#dollarstrilogyevent

[d--t]

second chapter of Company Room up now! Found it in my drafts! It's not porn!

[probably-impossible]

Musical torture - aka what would have happened if Tuco had brought a guitar into the desert

Day 5 entry for @dollarstrilogyevent

[kakmem]

Finally done with my warm-up activity 2 for the @dollarstrilogyevent !

the prop(?) inspiration is Manco's carpal tunnel(hehe)...glove..thing... If you can't tell :')

and i also made another drawing that's more glove-centric :

[cigarette-room]

Issue #12 of "Adventures of Tuco" will see everyone's favorite bandit form an alliance with an unlikely friend! The fierce fellow quite reminds him of someone...

For day 4 od @dollarstrilogyevent: friendship! Inspired by an idea of me and @etwlemon 🐥🐤🐥🐤🐥🐤

(they will kill)

[maureenkpliskin]

Warm up activity 2 for the @dollarstrilogyevent featuring Tuco and his amazing umbrella ! <3

[seadem-on]

Activity 1 for the @dollarstrilogyevent - the fiddle player.

He had dreamed so long of being part of an orchestra.

Back in his hometown, there was not much to do in the long evenings for a young man like him - nothing that did not involve getting drunk and being involved in bar fights or meetings with the women who used to entertain soldiers and bounty hunters. He had never been strong enough to fight another man with the chance of winning. As for women, he’d known all of them by their names as they had raised him since he was a little infant - one of them was his mother, he was not sure which one as they all took care of him in the same way and called him sweet, affectionate names.

Since he’d been a little boy he had to find himself something to be occupied with. He’d started knocking together old rusty iron pot lids, and his mothers would sing along obscene tunes which sounded tender and nostalgic to him. Eventually a passing stranger, a paying companion of his mothers who’d end up develop a little affection for him, left him an old scanted fiddle. He’d learned to play by himself, and soon he came to know the instrument like himself, like it had always been part of himself.

In the dimly lit saloons where the boy spent his evenings he would start to play tunes on his fiddle - often merry and entertaining, to light up the spirits of the owner, the workers and the customers alike, to see his mothers dance with their colorful skirts and hear their crackling laughter. Seldom he would play slower, more nostalgic tunes, to keep company to heavy-hearted loners or just for young lovers who wouldn’t not hear music with their ears - being focused only on their partner’s soft whispers - but who would feel it in their hearts.

He would play for the homeless, for the hungry miners, for the children and their mothers, for seamstresses and for the aimless wanderers and fortune seekers. Then the streets and saloons started to welcome more and more the dirty uniforms and boots of the Union troops, whose officers did not like music very much.

He would play for himself, and for his mothers, wandering from village to village ignoring that the thunder of the war was coming tumbling nearer and nearer.

Until one day he was woken up by a boot lightly poking his side - his eyes trailed over the uniform of a Union officer in a black hat, with a cold smile, telling him to get up and follow him. He knew by the sound of the man’s voice it was not an invitation.

He knew would not see his mothers ever again.

They’d brought him to the fort.

His companions were now war prisoners. Old haggard men, wrinkled faces and thin bodies wrapped in their big coats, youngsters slouching in dusty corners with empty eyes, strong men who would soon lose the spring in their step and the glint in their eyes along with their belongings - watches and hats and scarves which a few hours later would appear on the heads and wrists and around the necks of the officers and their friends.

When one of the men who still had the sparkle of life in their eyes protested a little too heatedly, he was escorted by Corporal Wallace to the officer’s log cabin. At the beginning he would not understand what was that for - strangely there was only a still silence coming from the cabin. That was until Corporal Carley gathered him and a few other men in the yard of the camp, equipped them with the instruments they’d been confiscated, and told them to start playing, and to play loud.

The orchestra he’d dreamed to be part of - harmonicas, trombones, flutes, and the chorus - was now a living nightmare. They were forced to play and sing until their fingers were numb and their voices coarse and their faces burnt from the sunlight - louder and louder to cover up the horrific screaming from the cabin, until it stopped, until Wallace had punched out the will to live from a man. This was no music dance to, to drink to, no tune for working people and women in love and sad drunkards - their stage was the scaffold and their audience were a crowd of walking dead.

At night, in the few hours when he got to fall asleep, he’d dreamed of playing his fiddle all alone in the dead silence of the camp. The bow flew over the strings and no tune would come out, but it made no difference because there was no one to hear it - the only sound filling the air being loud, broken screams of pain.

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Tagged by @convenientalias :

Write the first line of your last 10 fics to see if there's a pattern!

I'm excluding the daily fics for @dollarstrilogyevent because those first lines, and the fics themselves, tend to be very brief and idk I feel like they're less of an indication of general trends for me.

In chronological order (most recent last):

1. Retelling (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly)

"Blondie looked bored."

2. In Cahoots (Ravenous)

"Ives was sitting alone by the fire, smoking a cigar and holding a half-forgotten book, when Hart appeared in the doorway."

3. Knock Knock Knox (Ravenous)

"Boyd stepped out of his cabin."

4. u up? (For a Few Dollars More)

"With another job done and his bank account waiting to receive an obscenely large transfer from two separate government agencies, Manco checked into a hotel and went to the spa."

5. Cold Desert (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. exchange fic)

"Blondie hadn’t stayed to watch when he left Tuco in the desert."

