this cheesy ass pickup line that Logan helped me think of and I- I really thought you just didn’t…”
“Pickup line?”
“Looking back it sounds stupid,” he admits. “But yeah. I was trying to ask you out on a date. And so when you didn’t text me…”
You cross the room, walking right up in front of him. His hands have fallen to his sides. His eyes trace your face as you smile up at him. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, brows slightly furrowed. You can smell the coffee now- it reminds you of when he brought you the coffee weeks ago.
“You should ask me now,” you tell him, smiling brightly.
He nods. “Without the pickup line, though.”
You pout up at him. He grins. One of his hands comes up to the side of your face, fingers cupping your jaw. His thumb prods at your cheek.
“Will you go on a date with me?” He asks, voice low.
You pretend to think about it. Pretend it doesn’t make your heart melt just to hear him say it. “Hm. When?”
He shrugs, looks around. “How about now?”
“It’s raining,” you remind him.
“We can have a stay at home date,” he suggests. “Coffee, lunch, a movie, maybe.”
You tilt your head. “Sounds nice.”
“Yeah?” He says, sounding a bit like he doesn’t quite believe you.
“Yeah,” you agree. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me out since the day we met.”
Oscar laughs and leans closer. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for, then.”
He presses his lips to yours, and your eyes slip closed. You reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair to keep him close. He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear- it’s still wet from the rain, and both of you giggle into the kiss. His hands drop to your hips, shoving the sweatshirt out of the way to hold onto you. You could kiss him for hours, you think. It’s all you’ve wanted for months now.
The coffee is growing cold on the counter. Suddenly, though, you don’t need caffeine.
He pulls away slightly, looks you up and down. “You look cute in my clothes, you know.”
You giggle and tug on the sweatshirt, pointing at the orange logo on the chest. “Thanks. Big McLaren guy, are you?”
Oscar laughs and brushes his lips against your temple. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Then he goes back to kissing you. You’re not complaining. You’ve got all the time in the world to learn all about him.
…..
Weeks later, you corner Logan at the British Grand Prix. Oscar’s distracted by interviews, but Logan’s not busy.
“What was the pickup line he wrote?” You ask, arms crossed over your chest.
Surprisingly, he needs very little convincing. He just laughs, eyes darting to where Oscar stands behind you in the media pen. His gaze is full of amusement.
“I be-leaf we’re meant to be,” he says in a teasing tone. “He was down bad.”
You laugh and turn over your shoulder to look at your boyfriend. He’s grinning watching the two of you talk. Later, you tease him for the cheesy line, for hiding behind coffee cups and scribbled pen when he could’ve just told you. He teases you for the same, for not telling him how you felt, for not making a move. And then you look at him, knowing your gaze is terribly soft.
“I believe it, too,” you tell him.
When he kisses you, you draw constellations between the freckles on his face with your thumb. Outside, it starts to rain.
a/n: can you tell I am a big plant nerd? anyways live laugh love oscar piastri I want to help him pick out plants :)
taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me
2K notes
·
View notes
𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓
pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader
genre(s): western!au, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
word count: 14k
warnings: written before v2.2 & boothill's release, blood, injury, gun violence, swearing, alcohol consumption, implied/referrenced alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, graphic depictions of violence, death
notes: I've spent about the last month working on this a little bit each day, so I hope you enjoy this labor of love :). Feel free to tell me any warnings I might have missed! I also want to add that this is told in the past and present with flashback scenes in italics. Anyway, here are some flowers as a thank you for everyone who reads this! 💐 <3
Read it on ao3!
~~~
Dark clouds shrouded the sky as shots rang out across the valley. Dried mud fell from the edges of your boots in time with the gallops of your horse. Turning back, you aimed your revolver at one of the officers, red spread over his dirtied shirt not long after. A silver bullet grazed its way over the left side of your neck, leaving a stream of scarlet running down to stain your sharp white collar. The tarnished grey vest covering it blew open harshly in the breeze as you winded down the path into town.
Shouts echoed in the street as you leaned down, bringing the reins closer to your chest. Dainty yellow flowers reflecting the bit of sunlight breaking from the coming storm became trampled by hooves. Jumping the fence into a stranger’s backyard, you once again shot at another pursuant. He fell crudely from his ride, the horse startled and stopping before the same pickets.
With just one now on your tail, you jumped again, making a quick right down a small pathway and breaking out into the wide and dusty main street. Townsfolk jogged for cover in the shops, not unfamiliar with this song and dance, and carrying enough awareness to leave what could become an impromptu duel.
You spot a figure stepping out quietly from the nearby saloon, making his way behind the establishment. Bringing the reins together in one hand, you pulled tightly. Your horse stopped, and you brought them around to face the remaining officer – the deputy based on his badge. He pulled down the hammer on his revolver, aiming straight for your forehead. Bringing your hands up, you faced your palms outward alongside your head in mock defense. A small smirk grew on your face as you picked up on near silent hooves approaching the street.
“What’re you smilin’ about?” he asked pointedly.
A bang came from before you as blood splattered and flowed from the deputy’s head. He landed limp in the damp dirt, a look in his eyes that you could recall anywhere. The gaze of death – a complete absence of life in a form once animated.
A large stallion sidled up to you, a familiar head of black and white hair gesturing toward the path out of town. Angry shouting filled the street as people left their shelters, some staring you down and others rapidly walking to you, waving a hand or a weapon.
“We’d best get out of here before you can raise some more heaven.”
“You lead the way, then.”
With a wild speed, he took off ahead of you, wool cape billowing in the chilled air. You caught up quickly however, racing to pass the city limits and be in the wide-open again.
Desert ironwoods and mesquite trees became more abundant among the varying cacti. White translucent blossoms formed on some of them, while others rested uniquely. The sun began to pour further from the clouds, casting its rays over the light brown land as you rode on. At the top of a shady hill, you paused for a drink.
A husky voice broke through the birdsong, “Why don’t you get down for a minute?”
You looked at him quizzically, drying the corner of your mouth.
He matched your gaze sternly, “Well, first, you’re bleedin’ out the side of your neck. Second, I’m curious what that sweet mess you brought into town was,” his gaze softened as a proud smile grew on his face, “and third, I wanna hold you under the tree for a bit. It’s midday and I had ordered some fine lunch from the bar. I wasn’t expecting to be shootin’ a man instead of sittin’ with you.” he finished with a chuckle.
“You can sit with me now.” you retorted, lifting one leg around and off of your horse before making the jump off.
“Indeed, I can.” he replied smoothly, reciprocating your action.
Drawing open the satchel hanging along his stallion, Boothill pulled out two small packs – one likely containing a meal and the other a makeshift aid kit. Although he never needed food, and rarely required bandages, he would always carry them in the event that your supplies would run out. It was part of the reason he had initially gone into town, but you happened to bring in the lawmen on your way to meet him.
Tidying the braid in your horse’s hair, you felt cold fingertips brush against your shirt collar, shifting it to the side. A white cloth rested on your empty saddle, a few materials from the aid kit on top. A cold rag rubbed against the outer edges of your scrape before it was placed on your shoulder, the left side being held to the front of your neck. Water flowed down along the wound, giving the cloth a light pink color. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but one that you had grown used to after years on the range.
Another wet cloth swiped across the injury, leaving light streaks of antiseptic behind. A quick rip reached your ears before a flat gauze pad was gently placed at the site and a gauze wrap surrounded your neck snugly. It would only stay for a few days, needing your remaining kit supplies to be maintained.
A grey brim soon came into view as a hat was placed on your head.
“Now you’re lookin’ like a real outlaw.” Boothill smiled as he gathered up all of the medical items and walked them back to his satchel.
You snickered before replying, “Should I get one the next time we go to Warren? I’d reckon it’s about time.”
“I’m afraid we ain’t got the funds for that right now, there’s just enough to get provisions.”
“I never said I would be buying one, cowboy.” You retorted, slowly striding to where he stood and flicking your borrowed hat upward.
“Well go ahead and take ‘em for all they’ve got, then we can pay a little visit to the theater.” He slid his right arm around your waist, lightly dragging you closer.
“Are you askin’ me on a date?”
“Maybe I am, sugar.”
Placing his hat back on his head, you left a small kiss on his cheek and turned out of his arms, swiping your lunch from his saddle in the process. “Why don’t we have one now?”
He smiled, teeth sharp and eyes playful, before following behind you to the tree.
—
PART I - Sorrow-Gilded Equals
“Boothill, that’s my name.” The cyborg in front of you replied, swirling his glass of whiskey before drinking it down.
He stood tall, a firm steel body paired with shining silver eyes, determination reverberating in his gaze. It seemed only natural that he was the first to draw your attention, raucously celebrating the year’s final round-up with his fellow rangers.
