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Not a lot happened within Route 66. While it still was a tourist attraction, every ring loses its shine after a while. There were the curious tourists that come for the vast canyon views, locals that lazed under the humid air, and rowdy biker groups that liked to cause minor inconveniences, but unless unless you had a knack for the oddly-shaped cacti or dirt-tasting coffee, nothing particularly interesting would be seen in it.
If something did happen, it’s usually just out of it.
Just by the borders of the main area, almost close to the next road, was a shooting range. One hectare of field boxed by metal fencing with a farm on the east and a house just by the left of it. It had been managed by a nice family of five. It had what you needed: If you wanted to shoot, you line up cans and bottles. If you wanted a break, the family had drinks ready on the porch. If you needed a place to stay, rooms were offered at reasonable prices.
The only rule: always shoot something, never someone.
It used to be the joy of those two lived between the counties; anyone who came by at least once would always agree that it was a gem in the land—a getaway for the good, bad, and anyone in between. The family didn’t ask for a lot either, just good company, and the people were happy to oblige to such good hospitality.
However, after a raid by a gang from the neighboring state, the place was unsalvageable. The family moved out, and the joy with them. No one bothered to take care of it either; it wouldn’t be the same. From there, it was left to collect dust.
That was twenty years ago.
McCree was staying in New Mexico for a few days. It was that time of the year where a number of agents were heading back to their hometowns, and since he hadn’t been called for any missions for a while, he decided to do the same. Soldier was a little skeptical to have him visit due to a possible run in with his old gang, but Ana was quick to allow McCree with the reassurance that it would be good for him.
So there he was, on the last day of his short break, standing under the canopy of the abandoned farmhouse.
He visited the range a lot with his parents when he was younger. McCree spent long afternoons practicing with his father while his mother talked with the family. Even after he joined Deadlock, a number of the gang members, himself included, visited the range just to enjoy a place where everyone was viewed the same. He had a lot of good memories associated with it, so when the news of the attack went across New Mexico, it was an understatement to say that he was devastated.
He leaned on the porch fence, careful not to put too much weight and cause more damage. If the buildings creaked just by the desert wind, what more by him?
Looking around, the field’s grasses were tall and unkept, and the barrels, boxes, and fences used for the shooting range across the land were old and withered. The place definitely saw better days, but it was just as he remembered it.
A number of bottles were on the fences, so McCree raised Peacekeeper for a casual shot.
Kling!
…
That wasn’t his bullet.
McCree looked to the direction of the shot to see an officer. You were dressed in casual attire: a tan blouse, greyish-green tactical pants, and brown hiking boots. On your head was a cowboy hat like McCree’s, but the brown had already withered into a lighter shade and your hat band was a white weaved braid. You were far from him, but the only thing that gave McCree the idea of your position was the shining star lapel on the left of your shirt, and a mean-looking revolver.
The cowboy took a shot to the can next to yours.
McCree was quick to raise his hands up when you point your gun at him.
“I don’t mean t’cause any harm!” McCree called out. Even in the long distance, anyone in Route 66 could easily shoot a man between the eyes (example: himself).
McCree hoped that you’ll put down the gun or return to shooting, but you started to advance towards him. The cowboy knew not to mess with the law (he’d done so many times in the past, and that definitely got him somewhere), so he stood on guard; McCree even placed his hat to his chest, hoping that showing respect will keep him from being turned in. He did have a bounty over his head, after all.
“State your name and business,” you demanded.
“The name’s Jesse McCree.”
There’s shock, then a slight shift in your grip. The man’s been on gun point many times like these before, but for some reason your presence just intimidated him more than it should. McCree was quick to speak up.
“Just ‘ere t’enjoy the Miller’s shootin’ range like anyone else, deputy.”
After what felt like an eternity, McCree sighed as you returned your gun to your holster.
You leaned on the porch fence beside him, arms crossed as you looked into the distance. The air wasn’t completely comfortable, but it wasn’t tense. McCree took out a cigar, and he gestured it to you as if to ask if you wanted one. You shook your head, and he proceeded to light it.
“What’s an officer of the law doin’ ‘round the dusty outskirts of Route 66?” he asked, blowing out a puff of smoke.
“Shootin’,” you answered simply.
You gave him a look over.
“What’s an ex-Deadlock gang member turned covert-operative Overwatch agent doin’ round ‘ere?”
McCree choked on the cigar for a second.
“... shootin’.”
Silence passed.
“Well, there’s some more bottles n’ caps by th’ back of th’ house,” you chirped, brushing past him.
“I’ll fetch ‘em for ya. I’d like t’see that infamous aim of yours.”
It takes McCree a moment to register that you just called him out of his affiliations, one of which he was sure would not reach as these parts of the world, and simply dropped the topic as if it was a broken gun. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve taken for as just a normal officer doing their job, but it was clear that you knew a lot more than you let on.
He whipped around to see you heading to the back of the farm house, and he rushed to get to you.
“Now wait a gosh darn second, how’d you—“
”It’s either we shoot glasses as equals, or I’m interrogating you as an officer of the law,” you cut him off, facing him just as he was about to reach for you.