6. Colonels Gone Wild, or: the gay cannibalistic adventures of Ives and Hart (while their mutual crush was languishing in a pit) (Ravenous)

"The last thing he thought he would ever remember was the knowledge that he was dying, that even the pain was slipping away from him."

7. Slow on the Uptake (Ravenous)

"Pork and beans was simple, but that also meant it was hard for Cleaves to screw it up."

8. Warmth (Ravenous)

"Boyd didn’t drink alcohol like he enjoyed it, he drank it like it was medicine he hoped would fix him if he drank enough."

[solid week of fandom event short fics skipped]

9. Morpheus (Ravenous)

"Toffler appeared to be asleep on his bed, relaxed under the disarranged furs, one hand curled under his neck."

10. I know that's a gun in your pocket but are you also happy to see me? (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly)

"Tuco's refusal to use a holster was driving Blondie crazy."

It's a lot of Ravenous bracketed by GBU fics! Length varies, but they all pretty much cut right to the chase with whatever's going on in the fic. Which is pretty normal for first lines I guess. No other observations come to mind.

The one thing that did strike me here is that Warmth is the fic I wrote high on hydrocodone-acetaminophen leftover from surgery when I clenched my jaw too hard getting ready to move out and messed my whole face up for days and Morpheus is the one I wrote after that thinking hm I kinda wish I had more of that unhealthily addictive substance to make me feel good and heavy and warm

Tagging anyone who wants to do this!

[probably-impossible]

Goth GF Mortimer kept making me think of "My Immortal," so, uh... have this.

Prompt was 'night.' Lol. Day 6 entry for @dollarstrilogyevent

[probably-impossible]

Here have a genderbent Tuco & Blondie for Day 2 of @dollarstrilogyevent

[probably-impossible]

I like to think Manco and Mortimer have the hat-shooting contest every time they meet each other, as a greeting.

Done as my warm-up activity 2 for the @dollarstrilogyevent ! The object inspo is the hat lol.

[probably-impossible]

Crush

A story about the End of the Wild West; or, the Prophet sees two trains explode on his one-hundred-and-fourth birthday.

(Aka my Activity 1 for the @dollarstrilogyevent that I got way too into hahahaha)

By his own reckoning, Prophet was one-hundred and four years old as of that September in 1896. Perhaps unsurprisingly he had lost most of his hearing, but his vision was still good. He saw the door of his shack swing open, and he struggled to sit up in bed. “I've already found Jesus and I'm not buying anything!”

The face that poked around the door belonged to Fluke Dudley, a young man who worked on the ranch that had sprung up next door. He was just about the only one who visited him anymore. “It's me, Prophet,” he said. “I w- - - - - to - - - - you- -”

“Speak up, boy!”

“I SAID THERE'S SOMEWHERE I'D LIKE TO TAKE YOU TODAY!”

“What? Where's that, then?”

“IT'S A SURPRISE!” Fluke scratched his nose and grinned. “For your birthday. You'll like it, sir, I promise.”

Prophet grumbled but allowed Fluke to lift him into the rickety wheelchair that sat beside his bed. “Don't need remindin’ about no birthday,” he said. “I've had about ten too many of ‘em, I reckon. Wish someone had put me out of my misery back when the goddamn good-for-nothing trains took my hearing!”

“Oh, don't talk like that.” 

“I'm a hundred and four years old, I'll talk however I damn well please!” 

Fluke rolled him out of the shack, towards one of the ranch's small one-horse wagons. He lifted the old man up onto the seat and stowed the chair in the bed, then jumped up and flicked the reins.

Prophet squinted at the scenery as they rolled slowly alongside the train tracks. “I used to get visits from all sorts of people, you know,” he said. “I used to know everything about everybody in these parts. They'd come from miles around to see me. To get their information.”

Fluke nodded. He'd heard this story before. 

“Lawmen, outlaws, drifters,” Prophet continued. “Bounty killers. I've seen them all. But they just don't make men like that anymore. I tell you, boy, things have got too civilized around here.”

“ - - - - ”

“What?”

“I SAID YOU'RE RIGHT!”

“Damn sure I'm right.” Prophet leaned over the side of the wagon to glare down at the tracks. “It's all the fault of those trains! They take all the civilized folk from out east, load ‘em up into their carriage cars with the lacy curtains and little fruity drink trolleys, and send ‘em out here. And soon enough there's so much civilization around a man can't hardly be himself anymore.”

Prophet leaned back and went silent for a while. “I wonder how many of those young men who used to come and see me are still alive,” he said. “They strung up Willie Foster last year, I know that. And Kid Frasier fell off his hoss. That old marshal Colby… whatever happened to him?”

“He got killed in a shootout, you said.”

“Right, right. Davey and Red Kelly done it, and then they run off to Mexico.” He blinked as another wagon passed by them. It was loaded up with people, chatting and laughing. He lost his thought for a moment, then picked it back up again. “Angel Eyes… he's long gone. That retired colonel went back to North Carolina. Now what was that young buck's name… Manco. Fell off the face of the earth, far as I can remember. And worst of all, poor old Cheyenne…”

“Shot in the gut by the president of the railroad company,” Fluke muttered.