“Say, undertaker,” he looked over, “care to join us for a round?”
You glanced backward from the bar to the faro table housing a few of the gang. A hand hit the wood in laughter, empty amber bottles rattling against each other. The owner of said hand brought twelve checks back to his stacks.
“Quit your cacklin’, you smug cutie!” Boothill shouted, leaning back against the bar.
“Oh, you flatter me, you gunslingin’ sack of shit! Get over here and give me a fun time, why don’t you!”
“Gunslingin’, huh?” you teased, “I thought that was forbidden on the trail.”
“Well, I ain’t never been one for rules.”
“Really, now? And here I thought cowboys had a sense of honor.”
“We do, but it don’t always follow convention.”
With a hum you turned, walking slowly to the group’s oval table. “I’ll join you, and so will he.” A gesture toward Boothill brought him over, where he took a seat across from you. After a few curt introductions, he voiced, “Will here is the banker,” before pulling out a small bag of nickels from a satchel on his belt.
You followed suit and exchanged them for checks and a hexagonal copper token from Will. He layed out all of the spades in two rows on his board – ace through 6 on the top, and king through 8 on the bottom. The seven sat at the end of both rows between the 6 and the 8. He placed another deck of cards in the dealing box and drew the soda before burning it off.
You placed one of your checks on the nine, betting that it would be drawn second. Will pulled and revealed the first of two cards in the deck. A three, to which Isaac had groaned. Next, he revealed the second card, a nine. With the losing and winning ranks determined, you had won the bet at 1 to 1 odds, bringing in another check on top of the one you wagered. Isaac lost his check to Will, leaving Boothill and Lee’s bets still on the table.
The losing card from the previous round went beside the face-down soda card. You placed two checks on five this time, watching as Boothill put three with yours. Isaac went for four, and Lee remained on ten. Five was the winning card this round.
The black, white, and red of the cards began to fade together as the night went on. After several rounds, you found yourself toe to toe with the “gunslinger”. He didn’t speak a word as you both prepared for the final bet.
Ten of your checks went on one, and ten of his were set on eight.
Will drew and displayed the cards, one was the second, making you the victor.
Boothill relaxed into his chair with a low whistle, “Seems like I’ve finally got some competition! What d’ya say to another game?”
“Well, I’m not one to turn down a challenge. Ready for a duel, cowboy?”
“Always.” he smiled, shifting forward to prepare for the coming rounds.
As Will prepped the next game, the doors to the saloon broke open abruptly.
“There you are, you no-good son of a bitch!”
A bang echoed through the saloon as a bullet shot straight for your table. A silver revolver appeared in view before sharp lead was firing toward the entrance. Boothill’s gun returned to its holster as the intruding man crumpled to the floor. Blood covered the wood, spreading into the grain and taking its place among the many stains.
Isaac approached the bartender, likely trying to give him some money and charm to resolve the incident. Lee strode to the body, kicking it over and revealing a green bandana in their pocket.
“Yep, no doubt he was here for us, Hill. One of Walker’s boys.”
You were slightly familiar with the name; Lloyd Walker was in charge of one of the most prominent gangs around. There were countless ambushes with him as the figurehead, and just from the mention alone you could observe various reactions across the establishment. Few continued on in their games, veterans to these types of conflict. Others seemed stiff or enraptured in conversation about the man. In the case of many of these rangers, their eyes had a fire of revenge.
Walking to stand by Lee, you folded your arms. “Well, he ain’t one of Walker’s boys, anymore. He’ll be mine by morning and the dirt’s by sundown.”
“Need help moving him?” Boothill offered, leaning down to pick up the fallen gun.
“Sure.” you accepted plainly.
He handed the gun to Lee who inspected it as Boothill lifted the corpse, carrying him over his shoulder without a care. The jaunty tune of the piano resumed as you left the saloon with the gunslinger.
"I must admit, undertaker, this here was quite the party."
"Glad I could entertain."
“It wasn’t just you. I forgot how much I missed the thrill of a standoff; this old town doesn’t provide those opportunities like it used to.”
“How roguish for a ranger, but I’d have to agree.”
“Oh? Is the resident mortician gettin’ into trouble after hours?”
“Only with you around.”
“But we’ve only known each other for a night, unless I’ve ran into you somewhere before?”
Your boots resounded over the boardwalk deck as you kept walking silently to the front of your parlor. He didn't press further and waited quietly for you to unlock the back door.
With a creak, said door went wide open and you watched carefully as he flipped the body over on a mortuary table.
Finished, he grabbed a nearby towel to dry the blood off and clean himself up. You got a better look at him as he did so, no longer caught up in games and drinking.
A story spread around town, over a decade ago. It didn't stick around for long, but you witnessed it yourself. There was a boy – probably about fifteen at the time. He arrived on the back of a horse before being taken into the jailhouse. At the end of the week, he had been released, and took up odd jobs around the area. He headed out on the range a few months later for the fall round-up, then never came back.
"I'll see myself out, good luck with this rottin’ sweetheart."
A hand turned the back door open once more before Boothill exit casually. It was half-closed when you finally responded.
"Perhaps."
He paused, shifting to look you in the eyes.
"You're Jesse Blackwell, right?"
His gaze fell to the floor, "Once, but I ain't anymore… Goodnight, undertaker.” He dismissed with a tip of his hat and a small smile, shutting the door as he left.
—
Soaked ground squelched beneath your boots, the now sunny sky reflecting in the soft brown. The streets of Warren were bustling, showcasing its status as the second largest city in the state. A dark grey cowboy hat rested on your head, a shining black belt running around its center. Stealing it was easy, all you had to do was get some drunken fool to follow you to an alley. Point your gun at him and wait for him to give you all he has, then leave with a cold threat – revolver boring hard into his head. If he talks, he’ll be hunted down and stripped of his tongue. If he runs after that, he’ll be gunned down where he stands. You had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Boothill opened the doors to Jerrell’s General Goods a few buildings down the road, disappearing inside. You leaned up against one of the front posts of the hotel, watching coaches and uncovered wagons traverse the main street. Your horse whinnied from beside you where they stood, resting and glancing around on occasion. A soft breeze brushed against your neck, the chill of former rain still present. Small thumps came from your left as somebody passed behind you.
A hand landed on your shoulder, turning you around against the post. They gripped the collar of your shirt, leveling their gaze with yours.
“I’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time, you coward.” They threw you into the mud, stepping down from the deck in anger. “You remember me?”
Standing up you replied, “Somebody’s always got a feud with a person like me, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”
“Town of Fort Talia, five years ago. You murdered my brother.”
“Jasper?”
“Well, it seems you do recall.”
He swung his right arm, fist colliding with the side of your face. It hurt terribly, but fights weren't uncommon to you. With where you grew up, and some training from Boothill, it came easy now.
You raised your own right arm, blocking his next hit before bringing your left up to target underneath his nose. He stumbled back a bit at the pain, and you hit again at his right cheek and then upward from under his jaw. He took a second to level himself before spitting at the ground and pulling his pistol from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, the grip facing outward.
"Do you not know how to use it, Ellis?
"I do, but I want you to feel my sufferin’ first.”
The grip crossed your cheekbone, sending a sharp sting across the plane. With you now staggered, a knife plunged into your torso just above the hip. It remained lodged in your flesh as you clashed onto the ground, mud coating your clothes.
Ellis stood still for a moment, watching. He glanced down at the gun, preparing to fire it off. Quickly and with slight caution, you drew your revolver and shot him between the eyes. He fell as the horses shifted and voiced their discomfort. Your head lay in the mud, breath trying to calm after the incident.
"You've always been a good-for-nothing piece of shit, Ellis." You whispered.
Standing up carefully and to the best of your ability, you heard something heavy landing on wood before wet footsteps.
“Hey, now,” Boothill said, hands coming to brace your elbows and steady you. “Who came and dragged you to heaven?” His eyes assessed you – up and down, side to side – then he brought your left arm around his neck.
"You couldn't hear us fightin' from the store? Here I thought you’re supposed to have superior hearing.”
Ignoring you, he placed you against your horse, retrieving the full satchels from the deck and laying them down beside you. His cold hands came to pick you up, setting you just behind his saddle, legs hanging over the side to keep yourself in the stablest condition possible. Lifting his right leg under himself, he mounted his stallion, beginning to ride down the main street to a destination unknown.
"What about…" you trailed off, eyes growing weary.
"I’ll take care of it, you just rest."
"Whatever you say, cowboy."