“...shot in the gut by the president of the railroad company! Did you ever hear of a worse way to go?!” Prophet sighed. “Somehow I outlived them all. Now I'm the last of a dyin’ breed. They just don't make men like us anymore.”

“No sir,” Fluke said. There were more wagons around now, and people walking along the tracks, too. They all seemed to be going in the same direction. Fluke tipped his hat as they passed by a group of ladies holding parasols.

Prophet looked at him skeptically. “Where exactly are you taking me? There sure are a lot of other people headed this way.”

“You'll find out soon,” Fluke said. “We're almost there.” 

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my hair!”

“I SAID WE'RE ALMOST THERE!”

As they kept riding the crowd really started to thicken. They passed by lemonade stands and carnival games, a grandstand with a band, even a circus tent. “Just this once I'm glad I'm deaf,” Prophet muttered. “Who's runnin’ a goddamn county fair along the train tracks?”

Fluke slowly drew the wagon to a stop and pointed up at a large banner that had been hoisted next to a section of the track. It read ‘Crush, Texas. Est. September 15, 1896.’

“The railroad company's putting on a demonstration,” Fluke said, raising his voice even more than usual over the sound of the crowd. “They're gonna take two old steam engines, run ‘em as fast as they can, and crash ‘em right into each other!” He beamed with pride. “How do you like that for a birthday present, sir? You and me are gonna watch two trains smash each other to smithereens!”

Prophet blinked. “...What? The railroad company’s gonna smash their own trains?” he said, puzzled. “What for?”

“They're old engines, I guess,” Fluke said. “No use for ‘em anymore.”

“So they're crashing them? What, with all these people around?” 

“It's supposed to be very safe. No chance of the boilers exploding or anything, that's what the man from the railroad said.”

Prophet went quiet for a while. Fluke felt his own excitement start to deflate. He'd been so sure the old man would love to see this. All he ever talked about was how much he hated trains! The whole affair seemed perfectly designed with him in mind. But he didn't look excited. In fact, he seemed a little… sad.

“The railroad company…” he muttered. “Making a whole damn spectacle out of busting up some old trains that aren't good for nothing anymore. And it's perfectly safe. ‘Course it is.”

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd; rumbling could be heard in the distance. Fluke slouched on the bench of the wagon. “...I'm sorry, Prophet. I thought for sure you'd like to see it.”

“Oh, don't look so damn mopey, boy,” Prophet said, gently. “Old bastards like me can't ever be satisfied with nothin’, that's all.”

They sat there in silence for a while. Fluke listened to the rumbling while Prophet watched two black dots appear on either end of the horizon and grow steadily closer. 

Eventually the rumbling grew to a roar, and an anticipatory hush fell over the crowd. The ground began to shake. The trains were close enough to their destined meeting place now that Prophet could make out the shape of the engine cars, could see the smoke billowing from their antiquated stacks. For the first time in his life, the sight of the damn things didn't fill him entirely with hatred. They were being put out to pasture, just like him. To make way for newer, better trains. And when it happened it would be a perfectly-designed show, perfectly safe. Perfectly civilized. 

The two trains met right beneath the banner. There was a mighty crash, so loud that even Prophet could hear it, and the sound of splintering wood. Then, a moment of total silence. 

When the explosion began, time seemed to slow for Prophet. He could see a bright orange light well up within each of the smashed engines, then blossom into two beautiful balls of flame. The light danced in his eyes, and he smiled with glee. The boilers of the old engines had blown up after all. The sight of it was breathtaking. 

All this took place within less than a second. As the fire billowed outwards, the force of the explosion sent millions of pieces of metallic debris straight into the gathered crowd. Prophet grinned with ecstasy and thought about how awful this was going to be for the railroad company. Oh, they were going to have hell to pay for this. It was a fiasco. Maybe it would even drive them out of business...! Of all the ways for a man like him to go, this was a fine one. He was grateful the boy had brought him out here, after all.

The explosion nearly knocked Fluke from the wagon, and he felt a stinging pain in his forearms as he shielded his face. It was all over in only a moment. He could hear groans and shouts from the crowd as he slowly regained his senses. He looked down at his arms; he'd been hit by some shrapnel, but not badly. 

He turned quickly towards Prophet, then froze. The old man lay flopped backwards over the wagon bench, unmoving. 

A metal bolt had gone straight into his forehead. Even so, there was a satisfied smile on his face.

[cigarette-room]

[fic] To each their own

He wants him to bleed. He wants him to hurt, and for gasping breaths to burn his throat the same way they did Tuco's. He wants his hands drenched in the proof of his revenge.

---

Day 3 of @dollarstrilogyevent: Betrayal.

[read on ao3]

[probably-impossible]

Meetings

"Tuco had wives all over, it followed that he had kids all over, too. But he'd never met one before."

Day 1 entry for the @dollarstrilogyevent

Tuco woke up at sunrise in a muddy ditch behind the saloon. He groaned and held his head for a while before getting up. He couldn't remember if someone had stolen his wallet or if he'd simply lost it playing poker. Oh well. Luckily one of the places he'd buried his gold was just outside of town. 

He stood up and slapped as much of the mud off himself as he could. Then he made his way back to the main street and started trying to find where he'd hitched his horse.

As he passed by a hotel, he heard a high voice call out. “Hey! Wait!” It was a kid, maybe about ten years old, jogging towards him. The urchin's gender was impossible to determine underneath all of the grime, but Tuco decided to assume it was a boy because it had short hair and was wearing trousers. 

“Get lost,” Tuco said, giving the kid a glare. He tugged on the leather strap holding his pistol to emphasize the point. 

The kid didn't seem fazed. He switched to speaking in Spanish. “You're Tuco Ramirez, aren't you? You look just like the posters.”

Tuco froze for a moment, on reflex. “...And what is it to you if I am?” He groaned and held a hand to his forehead. “You're real lucky I'm so hungover, kid. I'm just gonna let you forget all about those posters, you understand? Now beat it, before I change my mind.”

“No, wait, that's not—” The kid held up his hands. “I'm not going to tell anybody about you, I promise! I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

The kid hesitated. “Well… because you're my father.”

…

…

Tuco was surprised. He shouldn't have been. He had wives all over, it followed that he had kids all over, too. But he'd never met one before. He'd never stayed around longer than nine months. His mouth felt suddenly dry. “...Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Who's your mother?”

“Mariana Castillo.” After a short pause the kid added, “from Abilene.”

“Oh, yes, now I remember,” Tuco lied. “Very pretty lady.” He looked the kid up and down. Evidently she hadn't been pretty enough to save the poor tiny bastard from inheriting his features. Curly dark hair, big ears, big nose. The kid also had big brown eyes and a small gap between his front teeth. Tuco rubbed the back of his neck and let out a long breath. “Shit. Alright, well, what do you want? Money? Divorce papers for your mama?”

The kid blinked up at him. “I … I guess I sort of thought I could … stay with you.” 

Tuco winced. “Ah. No. Look, this is going to sound harsh, but there’s a reason I left in the first place. It’s not personal, it’s just that I can't let myself be tied down anywhere or to anybody, you understand? And besides, you don’t want to get mixed up with an outlaw like me. I'm a bad man, and I do bad things. It’s no life for a kid. So just go on back to your mother, okay?”

The kid gripped the hem of his dirty shirt and stared at the ground. He mumbled. “- - - - -.”

“What?”

“Mama’s dead,” the kid said, with only a small quiver in his voice. “Three months ago. She got sick.”

“Oh.” 

Tuco glanced around briefly. The town was slowly starting to wake up. He spotted the chestnut horse he’d rode in on hitched in front of a barbershop. “Here,” he said, “why don’t we find a quieter place to talk?”

The kid just nodded.

Tuco hopped into the saddle and swung the kid up to sit in front of him, where he could hold onto the pommel. “I’ve got to make a stop somewhere,” he explained, coaxing the horse into a trot. “It’s just a short ride out of town. But once that’s done I’m gonna bring you back here and we’re gonna part ways, understand?”

The kid nodded again. “I understand.”

“Good.” 

They rode in silence for a bit. The sky was slowly lightening, the deep oranges and pinks of the sunrise fading into a light blue. The kid's small body pressed against Tuco’s chest and Tuco’s arms encircled him as he held the reins, almost but not really an embrace. Eventually Tuco broke the silence. “What about your mama's family?”

“There's my grandpa,” the kid said, “and Aunt Josefina. They live in Abilene. But they don't like me. They say I'm nothing but trouble. And they were always telling Mama she should have never had me. I didn’t want to stay with them. That's why I ran away.” 

“And you've been, what, wandering around on your own for three months?”

“Yes. I'm working for the landlady at that hotel right now. I've been doing odd jobs, but I can't stick with them for more than a few days. I get distracted too easy.” 

“You know, I always had that problem, too. But you better find something to stick with. You don’t want to end up a bandit like me.”

The kid tipped his head back to look up at him. “Why not? You seem to be doing alright.”

Tuco chuckled and rubbed his neck. He still had a few scars there from all the rope burn. “Sure, it's alright most of the time, but when it gets bad it gets real bad, and quick. I'm only alive because God likes me. And because a certain blonde bastard is a really good shot.”

“Well,” the kid said, puffing his chest a little. “Maybe God likes me, too.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“If He did, you wouldn't have a bandit for a father.”

Eventually they came upon a small grouping of cacti amongst a pile of rocks. Tuco dismounted and helped the kid hop down from the saddle. The kid stared up at the tallest cactus. “That one's shaped like a—”

“A prick,” Tuco said. “Yeah. That's how I remember this place. If that thing ever gets cut down I'm fu— err, in trouble.” 

He unhooked a small shovel from among his saddlebags. He'd started carrying it with him for convenience's sake. “Right,” he said, tossing it to the kid. “You can help me dig. That's what Tuco does, he digs.”

Between the two of them, it only took a few minutes before they hit the sack of gold. The kid's eyes were enormous as he watched Tuco open it. “Is that real?”

“Of course it's real,” Tuco said. He counted out about a thousand dollars’ worth and scooped it into his satchel. “You think I'd have it buried out here if it wasn't?”

“Just like Captain Flint's treasure,” the kid murmured.

“Who?”

“Oh, um…” The kid looked a bit sheepish. “It's from a story about pirates. I read it in a boys’ magazine.”

Tuco raised his eyebrows. “You like to read?” 

The kid smiled and nodded. “I like adventure stories, mostly. But Aunt Josefina told me I'm not supposed to read them.” He began to look sheepish again. “I want to write one of my own, someday. I don’t know what to write about, though. I've never been to the jungles of Africa and I don't really know that much about pirates, either.”