Your head rested against his right shoulder, the cool leather of his jacket soothing the burning cuts from Ellis' pistol. The only thing keeping you lucid was the persistent movement inside of you, slicing against more flesh at every stomp of hooves. If you had a mirror, you're sure that you'd look like hell – Boothill was right.
It was saddening that the other Weston boy had spent the last few years hunting you down. He spent practically his entire life distant and running away, and now he had the guts to ambush you in the city. Still, you supposed whatever old grudge he carried now lay dead alongside him.
—
The first time you laid eyes on Jasper was at his mother's funeral. He stood in a thick coat beside his brother watching wordlessly on with silent tears. A wooden cross sat before a mound of dirt, engraved with the following:
Callie Weston
A strong mother, and relentless woman.
1851 - 1879
Her grave wasn’t far from your father’s, a bushel of freshly picked desert marigolds resting under his own headstone from your visit. Two of the bright yellow flowers still rested in your pocket as you walked to the family’s side.
Placing the blossoms underneath the delicately carved wood, you spoke softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Ellis whispered.
“I’m sorry for yours as well.” Jasper had replied.
With a nod of your head, you left them to their mourning.
~
When you made it into town from the cemetery, shouts could be heard in front of the saloon.
“Go home, you idiot!”
“Have a little compassion!”
“I do, but my compassion doesn’t include wastin’ away here while your boys are up on that hill.”
The man stumbled slightly down from the deck, voice cracking as he said, “Surely you can understand, mister… please.”
“Go home, Isaiah. Try to sober up before they get back.”
The bartender threw his cloth over his shoulder before leaning against the post, waiting patiently. Isaiah wiped his hand down his bearded face as he exhaled, then walked off down the street toward the few blocks of houses.
Gesturing at a nearby man, the bartender lowly spoke,“Hey, will you follow him? Make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anythin’ wild.”
You crossed in front of the saloon doors as the man walked off, trailing behind the drunken one.
“Wait a minute, kid.”
Pausing in your steps, you turned around to face the swinging doors to the saloon. The bartender came out as quick as he went in – a bag in hand this time.
“Some oil guy came through town not long ago, ordered more food than he even wanted. There’s untouched steak and soup in there, it’ll probably need to heat up again. Share it or keep it to yourself.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
With a polite nod, he disappeared back into the establishment, yelling at some other unruly patrons.
That evening you brought a couple portions of that meal to Jasper and his family. It took a bit of asking around to find them, but soon enough you were knocking on their door.
Ellis answered, looking down at you coldly.
“I wanted to bring you some food. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it.”
He took the bag wordlessly, before shutting the door.
~
“I have some stew for you, mama.”
Her gaze never drifted from the window as you placed the warm bowl beside her. Draping a cloth over her lap, you watched her solemn face. Silently, she turned for the bowl, letting it rest in her likely cold hands.
You stood, walking to fetch her tea from the kitchen. Upon return, you found her gently bringing the spoon to her lips, shaking lightly as she did so.
With a soft thud, the mug settled on dark wood. Drawing a book from the nearby shelf you sat down next to her, flipping the leather cover open.
You read calmly from the pages, skipping over or changing words you didn't quite know. It had been a couple years since you stopped going to the schoolhouse, after all. There was just no time after your father died, especially with your mother in this state.
A hand landed quietly on your knee, drawing your attention back to her. Marking your new spot in the book, you set it down with the remnants of her meal.
She brought her hand down to yours, gripping quickly in thanks. It was dejecting seeing her like this, but after this long it was hard to picture her outside of mourning.
"Why do you never talk to me, mama? Did I do somethin' wrong?"
With a shake of her head, her gaze returned to the window and her hands to her lap.
~
About a week later, you remember waking up early to the sound of your dog barking loudly from the front yard. Donning your heavy coat, you opened the door to find Jasper trying to pet her down at the fence line.
"Is this your dog?" he had asked.
"Yes."
"She's real pretty…Thanks by the way, for dinner."
"It's no problem. I had extra."
"I noticed you were visiting someone of your own."
"My papa." you replied, standing beside him and petting the long fur of your dog. "He was caught robbin’ a wagon full of weapons and shot by the lawmen, at least that's what I heard. Mama never said nothin' to me about it."
He hummed, looking down and rubbing behind the ear of your dog.
"My mama was sick for a long time. It was hurtin' my dad forever, probably even more now. He doesn't really care how it makes me feel – my brother neither. They just leave angry in the mornin' and come back even worse at night."
A minute of vulnerable silence passed between you, before Jasper spoke up again.
"Are you headin' to school?"
"No. I'll have to be at work soon."
His eyes seemed wide for a second before he shifted, "Where do you work?"
"At the funeral parlor, as an assistant to the director."
"Why would you pick a job like that?”
“I don’t really know. I just saw the horse-drawn hearse moving down the street and felt somethin’ come over me.”
“I think I can understand,” he whispered, looking down into your dog’s eyes.
He stayed like that for a moment as you rested in the early morning quietness. A bird sang abruptly from the nearby tree, and he perked up once more.
“Would you want to walk down to the river with me? We could try and catch a frog or two before daybreak.”
“I guess.”
“Great,” he nodded.
And that became your routine. Every morning, he would come see you and your dog. Sometimes he would have a little snack for her in hand and other times he would have a paper with some work he couldn’t quite figure out. Being with him by the river was a pleasant thing – something to get both of your minds off of circumstance.
~
“I plan on retiring next year, and I would like for you to be my successor.”
The world seemed to still as Mr. Whitfield sat calmly, waiting for your response. His aging black hair shifted lightly in the wind, his gaze out over the nearby buildings. Cool stone rested under your back as you leaned against the parlor's walls.
“I… I’m honored, sir.”
“Oh, just call me Peter already. We’ve worked together long enough.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
The sounds of the town took over for a moment before he stood up, walking in through the door. A commotion drew your eyes up from the deck, watching as someone rode in with a grumbling figure on the back of their horse. The person in the saddle had a dark green bandana hanging out of their pocket – the trademark of a growing gang in the area.
They dismounted across the street from you, just in front of the jailhouse. Both of the deputies came out shortly after, one talking to the person then bringing them in. The other approached the horse, throwing the figure over his shoulder. They disappeared into the sheriff’s office, seemingly exchanging words about what to do with the two.
“Here are some books I’ve used over the years,” Peter said, a small stack in his hands, “If you’re going to take over the business, there’s more you’ll need to learn. Feel free to take these home if you’d like.”
“I appreciate it.”
He handed the books to you, then returned to his seat in front of the parlor. You decided to join him, setting the stack on your right.
As the gravity of your future inched in, you laid back against the stained wood of the bench. Your right foot tapped on the deck, reverberating over the plane anxiously while your thoughts became jumbled.
“What’s weighing on you, kid?”
“I’m just… starting to doubt myself is all.”
“I was the same as you when I first inherited this business from my father. He was always kind and courteous, served the community well. I’m passing this on to you because I see you as my kin. I have every confidence in you, whether you see the potential in yourself or not.”
His words brought water to your eyes, making you inhale and look away towards the snowy mountains in the distance.
Sniffling brought your attention back as Jasper walked up to the deck, cradling his left arm with the other hand.
“Are you alright, boy?” Peter questioned.
“Could I go inside?” he asked gently, making eye contact with you.
Standing up, you guided him into the entry room of the parlor, watching as he sat on the sofa.
“I ran as fast as I could, I figured since it was day you’d be here.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”
“Alright. I’ll go get some coffee and an aid kit.”
Turning to leave the room, you heard him speak up again.
“Can I come with you?”
“Of course.”
~
It was probably about five months later when you found Jasper sitting on the bench of the parlor, bottle in hand. After locking the door, you went and took a seat next to him.
“What are you doing, Jas?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know nothin’ anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
He tilted his head before taking another sip. Your right hand came to rest at the back of his neck.
“Talk to me… please. Nothin’ you say will leave this porch.”
“I… think I’m not cut out for this.”
“What do you mean?”
“This,” he gestured around the street, “I do my best in everything, and it still isn’t good enough. My dad couldn’t give a shit about me and my brother anymore, all he does is drink and sleep. He hardly ever goes to work – I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fired by now! Ellis ain’t much better. He leaves for the farm early, storming into my room and draggin’ me out before he goes. Always tellin’ me I need to grow up – that I’m not man enough for this world. It’s not like I have a job, and I ain’t been going to the schoolhouse much recently either. I figured since I’m set to be finished there soon anyway, I could start skippin’. I just… wish my mama was still here. Even when she was sick, she still went through every day with more strength than I’ve ever had… Looking back now, I think she accepted that death was comin’, and she lived to her fullest because of it. Maybe I could take a page out of her book. I know that this all might seem sudden, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”
“You’re good enough to me, Jas. Even if that doesn’t seem like much, I want you to know. Your family is just too ignorant to understand. You’ve got plenty of grit in you, but you still show that you care.” You sighed before continuing, “And I understand. While my mama might not be dead, she hasn’t spoken since my father died. I still try my best to take care of her, but it’s like she’s just sittin’ there, waiting for her day to come.”
The snorting of a nearby horse broke the heavy atmosphere.
“If it’s a job you want, you’re always welcome here. Peter would gladly have you work the front. Just come talk to him tomorrow.”
“Alright.” he smiled smally.
“Hand me the bottle?”
Glass hit the wooden deck as you set down the exchanged liquor. Standing up, you reached out a hand for him.
“Come on, you can stay with me.”
~
Jasper’s life only worsened just two months after that night at the parlor. He didn’t come in for work that day, and you couldn’t find him anywhere usual in the town.
Crying and a thump at your front door brought you away from your mother’s side. You had been tidying her hair, a simple activity you would do to help her before she started her nightly routine.
Peering from one of the windows, you saw him waiting in your front yard, holding onto your dog for comfort. He looked up in your direction when you emerged from the dimly lit doorway, walking down the stairs from the porch.
“He shot him. Shot him dead, right in front of me.”
You got on your knees in front of him, bringing your hand to his shoulder.
“I… I was comin’ home from a walk, I… I went out to clear my head. Ellis, he stormed out with my dad trailin’ behind him. His eyes… they were just fed up – bloodthirsty almost. He looked at me. God, I’ll never forget that stare. They yelled at each other some more, going’ on about somethin’. My brother… he drew his gun, shot my dad right in the chest four times. He came over to me, put a hand on my head and told me things would be better now. Like hell they will! He took off on some horse – he’s gone now too. Out runnin’ from the law and leavin’ me high and dry with nothing.”
He let go of the dog, running his hand down his face. She walked off to somewhere behind you, sniffing around.
“I’ve got nothin’ but you, now.” He whispered, looking up at you full of turmoil.
You brought both arms around him, feeling him start to cry again.
“I know my dad had his grief, even when my mama was sick he’d be out doin’ who knows what. Still, I… I can’t help this weight on me.”
“It’s natural, Jas. You lost two people tonight, despite your experiences with them, it’s still a loss.”
He exhaled shakily, shifting back from you and rising to stand on his feet. You matched him before bringing your hand back to his shoulder, rubbing your thumb lightly against the edge of his neck.
“How about supper? Would that help a little?”
“Yeah… yeah.” he sighed.
Together you walked to the front door, and on this occasion, your dog followed too.
—
PART II - Redemption for the Wayward
Winces and the metallic echoes of medical tools could be heard from the nearby room. Boothill rested in an entry room chair, leaning back with his hat over his face. There was nothing in this space he wanted to look at – nothing he sought to remember. Your sounds of pain didn’t help either.
He had gotten stitches himself many years ago, but the scars were long gone now.
A sharp cry resounded down the hall, followed by hushed murmurs from the doctor. There was a fiery response, before the room went quiet again.
It wasn't the first time he had found you in trouble – far from it in fact. Since the day you started riding together, it seemed like thunder followed. Be it the sounds of hooves, gunfire, glasses on the table, or simply storms themselves.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
—
"I want to leave with you."
It was the only time you had ever seen surprise on Boothill’s face.
Holding his gaze you continued, “Does that sound like a plan?”
“I… I don’t see why not. Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?”
As if answering his question, whistles broke out two streets down. A few shouts from who you assumed to be lawmen echoed, sending a wave of fear through you.
“No. I’ll find a river or somethin’ later, right now we just need to get out.”
“Mind explainin’ why they’re lookin’ for you?”
You appeared stunned for a moment, before you recalled the events that led to the blood on your hands.
~
“Please… please just end me already.”
“You know I can’t do that to you, Jas.”
He ran his hand through his hair, revealing more of his distraught face. “You’ve seen me… I’m just like my father and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it no more.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t lie to me, we both know I’m right.”
“Jasper, please, come over here so we can talk this out.”
“We’re talkin’ it out right now.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’m sick of talkin’ anyway. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into trying to get rid of this feeling, but it never leaves. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”
You stood on the back porch of your parlor, watching as he pulled a gun from his side. He walked to you, leaving it on the chair to your left.
Just three months ago you watched Boothill walk from this porch, the hint of new friendship roaming on the wood.
Two months ago, you bid farewell to your new assistant, a promise of success growing over the stain.
One month ago, your mother spoke to you for the first time in seven years, apologies and regret falling from her lips.
Now, you would be in the greatest standoff of your life.
“If I’m gonna die I want you to do it.”
“No.”
He grabbed your left hand, lifting the gun up from where it rested. “Give me my freedom, please. We both know nothin’ else will.”
“Jas…”
“Stop wastin’ your breath.”
A set of tears rolled down your cheeks, and in a final act of care, Jasper wiped them away.
“Don’t cry for me. I want this. I want to see my mama again, healthy and bright. Maybe even my dad,” his voice broke, “smilin’ and rocking on the porch. I may even see you one day, too.”
He inhaled before bringing your hand up to his forehead, a sad look of acceptance and peace on his face. He nodded, the barrel of the gun shifting up and down.
“Goodbye, Jasper.”
A shot rang out, slightly muffled from the circumstance. Blood splattered down to the dirt, soaking into it crudely. Jasper’s body tumbled back down the wooden steps, landing face up at the end. He looked content, the dead light in his eyes causing conflicting waves of emotion within you.
There would be no time to feel them, though. Not yet. Even if it was nearing midnight, there was always a deputy out somewhere.
You descended the scarlet-covered steps, kneeling down to close his eyes. A warmth spread over your hands as you did so, red coating your fingers when you pulled them away.
Exhaling heavily, you left the back alley, on the lookout for a horse.
Boothill told you he’d be leaving tonight, after a final few rounds of faro at the other saloon in town. Why, he never shared, but you figured it had something to do with the incident a couple months back.
If you were lucky you could join him – head out on the road of an outlaw. It wasn’t an idea you had ever considered before, but now it seemed like the only choice.
~
The fire crackled in front of you, smoke rising to the starry sky. Boothill sat beside you, hands occupied with a knife and a piece of wood, idly carving.
In the silent peace, you felt the gravity of your actions begin to set in. Water crept over your eyes, gathering along the edges and flowing down your cheeks. Your quiet cries were some of the only noise in this area of the desert. Somewhere out of the town limits and secluded enough to provide cover in case of any emergency.
“Do you… have any regrets?” you asked lowly, drying your eyes with an exhale.
Boothill looked up from his work, “Once, but not anymore.”
You hummed, staring into the bright flames before you. Sadness welled once more before you spoke up.
“I shot my oldest friend today. He asked me to, came to me pleading.”
There was no movement or sound, until he set down his tools. “And now you’re out on the road with me.”
The dried blood on your hand felt like a glove as you clenched your fist. “I suppose I am.”
He stood up, walking to his horse’s side. A blanket was in his hands as he returned, tossing it gently in your direction before sitting back down to carve.
“I might not be the best at comfort, but I’ll try.”
You placed the wool underneath your head. Neither of you had the makings of a proper camp yet, but even if it was a makeshift pillow it would work.
“When we were out on the trail, there wasn’t much for occupying your time. Most of it was spent herdin’ and fending off animals or gangs. We often had cards with us, and so we’d sit around a fire like this one at night, playin’ the boring games that didn’t involve gambling. When it was time to sleep, some of us would take our places closer to the cattle. We’d sing or hum to them to keep them calm – they always told me I had the best voice. One that suited folk like us the most.”
With that, he started to hum a tune. It was quiet, and the slicing of wood fell in time with the slow rhythm. The melody was soothing, and with a deep exhale you found yourself letting go. As your eyes drifted further shut, he started singing. They were right, he did have a voice perfect for the range.
—
“Thornton’ll be headin’ out for a while. Said we could use the room upstairs as usual.”
You hummed, buttoning up the fresh shirt the doctor had given you. The space stayed quiet after, as your gaze bore into the bloody knife resting on the cloth-covered table. You stood up carefully, gritting your teeth before you were upright.
Grabbing your hat and gun belt, you met Boothill at the doorway.
“How’re you doin’?” he asked gently, bringing his hand up to the side of your neck. His thumb rubbed along the edge of your jaw as you crossed your arms.
“Fine, still trying to work off the sting.”
“Well that’s better than nothin’, isn’t it?”
He was right, yet, there still was something tugging at your chest. A sensation that weighed on your breath.
“I apologize-”
“There ain’t nothing to apologize for.”