“A writer, huh?” Tuco whistled as he put back the rest of the gold and filled in the hole. He'd never been very good at reading; the letters always seemed to get jumbled up whenever he looked at them. “My kid, a writer! Who'd have thought it…” 

When the gold was good and re-buried, he straightened up. “Well. Time to be heading back.”

The kid looked away. “...Yes.”

Soon enough they were in the saddle again and riding back the way they came. The kid was quiet. Tuco had to admit to himself that he was starting to feel bad about turning him loose. 

He was starting to imagine buying a farm or something up north and watching the kid run around feeding the chickens or playing with the goats or whatever. That was the kind of life his parents had given him growing up, even though they were poor. It had been a very long time since he'd had a real family like that. He wanted it, he realized. He wanted it bad.

But the tragedy of it was that he knew himself too well. He'd never be able to settle down and stay in one place. He'd been running for so long that he felt like if he stopped, he'd die. And it was true that an outlaw's company was no place for a kid. Tuco knew that one day his luck would run out and he'd hang, really hang. If nothing else the kid shouldn't have to see that.

Some impulse made him pat the kid on the head and ruffle his hair. The kid looked up at him with his big brown eyes. Tuco swallowed. “...Hey. You know, the story of how I got this gold is a pretty good one. Might not be as good as pirates, but maybe good enough for you to write about. Do you want me to tell it to you?”

The kid's eyes lit up. “Yes! Please!” 

“Alright, alright, if you insist.”

The kid leaned back against him and nestled his head into the crook of his arm. Tuco felt a surge of something he rarely felt for anything anymore—affection. He patted the kid's soft curls again. 

“You see, a while ago, I met this man named Blondie. Well, that's what I call him, anyway, he doesn't really have a name. Me and him, we started running this scheme together…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The story was over and the sun was high in the sky by the time they rode back into town. Tuco put about half of the gold he'd brought into a small bag and gave it to the kid. “Here,” he said. “I think you should use this to go back to Abilene. At least until you're a little more grown. But if you really can't stay there, you have an uncle in San Antonio, Pablo Ramirez. He's a priest and a good man, he'd take care of you. And you know where the rest of the gold is; you can take it anytime if you need it. Just be sure to leave a little behind for old Tuco, okay?” He hadn't told the kid about the other stashes, but he didn't need to know everything. 

The kid took the bag in both hands. “I'd still rather go with you, even if I have to become a bandit. I bet I could pick pockets or something, I have small hands!”

Tuco, admittedly, had considered that. “Sorry, kid, the answer's still no.”

The kid nodded. His big brown eyes were suspiciously shiny. “Will I ever see you again?” 

Tuco looked down the street, so he wouldn't have to look at him. “I… I don't know. Maybe. But it's a big world, you know? And I’m still wanted in Abilene.”

Tuco felt arms wrap around his waist, and the kid pressed his face into his chest. It was the first time anyone had hugged him like that in years. It made him feel … warm. 

He patted the kid's back. “Say,” he said. “What's your name, anyway?” 

The kid looked up at him. “Elena.” 

“Huh?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Ah, no,” Tuco said, mentally reconsidering some things. “It's a nice name. For a girl. It's a girl's name.”

“...Yes.” Elena pulled back. “You know, even if you are a bad man,” she said, “I'm happy I met you.”

Tuco gave her a half-smile and one last pat on the head. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

[probably-impossible]

Signs & Wonders

Tuco made a hasty sign of the cross. “Blondie, y- you…” he stammered. “You have…”

“What?” Blondie could feel Tuco’s panic spreading to him. His stomach twisted with apprehension. “What do I have?”

Tuco hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. Then he spread his arms. “Wings!” he said. “Great big white feathery wings!”

Day 3 entry for @dollarstrilogyevent

The man known as Blondie was not religious. But he was only a man. Deep down, he was just as scared of dying as anybody else.

In the desert, with the skin peeling off his face and thirst burning his throat, in his desperation, he made a deal with God.

I'll do anything, be whatever you want me to be, just don't let me die here…

No one making those kinds of promises expected to be bound to them. He certainly hadn't. After all, he was the furthest thing you could find from a saint. Worse than evil, he was apathy walking; he was a greedy drifter with nothing in his life worth saving. Of all the prayers from better men that God wouldn't grant, it seemed unfair for his to be answered.

But then he'd started seeing miracles. A Confederate army wagon had appeared out of nowhere, just in time to save him. Tuco, the inveterate sinner, had taken him to a Catholic mission, where holy men had washed his face and tended his wounds. And he'd recovered, against all odds. Despite his unbelief, God had taken him up on his offer.

Now it appeared that He was holding Blondie to his end of the bargain. Because that was the only possible explanation for any of this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He and Tuco had just left the mission in San Antonio when he started to feel an itching between his shoulder blades. No matter how much he scratched at it, the feeling wouldn't go away.

Tuco shot him a glance. “You got a rash or something?”

Blondie scowled silently back at him. Tuco rolled his eyes. “Then stop fidgeting so much. This wagon ride is bumpy enough as it is.”

Blondie shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to ignore the feeling. It worked for a little bit. He figured he must have gotten sunburned back there and just hadn't noticed until now.