You sighed, “I just hope I haven’t been much of a burden these last few weeks.”
“I take care of you, and you take care of me. It’s that simple. There’ll always be trouble when you live a life like ours,” he chuckled, “I’ll never think less of you for it.”
—
“You've used a gun before, right?”
Boothill looked over at you, an eyebrow raised and a hand resting along his belt.
“Only once.”
“Well then, we're gonna work on your skills today.”
He walked back over to his horse, unclipping a holstered revolver from his equipment. A red and cream package of bullets were placed on his saddle. He gave the brown leather-clad weapon to you, letting you pull it out yourself and feel the cool weight in your palm.
“I wanna see your instinct first. Spot that rock up there?” he gestured toward a miniature cliffside, angling down toward the two of you. A large dark grey stone lay on its edge. “Aim for it and shoot.”
You analyzed the gun for a moment before raising it in both hands, the top of the barrel aligning with the rock. Pulling back the hammer from its half-cocked state, you heard a singular click. Pressing your index finger down on the trigger, a bullet flew from the barrel straight at the stone. It made an echoing crack before the case flung off to the side.
“Not bad. Do it again.”
You shifted your feet in the dirt before taking up your former stance. Aiming, you drew back the hammer as the chamber revolved. Two clicks sounded this time. With a finger on the trigger, you pulled it down to hear the same ringing shot and clack against rock.
Boothill sidled up next to you, bringing your left hand down to your side.
“Another.”
Now only using one hand, you shot once more. A small chip fell from the rock as you hit a second spot.
"Fall back into me a little bit."
"Why?"
"If you're gonna be an outlaw, you best learn to carry yourself like one."
You did as he said, falling back into a casual lean against his chest. His arm came up against the back of yours, carrying it down to your side before lifting it back up again and pointing the revolver at the rock. You brought the hammer back again, before pulling the trigger. You cocked the gun once more, firing another shot at the stone, followed by a third.
A low whistle came from behind you, “Aren’t you a natural?”
“Well, I’m learnin’ from the best.”
“Got that right.”
“Are you always this smug?”
“Only with you.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” you stated, turning around from his hold.
“Really now?”
“You just love to keep on teasin’ me. That’s what it is.”
“And if so?” he questioned, stepping forward as if taking on a challenge.
“I’ll keep doing this dance with you, cowboy.” you tipped his hat down, watching his silver eyes disappear beneath the brim.
“I wouldn’t prefer it any other way.” he flicked it back up, a sharp smirk on his face.
“Now, why don’t you show me how the best shoots? I’d like to see what I’ll be competing with soon.” you stepped back from him, angling the gun toward the rocks.
“I said you were a natural, but I never said you were as practiced as me.”
“Talkin’ down to me?”
“Just statin’ facts.” he tilted his head, spinning his revolver from it’s holster along his leg.
“What a show-off you are.”
“Quit talkin’ and start aimin’.”
“You’re on.”
~
“See those deer?” Boothill whispered, watching beside you as a herd of coues passed by a few yards away.
The wind brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of coming rain in the twilight.. There must have been water falling on nearby creosote bushes.
You stared on, admiring how sweet they looked roaming and feeding on cactus fruit.
He smiled at you, seeming almost wistful before his gaze returned to the scene. "I remember we used to see them a lot in the brush along the trail. Big herds stayed longer than just a few of them, less skittish together I suppose." He laughed lightly, genuine and lovely. "The first time I saw a buck was on my family's farm. I had just finished some harvesting, when its antlers caught my eye. The wheat was up to my elbows at the time – I still recall its itch. We had locked eyes, and from that day forward I felt called to be out like them. It was part of my motive for joinin' the round-ups."
"There's a freedom to it – one that you only dream of before you finally live it."
"So articulate. Maybe you should start doing all the talkin'."
You snickered, beginning to pack up your belongings from the small camp you learned to make. "I'm afraid I could never be a poet like you."
"With all this flattery, I just might be inspired enough to pursue that instead."
"I'd better get a dedication, right on the first page.”
"You’ll get the entire book, sugar." He smiled.
"Oh please, save it." You tugged down his hat to hide his teasing eyes.
—
PART III - The Revenant of Vengeance
The wet stone pathways of downtown Warren echoed the heels of your boots. There was little light behind the shops – few people too. It was the perfect spot for a short walk, one that could provide a break from the doctor’s incessant tinkering.
“Well, looky here.” Boothill murmured, pausing to look at a board of papers.
“Think I’ll be up there?” you questioned, hands in your pocket beside him.
“Oh, without a doubt.” his eyes roamed the posters before lighting up at a pair. “Right here, see.”
‘Reward’ was printed in large font at the top. The value of $2,000 sat above text that shared your name, followed by a photo of you from about six years ago, dressed professionally in a well-designed chair at the funeral parlor. Your name was added below it, and a description of your appearance. The signature of the sheriff was penned at the bottom, adding yet another county to your roster.
Boothill’s began the same, with the exception of a $3,500 bounty. An unflattering sketch took up most of the page, as well as key notes about him were added underneath.
“They can never get my eyes right.” he huffed, gaze lingering on the board.
“My picture isn’t even accurate anymore.” you voiced, arms now crossed against your chest. “What lousy lawmen they have here.”
“I’d have to agree.”
With a sigh you continued, “I reckon it’s about time we get back to the office. Before those lawmen spot us.”
“We could take them.”
“Maybe so, but we don’t need larger bounties.”
“Really? I think there’s somethin’ romantic about it. The more wanted you are, the larger the reward. The more opportunities for attention and infamy.”
“Is my attention not good enough?”
“Come on now, sugar, you know I love it more than anything else.”
“Well then head back with me, cowboy, and I’ll show you some.”
He chuckled lowly, “Who could turn down an offer like that?"
As you turned to walk, his hand landed on your shoulder, the other reaching up to the board, ripping off one of the posters.
“Well I'll be.” you mumbled, observing the photo on it from over his arm.
Lloyd Walker, wanted dead or alive with a reward of $5,000. He had practically become public enemy number one in the surrounding areas over the last seven years. He had numerous crimes, and as many tricks up his sleeve to match. At least that's what the rumors said – his gang was only ever unruly.
“What do you say? Is he gonna be our newest target?”
A fire grew in Boothill’s formerly somber eyes, as he turned to you with a smile.
“Absolutely.”
—
The damp and pebble-covered ground was tarnished with deep red, the remnants of injury seeping into the soil beneath a discarded body. It was windless as Jesse laid against the riverbank, staring up into the ray-stricken cloudy sky. Low cries for help continued leaving his bloodied lips, but his energy was wearing thin. Every inch of him ached – stinging or burning the only sensations he could feel.
Still, he couldn’t just lay here and accept death. He was far too stubborn to ever answer a reaper’s call.
And, as if by some little twist of fate, hooves clamped their way toward him until rushing footsteps were the only thing he could hear.
“Good lord, sir, what happened to you?”
~
It was an ambush, plain and simple.
One moment he was talking with the other rangers and the next they were hiding behind rocks or trees, shooting at whatever green bandana they saw. One or two bandits weren’t unusual, but they had never dealt with such a large group before.
He was panicking, running out of bullets and watching his friends fall in the dust. They were overwhelmed with little to no chance of making it out unscathed.
Walker’s people were relentless, though, and they would never leave until they got what they came for or hit the dirt.
How unlucky for them that Jesse was the same.
~
Dilapidated cabins were built together in two rows, some of their group’s stolen cattle grazing off to the side. His horse stopped right at the rotting wood enclosing them, head high as he prepared for revenge. They had killed four of his trailmates, and he would be coming now for at least four of them.
It was bold to break the rules set for round-ups, and Lee’s warnings echoed through his head. There was leniency given to him before, and for this cause, he was sure he’d get it again.
After dismounting, he made his way through the brush to one of the cabins, two revolvers in hand. It was a risky game, but he was willing to play – whether it was the facade of victory or delusion from righteousness keeping him going.
He snuck through the makeshift settlement, hearing bits of laughter from his left. No matter what he did after this, he would have all surrounding eyes on him. Treading lightly, he stalked behind the house until he found a decent opening. He aimed through the cracks in the dark wood, going straight for the heads he could target. With four clicks, both guns were fully cocked and he shot.
It would be the only regret he had in his life.
~
“Time to wake up, my friend.”
An oddly chipper voice reached Jesse’s ears, as if summoning him from a lengthy slumber.
His eyes drifted open, leaving him to feel painless yet confused.
“I’m sure there is much you would like to know, but please, try to become used to this body first.”
This body?
“We’ll need to utilize some methods of physical therapy to ensure that you know how to use it, and that everything is in working order.”