But after a while, the itching graduated to a sharp pain, sharp enough that even he couldn't ignore it anymore. Pain, and a sense of pressure. It felt like something pushing against his skin from beneath.

After a while he realized he was sweating and clenching his fists in his pockets. He doubled over, and his vision started to go fuzzy.

He could hear Tuco saying something, then the wagon slowly came to a stop. He tried to step down from the bench, but stumbled and landed face-down in the dirt. On his hands and knees, he arched his back and clenched his jaw.

The pressure in his back built and built, and his body twitched and jerked as whatever was growing inside him strained to get out. Finally, he felt a searing explosion of pain that turned his vision white.

Something burst through his skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He must have gone unconscious for a few minutes. He didn't remember how he'd ended up on the ground, exactly. There was a dull ache that ran from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back.

He took a moment to catch his breath. Above him, he could hear Tuco yammering in frightened Spanish. He felt a weight on top of him, like a thick blanket. Had Tuco covered him with something?

Slowly, he pushed himself back up to his hands and knees, then stood. He swayed, feeling oddly off-balance. The weight on his back was still there. And he was experiencing strange sensations. Something dragging in the dust behind him… something ruffling in the breeze. His own body felt wrong, somehow. Different.

Behind him, Tuco stood pressed up against the wagon, looking at him with wide eyes. “La hostia!”

“Hey, that's blasphemy,” Blondie said, then blinked. He didn't know why he cared all of a sudden.

Tuco made a hasty sign of the cross. “Blondie, y- you…” he stammered. “You have…”

“What?” Blondie could feel Tuco’s panic spreading to him. His stomach twisted with apprehension. “What do I have?”

Tuco hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. Then he spread his arms. “Wings!” he said. “Great big white feathery wings!”

Blondie froze. “Quit fooling around.”

“I'm not fooling! I never fool! Look!” Tuco pointed at him. “They're huge!”

Blondie didn't move. He didn't want to. “You've gone crazy,” he said. “The heat got to you and you finally snapped.”

Tuco let out a frustrated groan. “You're the one who's crazy! All you gotta do is turn your head!”

“Don't feel like it.”

“You stubborn son of a—!”

Tuco lunged suddenly towards him, reaching past his shoulder. Blondie ducked away from his grasp, but still felt fingers close around his… his… He jerked as something pulled at his still-sore shoulder blades. “Tch—! Let go, you—!”

“No!” Tuco gave another sharp tug. “Not until you look!”

Blondie gritted his teeth. He looked.

Over his shoulder, he could see, sure enough, a huge wing, like a bird's. It was covered in pure white feathers that seemed almost iridescent in the sunlight. It had to be at least eight feet long, and it was firmly attached to his back.

Tuco had his grubby fingers buried in the feathers at the other end of it. By itself his grip didn't hurt, but it felt deeply strange; a touch in a place his mind was still telling him should not exist.

True to his word, though, Tuco let go when he saw Blondie turn his head. “I told you,” he said. “Wings.”

Blondie swallowed. He looked down the length of the wing and watched the feathers flutter slightly in the breeze. He looked over his other shoulder; there was a wing there, too. They were both very, very real. He tried extending them, and they unfolded clumsily, their tips dragging along the ground. He reached out and touched one. It was surprisingly soft.

“Wings,” he echoed numbly. He had wings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, he sat on the seat of the wagon with his shoulders hunched, doing his best to keep the wings folded up over his back while Tuco drove. But it wasn't easy. Every time the wagon went over a bump in the road, the wings would be jostled from their position and start unfurling. They were huge and unwieldy and awkward, and they had ruined his sense of space. He'd had a very difficult time climbing back onto the seat of the wagon at all, with the wings flailing around and bumping against the canvas. At least they hadn't spooked the horses.

The wagon jolted as it hit a rock, and Blondie’s left wing flew free and smacked Tuco in the face.

“Ay pendejo, watch it!” Tuco snapped, batting it away. “How am I supposed to see where we're going with your feathers in my eyes?!”

Blondie didn't respond. He didn't feel like talking. Instead he wanted to burn through his cigarillos and not think about anything.

Tuco scowled at him. “Hey, are you even listening to me?” He huffed. “Just because you grew a big pair of chicken wings doesn't mean you have to sit there moping all day. I need you to keep a lookout. We're getting close to the fighting, there might be soldiers around.”

Blondie frowned at him. “You act like you're used to them already.”

Tuco shrugged. “There are two types of people in the world, my friend: people who can accept whatever this life throws at them, no matter how strange it is, and people who can't. You've got to be the first type of person if you want to survive like I do.”

“Yeah, well, easy enough for you to say,” Blondie muttered. “They ain't your wings.”

Tuco threw up his hands. “What do you want me to say?! That I think you're a freak? Fine, you're a freak! Your unnatural appearance frightens and confuses me. Is that what you were waiting for? Now you can either stop sulking and make yourself useful, or you can jump off this wagon and fly to the cemetery.”

Blondie glowered at the scenery. He still felt he should be allowed to sulk for a while. He furled the wings as tightly over his back as he could.

“Wait a minute,” Tuco mumbled. He stroked his mustache with his free hand. “Now that's an idea. Yeah… that's a good idea.”

Blondie gave him a sideways glance, narrowing his eyes. He liked Tuco even less than usual when he got ideas.

Tuco just grinned at him. “You really could fly up and look around.”