He turned his head in the direction of the voice – a movement that felt unexpectedly stiff.
“You may call me Dr. Thornton, or Claude if you’d prefer. You have been reborn in the city of Warren. Do you remember where that is?”
Reborn?
“Yes, doctor, I do.” his voice hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.
“Wonderful. Do you recall the events that led you here?”
“I was bleedin’ out by a river, after… well I’d prefer not to talk about that part.”
“That is perfectly fine, sir. I found you there, and brought you back to my practice. Well, my unofficial practice I suppose one could call it. What about your name?”
“Jesse Blackwell.” he responded, without any hesitation.
Thornton stood up, drying off his greased hands on a nearby rag. He brought the same towel to Jesse’s neck, but he couldn't feel it. The mild brush of cloth, a sensation he had known well from cleaning himself up, never came. He began to tilt his head downward, but the doctor’s fingers caught his chin.
“Not yet.”
He shifted his chin back up, staring straight ahead as alarm started setting in. Questions plagued his mind, until a sharp snap from behind broke him out of it.
The doctor held his hands out to him, and he placed his own over his open palms. They were grey, metallic, and the more he looked at them, the more they seemed almost mechanical. His thoughts seized him as he found Thornton’s eyes. They seemed proud yet there was a glint hidden under their pine-like color that brought a pensive look to Jesse’s face.
He was guided to take a step, and he heard what sounded like a boot as he did so. It persisted as he was brought across the floor to a doorway, passing into another room. His hands left the doctor’s, falling back to his side as his gaze drifted up to something covered in a white sheet.
“Are you ready to welcome this new life?” Thornton asked.
After a brief moment, Jesse nodded.
The cloth was lifted to reveal a tall mirror, one that reflected every inch of him.
“If there is anything you would like me to change, you need only say the word.”
Silence fell, as Jesse was confronted with rushing realization.
He survived Lloyd Walker, but at what cost? His humanity?
But what constitutes humanity?
Flesh and blood?
The ability to experience empathy and emotion?
His bewildered eyes met the doctor’s – ones that were steady as stone.
Thornton looked into the mirror from beside him. “You are a marvel of human craft, sir.”
Something in him stirred at the words, an anger that he wasn’t well-versed enough to place. The only thing he could do was grab the doctor’s collar, observing him with contempt.
“Come now, Jesse, you best be grateful. I’ve transformed you. You’ve become something that people could only dream of. You cried for help and I gave it to you.”
The doctor stumbled after he was released, moving back into the office, or whatever he liked to call it. Jesse remained in the small room, inspecting himself in the mirror. He stared for a long while, paralyzed by the overwhelming circumstance. He felt violated, like his very being was invaded.
Was his life even his anymore?
No. He couldn’t sink into that void.
~
“You’ve surpassed my expectations, Jesse. Count yourself free to go, though you’re always welcome back for repairs… or a hideout if you find yourself in trouble.”
Clad in monochrome leather, with a few scattered hints of red, the reborn cowboy placed his hat on his head as he opened the front door to Thornton’s establishment.
“My name ain’t Jesse.” he voiced, looking back at the suited man. “It’s Boothill.”
The doctor met his eyes over his glasses, “Farewell then, Boothill.”
—
A disheveled Claude Thornton broke through the spare room’s door, appearing wild and bruised.
“They’re on their way.”
Any plans you had been discussing with Boothill were interrupted as you watched the panicked man sharply. “Who exactly?”
“I think you already know." he said, sitting down on the side of the bed.
"You goddamn idiot."
"They cornered and beat me! What did you expect me to do?"
"Follow our agreement that we could lie low here." Boothill stated, glaring at the doctor as he reloaded his revolver.
"I had only made that agreement with you, friend, not them.” he replied, gesturing a hand toward you. “Regardless, the law knows by now that wherever one of you goes the other will follow.”
“And this time you’ll be with us.” you sighed, lifting your hand for him to stand up.
Grabbing the man’s right arm, you brought it behind his back, placing your other hand on his left shoulder. Guiding him down the stairs as Boothill followed, you walked to the hitches Thornton had built at his rear door.
Whistles came down the alley as you ordered him to sit on the back of your horse. After he finished grumbling, you mounted and began riding off to the left as Boothill went right.
Handing him a spare rifle from your horse, you pulled two revolvers from your gun belt.
“I apologize, but I do not know how to use one of these.” he shared, holding the weapon awkwardly.
“You’re hopeless, doctor.”
Trading with him, you aimed the rifle at one of the lawmen approaching you.
“Just pull down the hammer and shoot at them until the chambers are empty. Don’t bother reloading, we’ll be out of here by then.”
He nodded before turning his head back, covering the rear as you winded down stone streets, doing your best to avoid bringing citizens into the fray. You caught a glimpse of black and white disappearing around a corner – a road that led to the train tracks from what you could recall. Pulling the reins to the right, you moved to follow, shooting at one of his pursuers before dodging the fallen body.
Droplets flicked against your boots, leading the doctor to groan at his dirtied shoes. Broken glass nearby signified it was probably some discarded liquor.
A horn sounded from your right, accelerating the rushing sound in your ears. One of Thornton’s hands gripped onto your shoulder tightly as you sped up, crossing before the train daringly.
Pausing on the other side of the tracks, you watched cautiously for any other lawmen. Boothill came up next to you, eyes analyzing your figure before they followed your gaze.
“I swear the two of you are going to get me killed.”
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t do it myself after the shit you’ve pulled.” you spat, securing your rifle back against your horse.
“Need I remind you I had no other choice.” he retorted, handing you back the revolvers.
“You sold us out after three hits, doctor, that’s something that would get you a hole in your forehead with anyone else.”
“I only told them where you were, dear, not him.”
You pointed one of the guns behind you against the side of his skull, disregarding if it was empty or not.
“Do you think that’s somethin’ you should really be saying to me? For as much tinkering as you do, and as many people as you claim to help, I don’t think you’re very bright. If you were, you wouldn’t have given us up, and you would watch your mouth when you’re talkin’ to me. Now, tell me you can understand that at least, doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you best stay quiet.”
“Alright.”
Putting the gun back into its holster at your side, your focus returned to Boothill.
“Are we still going north?”
“I don’t see why not.” he replied, shifting slightly in his saddle.
“Then let’s go – this train is almost over.”
—
The town of Iris Creek was quaint, fresh air gliding over land of dying grass. A few small flowers grew along the trails, blossoms of deep violet running up their stems. Your stresses slowly quelled as the peaceful atmosphere set in.
At least until you had to sort out Thornton's situation.
Boothill had left for the saloon not long ago, attempting to find what information about Walker he could. In his absence, you would be taking the well-dressed man to the hotel.
Getting the room was a simple affair, so was the walk to where he would stay. It seemed odd that you received no second glances, but it was a welcome change.
Entering his room, the doctor finally spoke, "What do you think of him?"
"Pardon?"
"Boothill."
He sat in a chair right before a plain wooden desk, crossing one leg over the other.
"I care for him very deeply, but I think you could figure that out already. ”
"Would seeing him in pain hurt you, then?"
"What exactly are you trying to say, Thornton?"
"Nothing at all, just conjecture." He responded, hands coming up defensively before returning to his lap.
"I still have half a mind to kill you."
"Always so crude with me," he shook his head, "If you do decide to murder me, you might as well do the same to Boothill. Nobody else in this world understands his inner workings like I do. If I'm dead, there will be no one left to repair him if something goes awry. He's already tried before himself and landed at the same conclusion."
~
In the dim lighting of your shared room, your fingers carded through Boothill's newly cleaned hair. The noise from the saloon below reverberated upward, but it faded into nothing as warm lips found your neck.
"What did you find?" you questioned, quiet in the tranquility of the moment.
"There's supposed to be a whole bunch of Walker's a bit further up in the mountains. By Whitetail Hill."
"Well, that's good. Leave at dawn and we could make it there by early afternoon."
"My thoughts exactly."
A group of cheers from below filled the silence. Sharp edges nipped at the same spot of your neck, drawing a short wince from you. It was soothed by a soft tongue licking across the area as cool fingertips traced the other side of your neck.
You began to turn your head in his direction before those same fingers brought your chin down. Rough lips met yours in a rare instance of gentleness, something that reminded you of calm before a storm.
—
PART IV - Death, the Range's Old Friend
Dust kicked up from underneath the gravel path as you brought your horses to an abrupt stop. A figure rest in the middle of the road, bloodied claw marks running down their front. They coughed, red splattering back against their cheeks.
“Mercy… mercy, please.”
A scarlet covered bandana slipped from their pocket, bits of green peeking out from beneath. You cocked your gun at them before speaking.