“Fly.”

“Yes, fly, what are you, deaf?” Tuco pointed towards the clear sky above them. “You'd probably be able to see for miles from up there. And then we could avoid the war altogether! Just think about it: those wings could save me—I mean, us—a whole pile of trouble.”

Blondie had to spend a minute processing this. His gut instincts rebelled against the suggestion; he didn't want to be Tuco’s scouting pigeon. But it made sense. It was a good idea. “I don’t even know if I can fly with these.”

“What? What else would they be for, huh, estúpido?” Tuco stopped the wagon and started trying to push Blondie from the seat. “Come on! There's no way to know if you don't try!”

Blondie gave him a glare but hopped down of his own accord. He stumbled; his center of gravity still felt off. But after some wobbling he managed to right himself. He took a few steps away from the wagon and glanced around. He and Tuco and the horses were the only living things out here.

Tuco was watching him expectantly, with a nasty little smile on his nasty little face. Blondie didn't want that gaze on him while he did this. He started to walk around to the other side of the wagon. When he got there, though, he saw Tuco lying on his stomach in the back, supporting his head in his hands and kicking his legs. He grinned. “Don't let me distract you.”

Blondie narrowed his eyes and took a few steps backwards. There was nothing around but empty flatland, stretching off into the distance. He extended his wings and tried flapping them a few times. Their size made them slow and he had to push hard against the air, but he felt his heels lift a bit before the dust cloud his wings had kicked up swallowed him. He coughed, fanning red dirt away from his face and backing up a few more steps.

He glanced at his wings, then up at the horizon. For some reason, he was apprehensive about this. …Should be able to, it's what they're for… He clenched and unclenched his fingers. Only thing to do was to try.

He spread his wings and took a running leap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Bah ha ha ha ha ha!” Tuco doubled over and practically rolled out of the wagon. “Oh man, I think my sides are gonna burst! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!”

Blondie lay face-down in the dirt, wings akimbo. He had decided not to move from where he'd face-planted on his fourth attempt. So far his new appendages had done nothing but betray him.

He heard Tuco’s footsteps drawing towards him, still laughing. “You looked like a blind pigeon! Ha ha ha ha ha ha… You looked like a chicken having a seizure!”

“Hrrnngh.”

Tuco crouched down and poked at his feathers. “Hey, you didn't break any bones, did you? If you're dying again you'll tell me the name on the grave, won't you?”

“M'fine.” Blondie tensed when Tuco touched his wing. He was pretty sure his feathers were disheveled, and he felt like a cat being pet the wrong way. He shook Tuco off and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“Ha ha ha… I guess pigs still can't fly.” Tuco plopped down into the dirt next to him. “I'm serious, you know, your feathers look messed up. Here, let me just—”

“Don't touch me.”

“You quit being so pissy! You think you're gonna be able to fix this shit by yourself? You got extendable arms too, huh?!”

Blondie scowled, but he didn't pull away when Tuco’s hands found his wings again.

“Whiny bird-bastard, can't even accept a favor from the goodness of Tuco’s heart,” Tuco grumbled. His fingers dug into the soft, downy feathers near Blondie’s shoulders and gently combed them back into place.

The touch sent a shiver through Blondie's entire body. His breath caught for a moment. That felt… really good. So good, in fact, that it was almost…

Tuco stroked his wings again and he had to bite his tongue to keep from making an embarrassing noise. Apparently that area was … sensitive. “‘S enough,” he mumbled. “Do the— the bigger ones instead.”

“Huh? Why?”

“...”

“Oh, alright.” Tuco shifted position and started working his way towards the tip of his left wing. Blondie sighed. By contrast, this just felt pleasant. Tuco's hands were warm on his wings as they swept the dust from him and smoothed his errant feathers back into place. He wouldn't admit it, but it was nice.

“Hey, Blondie,” Tuco said after a while. He let his hands drop. “The whole flying thing… eh, you'll get it eventually. Probably. But I, ah, shouldn't have laughed at you. Even though you did look like a dead parrot rolling down a hill.”

Blondie whipped his head around, almost smacking Tuco with his wing. “Was that an apology?”

“Don't get used to it,” Tuco sneered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just thought to myself, you know, that Blondie, he’s had it pretty rough lately, what with sprouting big chicken wings and almost dying and everything. That can't be easy to deal with, even for a bastard like him. Maybe I should ease up on him a little bit. Maybe we could even let the whole trying-to-kill-each-other thing be bygones, eh? Call it even. After all, we're partners again.”

Blondie gave him a long look. Somehow, he could tell that Tuco was being uncharacteristically sincere. He didn't quite know how he knew.

He'd never been big on intuition, but this felt like some kind of sixth sense. If he focused on it hard enough, he could almost convince himself that there was a faint glow around him, telling him that this was good, this was a start, and he should trust it. If he’d been a religious man he might have called it a still, small voice.

Tuco had an almost sheepish look. “You know, Blondie,” he said, fiddling with the scapular around his neck. “This is gonna sound silly, but those wings don't really make you look like a chicken. Really, you look almost like … well. An angel.”

Ordinarily, Blondie would have never let Tuco forget he'd said a thing like that. But for some reason, today, he let it go.

He stood up and stretched his wings. He was starting to feel like maybe he could get used to them.

[probably-impossible]

Habeas Corpus

A snippet of a Lawyer AU for day 7 of @dollarstrilogyevent - justice.

Blondie heard the phone in the outer office ring and Maria's muffled voice say “Sentenza & Biondo, how can we help you?” It was quiet for a while, and then the phone on his own desk started to ring. He sighed and picked it up. 

Before he could get a word out, a voice on the other end said, in a heavy Mexican accent, “Are you Sentenza or Biondo?”

“Biondo.”

“Can you put Sentenza on? I heard he's better. No offense.”

“He's, uh… not with us anymore.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

“'S alright.” Blondie took a moment to wash down a propranolol with his watery coffee. “You want a consultation?”

“Nah, skip it. I'm at the police station right now. They're gonna arrest me for murder. But I didn't do it!”

“Sure,” Blondie muttered. He reached for a pen and notepad. “Name?”

“Tuco Benedicto Pacífico Juan María Ramirez."

“Right.” He scribbled down the first and last names and shrugged on his olive-green blazer, which he had forgotten to have dry-cleaned for the fourth week in a row. “Don't say anything. I'll be right there.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were only about twenty officers in the Betterville Police Department, and Blondie knew all of them. The one who met him at reception was named Wallace. He was the kind of cop who made the cameras in the interrogation rooms necessary. “You here for the Rat?” he asked.

“If the Rat's name is Ramirez, then yeah. Who's prosecuting?” 

“Mortimer.”

“Christ. You guys are taking this seriously.” 

“Murder's a serious crime.” Wallace led Blondie back to one of the little interview rooms and opened the door for him. “Your lawyer's here,” he said.

Tuco sat up from where he was slouched in a corner of the room. He was a shorter man dressed in a brown jacket, chinos, and flashy white pirarucu boots. He had gold rings on his fingers, a gold tooth, and a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. “Hey,” he said to Wallace, “you got an ETA on that cheeseburger? I'm starving in here, man.”

“It's on its way.” Wallace motioned Blondie towards the table in the middle of the room. “Don't take too long, we want him booked tonight.”

“Yeah, alright.” Blondie sat down at the table and waited for Wallace to leave the room before turning to his new client. He opened his brown leather briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a pen. “Fee agreement,” he said. “Take a look, say if you want me to explain anything.”

Tuco nodded, took the papers, and signed the bottom one without reading a single word. “I don't know if you had a chance to look into my record,” he said. 

Blondie nodded. “It's pretty bad. You're not getting bail with those priors. Or a plea deal.” He put the fee agreement back in the briefcase and took out his notepad. “And Mortimer’s prosecuting. Likes to play hard ball and he's the best trial attorney in the state.”

“You fill me with confidence.” 

“Well, Sentenza was the best. I don’t like talkin’ as much as he did. But I'm smarter than he was. That's why I'm still here.”

Tuco drummed his fingers on the table. Despite the fact that he'd certainly been through the system before, he looked nervous. “I really didn't do it, you know.”

“Sure,” Blondie said. “But assuming you did—” 

Tuco slammed his hand on the table with a force that almost made Blondie jump. “I’m innocent this time,” he insisted, raising his voice. “And that's the truth! If you don't believe me how the hell is anybody else supposed to, huh?!”

Blondie raised his eyebrows. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Alright then,” he said. “Convince me first.”

Tuco growled. “Son of a whore… You're lucky the Rojos recommended you, otherwise I'd take my chances with the public defender.”

Ah. The Rojo cartel were Sentenza & Biondo's best customers. “This have anything to do with them?”

Tuco avoided his gaze. “Well, maybe. A little. I may or may not have been doing a favor for Ramon at the time.”

Blondie sighed, almost in relief. “If your interests end up going against theirs, ethics-wise I'd have to drop the representation. Best to play it safe. Hope you get a good public defender.” He started to put his notepad back in his briefcase.

“Shit! Wait!” Tuco reached across the table and grabbed Blondie by the wrist. His grip was surprisingly warm and firm. 

“Let go of me,” Blondie growled.

“No, you just listen to me for a minute,” Tuco said. “Are you fucking kidding me, man?! I called you because you're supposed to be the scummiest lawyer around!”

“Sure, but I don't think you're worth pissing off the Rojos.”

Tuco seemed to hesitate for a moment. “...Alright, well, I can make myself worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just shut up and listen.” Tuco's wide brown eyes had Blondie pinned to the spot. “The dead guy, Bill Carson. Ramon wanted him roughed up a little and I owed him a favor. So I followed him to the alley behind that strip club downtown, Mirage, I think. But when I found him, somebody else had already shot him. He was still alive, just barely. He gave me something.”

Blondie just glared at him silently.

“A key to a safety deposit box,” Tuco whispered. “With two million dollars inside. Clean cash. I managed to hide the key somewhere safe before they brought me in. I'll give you a cut of the money if you get me off.”

“Phrasing.”

“Oh fuck you.”

“What's the cut?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Fifty.”

“Fuck your mother too. Fine.” Tuco let go of his wrist finally and leaned backwards, scowling. “Well? Are you gonna be my lawyer or not?”

Blondie thought about it. Not for too long. A million dollars was a nice amount of money. And the firm had been in the red ever since Sentenza kicked the bucket. “Sure,” he said, and put the notepad back on the table. “For a million dollars plus my fee, I'll get you off all day long.”