“I’ll grant you your wish after you answer some questions. Deal?”
“Yes, yes.”
“You were coming from the area of Whitetail Hill, correct?”
They nodded weakly.
“Where specifically?” Boothill asked, looking around the surrounding forest – likely watching for the animal that attacked them.
“Copperhead Mine.”
A breeze blew through the trees, carrying an odd and empty whistle. A bang interrupted the cryptic melody as the Walker’s plea was granted. The slow movement of hooves followed shortly after, as you maneuvered around them.
“What do you think we’re headed into?” you wondered, meeting Boothill’s eyes.
“Nothin’ good, I can tell you that much.”
“How many’ll be there?”
“I can’t say. The bartender said upwards of 20.”
“Will we be able to take them?” you picked up the pace, looking over the small cliff to your left.
“After all this time, you still doubt us.” he chuckled, matching your speed.
“It’s better to stay realistic.”
“You have me with you, anything we do is realistic.”
You sighed, as the clouds drifted across the blue noon sky. “I suppose I just want you to look after yourself more.”
He waited an instant before responding, features full of sincerity. “I know you care about me, more than I had ever thought I would receive. But I’m not going anywhere – there’s nothin’ in this world that could kill me anymore.”
—
The ominous tune of the wind persisted, some symphony of nature that could only serve to unnerve you. A shiver went down your spine as you reached a viewpoint of the mine, a chill seeping in beneath your clothes. Dismounting, you pat the neck of your horse, trying to steel yourself before the confrontation.
You nodded at Boothill, before leaving first down to the camp. Dry grass crackled under your steps, before the crunch of gravel came instead. The sound alerted who you assumed to be the leader of the group, a scarred eye looking over you in suspicion before he spoke.
“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”
“I was in Iris Creek yesterday, askin’ around about any jobs. They said you’d need some more hands out here.”
��Really now? Who exactly told you that?”
“The bartender at the saloon.”
“Which saloon?”
“There’s only one in town, friend.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Quite so.”
He glanced back at a set of boxes, before making eye contact with one of the members. You drew your revolvers, shooting at two of the people before ducking behind a pair of barrels. Boothill emerged from behind one of their tents, blood already coating his cheek.
He was always brash in his ways, usually coming in guns blazing unless the plan said otherwise. Even then, there was no safe bet that he would follow it. Today was a lucky day, you supposed.
Splinters of wood broke off in your direction, falling over the edge of your arm and over a dark red stain you had yet to notice. Aiming around the side, you fired at one's eyes and another's cheek from where they hid. A second pair hit two plainly in the head, one of their bullets going astray into the rock by the mine entrance.
A strong grip wrapped around your ankle, pulling you backward through twig-like bushes. You were met with the same scarred left eye when the dust cleared – a gaze that spoke murder pinning you down. A fist met the side of your face, brute pain emerging afterward. He went again but was met with your right arm. He tried your left side, and you let him get a hit in as you cautiously unsheathed your knife. With a block to another hit, you slashed your knife across his chest. It was the easiest thing to do in this position, and he backed off of you slightly to stare down at the scarlet seeping into the edges of his cut shirt.
A tight hold turned him over, leaving you above him. The sharp tip of the knife pointed right under his chin as you started your interrogation.
“Where’s Lloyd?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” he spat.
Taking the blade, you punctured along the edge of his right eye. He screamed as crude fluid bursted against your sleeves, running down the side of his face as you twisted it.
“I’m not fuckin’ around with you! Where is Lloyd Walker?”
“In- in Thatcher!”
“That’s it? You sure there ain’t anything else you want to tell me?” you questioned, drawing the knife from his eye. Another scream came before the tip of the blade returned to his chin, dragging down to his sternum.
“He’s hidin’ out with somebody. They’re in bed together, doing some real shady business. Patrick Arrington – that’s the guy you want to meet with! He’s in the oil business, and real paranoid to boot.”
“Any tips you want to share before I’m finished with you?”
He licked his lips, panicked and steadily bleeding. “Find Ef. I… I met her at a theater once. She loves it there, lights up the minute the curtain rises.”
“Does she have a full name?”
“I don’t know it.”
“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”
“I’m not lyin’! She never told me!”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”
The blade plunged in his throat forcibly, the near frightening sensation of shattering bone reverberating to the hilt of the knife. A dry wheeze left his lips as you stood up, pulling the weapon back out.
A low whistle, one that you could recall anywhere by now, came from behind you. Boothill walked up, looking down at the body.
“Did you get anythin’ out of him?”
“Plenty. What do you think of a trip to the capital?”
He smiled, sharp with excitement and thrill. “Sounds like a lovely time to me.”
—
PART V - Ballad of the Dead and Alive
It had been years since you last set foot in Thatcher. The city had become strikingly more commercialized, with a shop, service, or office on every corner. Your boots had been left behind at the hotel room, exchanged earlier after a trip to the tailor’s for something more formal.
Wood doors with decorated glass opened as you walked into the lobby, Boothill following behind.
“Tickets for two, please.” you smiled, leaning against the front counter.
“Door to your left.” the taker replied, sliding the slips underneath the barricade.
With a tip of his new hat, Boothill thanked them before heading through to the hallway. It was plain black, something simple yet classy per recommendation of the tailor. He had outright refused their first suggestion of a top hat – slight disgust on his face as he said that would never be his style.
“Guess I finally got that theater date.” he chuckled, opening the double doors to reveal a lit stage.
“I suppose you did.” you replied, taking his hand and going to find your seats.
A narrator stood in front of the curtain, reciting the introduction to a play. Now sitting in the second row, you and Boothill waited patiently for the show to begin.
“‘Do not plague thyself with vexatious matters. Live unshackled and wander from this day forth.’ Thus, did the young Lady Rena commence her journey.”
A beautiful woman walked out to center stage, clothed in a green silk dress. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color rested on her head, feathers rising from the right side that were held under a silk brim. Lavender sprigs and violets emerged from the left, wrapping around to sit delicately on the front.
A gasp came from your right, bringing your gaze away from the show. Brown hair, pinned and curled, came into view before an apologetic expression.
“I’m sorry, I just love to see how the characters dress.”
“It’s alright, you didn’t bother me at all.”
“Oh, well I’m glad.” she smiled, then looked back to the stage.
As the play continued on, your gaze bounced between the actors and the spectator next to you. She seemed to beam at the performance, her eyes watching every detail closely even if she noticed your attention on her. It wasn’t until the brief break before the climax that she turned back to you.
She didn’t say a word for a minute or two, simply looking over your features.
“Have you ever thought about acting?”
“It’s never crossed my mind before.”
“It just seems like you have a knack for it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I can’t really say, it’s just a feeling. I have a… friend that reminds me of you. She’s been up on the stage there all night. She acts so well, and you can tell she really loves it despite her always telling me it’s just a job.”
“And what about you?”
She paused, seeming to briefly sink into herself. “Can I trust you with a little secret?”
“Of course.”
She smiled smally, “I actually wrote this play. When my work day was over, I’d go up to my room and spend a couple hours jotting it all down. My boss is a miserable man – it’s a pleasant break from him.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely to see it brought to life, then.”
“It’s my biggest achievement so far, and nobody besides you knows the truth behind it.” Sincerity took over her face, a beat passing between you before she spoke. “So, it’s only fair that you share your truth with me. Who are the two of you?”
A hand came to rest on your shoulder as the other was held out across your front, waiting for a shake.
“You can call me Boothill, Ef.”
Her face looked surprised, as if she had possibly seen him somewhere.
“We were preparing to do business with your boss, Patrick Arrington, correct?” he continued.
“Yes.” she replied curtly. “He’s been having me carry around something for you as a matter of fact.”
She placed an envelope in Boothill’s open hand. He turned it over between his fingers, taking a moment to look at the wax seal. With a quick rip, it opened, revealing tight cursive on the parchment. It was an invitation to a dinner in two nights time. Arrington’s signature sprawled over the bottom half of the paper, bold in comparison to his previous handwriting. He spoke of knowing Boothill was in town, likely trying to seek him out. Instead, he wanted them to meet and have a discussion over steak. He also extended the invite to you, his “hell-raising partner”.
If Arrington and Walker wanted a confrontation, they would get it.
“I hope the two of you will entertain his offer. Let us enjoy the rest of my play, though. We can be friends for this evening at the very least.”
—
Patrick Arrington's house reflected his wealth. Dark colors were covered by intricate wood detailings, highlighted well with lamps. The butler guided you and Boothill into the dining room, revealing a lengthy table covered in candles and plates. The men of the hour waited patiently, Patrick at the head of the table with a glass of wine and Lloyd to his right, a lit cigarette resting between his lips as he inspected the utensils.
They weren't very intimidating to say the least.
"Glad you could join us," Lloyd welcomed, a silver steak knife twirling around in his hand. "I've been waitin' to see you again for years, been pretty boring without your games." He pointed said knife at Boothill.
Patrick's weathered eyes met yours as he gestured for you to sit at his left. You strode to the cushioned chair, a foreboding sense creeping in as you pulled it out.
"You can take the seat opposite to me, Mr. Blackwell."
His features appeared defiant before you glared at him. It would be best to follow his commands. A sharp exhale left him as he sat down, leaning casually.
A new butler came in, wine bottle in hand. He poured for the two of you before being dismissed.
Swirling his topped up glass, Patrick leveled his gaze onto Boothill. "I want to make you an offer."
"Ain't that the nature of business." he chuckled.
“Indeed.”
Seared steaks made their way onto the table as Arrington shared his proposal.
“You may take Walker’s life, so long as I take theirs.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard him, boy.”
The room remained tense as your hands froze, a slight cut staying in the meat at your idleness.
“I’m willin’ to… succumb to your revenge,” Lloyd waved his hands around dramatically, “Let you claim my bounty – just after someone is exchanged for me.”
“You think I would ever agree to that?”
“Well, let’s just say it is not so much an agreement as it would be a reward.” Patrick smiled, placing his fork on a cloth gently.
A line of cold steel rested against your throat. You set down your silverware, raising your hands and leaning back.
“I didn’t do nothin’ to you, Mr. Arrington.” you reasoned.
“Maybe not in your eyes. A debt is owed to me, however, and it must be repaid. Your father stole my weapons, robbed my men, and ruined my oil! He was scum, and it seems you are too.”
“Any issues you had with him aren't my problem.”
“The knife to your throat begs otherwise, dear.”
“You started this.”
“No, I did not. Your friend here began his feud with Mr. Walker years ago. That is the true reason why the both of you are here tonight. I am simply ending a personal matter at the same time.”
“What’ll it be, Jesse?” Lloyd asked, an excited smile growing on his face.
You met Boothill’s stare, watching the gears turn in his mind. His gaze drifted upward, past yours and to the person behind you. Their grip tightened on the hilt.
“I’m gonna have to decline.”
Walker laughed as Arrington’s face went stoic.
“So be it.” a familiar voice spoke.
The knife formerly held to your neck flew into Patrick’s right shoulder. With the room still surprised, you flipped the dining table with help from your near-executioner. Plates clattered onto the floor surrounding Lloyd, the candles beginning to eat away at the rug.
~
“Where do you think you’re going, you piece of shit!”
You watched, revolver in hand, as Ef strode angrily to an escaping Patrick. He gripped his shoulder, walking out and down the hall as fast as he could. She followed suit, chasing and pinning him down easily. The click of your dress shoes echoed over the wood floor as you came behind her, witnessing her tackle him to the ground before pulling the knife from him. She threw it to the side, choosing to instead beat him as hard as she could while curses fell from her tinted lips. You leaned back against the wall, toying with the chamber of your gun. You watched as it spun, just one bullet sat inside.
With a huff, Ef rose from Patrick’s bloodied body, scarlet covering her teal dress.
“Do with him as you please. I’ve had enough of him for eternity.”
She then turned down the hall, the sound of ascending steps coming shortly after.
You came to stand right next to Arrington’s head, pressing your left heel down on his shoulder. He groaned, trying to twist out of the situation.
“I have a special hatred for rich filth like you.”
Two clicks of the hammer – a blank.
“Always walking around like you own the place.”
Another blank.
“Throwing money at everything you can – money that you made from stealing what belongs to others.”
Blank.
“And you’re so much better than me? Look at what you’re doing right now.” he whispered out, eyes growing unfocussed.
“We might be bad people, but at least we’re honest. I think liars like you will suffer a worse fate than us. You’ve got no honor, no respect, left in you. Sold it all away for what? So you could feel some power? Some control? We all die the same, Patrick. This wealth’ll mean nothin’ in the end. Keeping it all to yourself only makes people resent you more. We struggle everyday, only ever dreaming of what you have and take for granted everyday. You deserve nothing that you have in this world if all you do is abuse it. Save whatever dignity you have left for hell, Arrington. You’re gonna need it.”
A shot fired as his mouth opened, leaving red to splatter out from the proximity. You leaned down, taking his pocket watch and dangling it in front of you. It was gold, polished, and engraved – an item that could fetch a high price. You shoved it in your own pocket as you left his body, searching for the stairs Ef had gone up.
~
Flames caught on the curtains as Boothill waited in a standoff with Lloyd. Neither uttered a word as they waited, staring each other down. Crackles came from the walls, the flames illuminating the space with harsh glares. Walker drew his old pistol, aiming quickly and preparing to fire. Blood flowed from his arm not a second later, three shots ringing out in the burning dining room.
A swift kick crossed his face a moment later, something sharp cutting down it. Despite his pain and lack of clear vision, he took one of the scalding candlesticks and threw it in front of him. His hand came to hold his face, sighing.
“If you want to kill me Jesse, do it already.”
The cold barrel of a gun met the back of his neck, one click reaching his ears.
“Givin’ up that easily! Really now?”
“I’d rather die than try and make it out of here.”
A set of curtain rods fell to the floor before Boothill spoke, “ I’m gonna take my time with you, then. See if you can handle what you put me through.”
~
Whistles sounded through the courtyard as lawmen slowly encroached the property. A pair of satchels rested full over your shoulder, one similar sitting on Effie’s horse. They were bulked with stolen bonds, jewels, and anything else you could get your hands on.
“I suppose this is farewell.” she exhaled.
“For now, at least. If you’re going down a road like ours, I think we’ll cross paths again.”
“I hope so.”
“Go be with your friend.” you smiled, winking and patting her horse as she mounted it. “And thank you for the help. This wouldn’t have worked out if it weren’t for your decision.”
“You flatter me. But you’re welcome anyway.”
She pulled a poppy from her hat, handing it down to you. With exchanged nods, she rode off around the back, leaving you to the steps of Patrick’s burning house.
The front door burst open as Boothill kicked at it, stepping out as smoke started billowing from the building. You had every confidence in his capabilities, but you still found yourself in his arms. Crimson stained his cheeks, seeping into your palms as you brought his face closer to your view.
“How are you?”
“A little worse for wear, but if you kiss me, I just might be alright.”
“That can wait, cowboy. For now, we’d best get out of here.”
—
Epilogue
The sun beamed down brightly, casting a hazy glow over the river. Morning light was always lovely at times like this, and the sound of rushing water provided a welcome sense of relief. A soft breeze blew through the tree branches above you, ruffling the papers in Boothill's hands as well.
His head rested on your thighs, leaning back and reading them over with a smile. A sketch replaced your photo now, headed by text that read: “Reward for the capture, dead or alive, of __ __. The murderer of Patrick Arrington, they are still at large in Kearny County.”
“Look who made it big.” he chuckled.
“Think they’ll have a stage ready for me next time we visit?”
“If that stage is the gallows, then I’m sure.”
You laughed, leaning back against rough bark.
“Meanwhile I only got an extra $500! Can’t believe those lovely lawmen.” he grumbled, ripping them in half.
You brushed your palm over his forehead, shifting his hair back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Fingertips brushed down his cheek, before curling under his jaw and tilting his head in your direction. Silver and red eyes met yours, simmering down to a rare gentleness. He stared at you for a moment, no vibrant expression or words leaving him. Peaceful – that’s what he was.
“Where do you want to go next?” you asked, thumb tracing along his cheekbone.
“I think we’ll just keep ridin’, stop where we want and see where the trail ends.”
“Take some jobs here and there, try to make some money.”
“Sounds nice.”
You hummed as Boothill turned his head back to the river, sighing toward the low reeds.
“Would you ever want to have a farm again?”
He rested quietly before replying, “No, but I wouldn’t be against working on one every now and then.”
“You’ll have to show me the ropes, though.”
“Course. There’s plenty more I could show you too.”
“Like?”
“Anythin’ you can imagine.”
“What a magician you are.”
“You flatter me, sugar.”
“Gettin’ a little shy on me, are you?”
“Not at all.”
He leaned up on his right hand, the left coming to the side of your neck. Slightly rough lips met yours challengingly, as if lovingly proving a point. Cold metal was removed from your neck, fingertips running along your throat teasingly before coming up to tug down the hat on your head.
“Stealin’ my moves now, cowboy?”
“You learned them from me first.” he chuckled, “Just one of our many games, right?”
61 notes
·
View notes