With eyes narrowed and threatening, McCree could say that he was looking at a snake that was ready to bite. If looks could kill, he’d be dead just by the fierceness in your eyes. As he took in your features, there were a faint scars on your face, light eyebags, and faint wrinkles, no doubt all from your time bringing peace and order as your duty called for it. A thought of how many criminals you have wrangled in your years came to him. You looked only a couple of years older than him, had you encountered Deadlock in the day as well? Did you hear of him from those days? McCree cleared his throat, hand subconsciously reaching for his gun.
You looked at his hand, and at your glance he took hold of the handle.
“Nothing goes past Rattlesnake,” you threatened, hand patting the holster of your gun.
“And if I was on my shift you’d be behind bars by now.”
McCree expected you to pull out some handcuffs—your statement sounded exactly like those catchphrases in shows before a character does something—but when you turned away and knelt down to collect bottles he’s just left to blink.
“But I’m not,” you shrugged.
“Besides, it’d be disrespectful t’go against the one rule on this old range. You know that rule?”
“Shoot something, never someone.”
Getting up with the targets, you shove a number in his arms without warning, making McCree scramble in an attempt to not drop any of the glass-based targets. You explained to him that you’ll find some more by the other side of the house, and then told him to line up the ones you had given him.
“If I’m not back by th’ time you’re done, just go ahead. I might be findin’ somethin’ a lil’ more interestin’ than bottles.”
As you turned away to do your task, McCree thanked the heavens that the rules of the shooting range haven’t changed after all those years.
>>>
Your aim was impressive. As the two of you stood across each other and shot down targets, McCree can’t help but nod approvingly at your shots. When he asked you to shoot six targets off a fence, each one is knocked off clean with a speed that competed with his own. Even when he tries to one up you with tricks like spinning his revolver out before shooting, you do him one better by making twice the amount of spins before taking out targets that were farther than him. McCree knew he was a show off, but you were really rubbing it in.
Not that he minded anyway.
“Haven’t gotten your name, deputy,” McCree called over a shot.
“Can’t keep callin’ ya that now, can I?”
He heard a snort from beside him.
“You can and you will if you want to keep th’ hat from a bullet,” you replied mischievously, flashing him a grin.
McCree placed a hand on his hat protectively, making you holler.
“(Y/N) (L/N). Heard the last name before?” you asked.
“Sorta rings a bell,” he replied.
“Am I supposed t’know?”
You feigned hurt, and McCree rolled his eyes as he reloaded his gun.
“If you’ve ever heard of th’ ‘Desert Venom’ predicament, my father was th’ one who wrangled that rattlesnake. Our family’s known for handlin’ those devils, even got a couple myself,” you boasted, pointing a thumb at yourself for emphasis.
McCree smiled at your confidence.
“I know of those days; just didn’t know it was your Pa that got it,” McCree said, remembering news of a six foot long rattlesnake that went around New Mexico for a couple of months. He was in his teen years when it was taking place, and he was glad that the reptile had been caught before it could reach Santa Fe.
“Is that why your gun’s called Rattlesnake?” he asked.
You shrugged, “Sorta? A good gunsmith buddy of mine made her for me. I didn’t even ask ‘im t’design her like this, but he did, and I loved it.”
“Mind if I take a closer look?”
McCree had actually been eyeing your gun for a while. He didn’t notice it when you had the weapon straight at him, but the gold and silver embossing around the revolver got his attention in the span of your friendly competition. Stolen glances weren’t enough to really see what was on it (especially with you shooting at rapid speed, it was just the gun rolling back and forth and never staying still), but it was already eating at him.
He was half-expecting you to say no to him, since there were unspoken rules about handling fellow gunslingers’ guns, but McCree was shocked when you gestured the gun towards him.
“I’ll let you see her if you show me yours.”
He obliged, handing you Peacekeeper.
“Careful, she bites,” you joked as you watched him gawk over the amount of work on the gun.
The more he analyzed it the more details he found. The rattlesnake started from the frame from the revolver and coiled throughout. Engravings were left out from the cylinder but continued around the barrel, and despite it’s minimalized look it was clear that it was made to look as if the snake was striking with its open mouth aligned with the muzzle. McCree wished he had met your friend to applaud the work because heck, even the scales were insanely realistic to the touch.
“She’s a beauty,” he whistled.
“I have to say the same for yours,” you spoke. McCree watched as you held his gun, the same look of wonder and curiosity on your face.
“Name?”
“Peacekeeper.”
“That’s a lil’ ironic considering your work.”
McCree shrugged.
“You have a gun named after one of th’ most venomous snakes in New Mexico, and you’re an officer of th’ law. I’d say that’s ironic.”
You both shared a laugh.
“Let’s get out of th’ heat,” you offered, lightly tugging him by the serape to lead him back to the house.
Once you both were out of the desert sun and seated on the porch, the two of you shared some stories. McCree happily talked about his life when he still lived in New Mexico, occasionally dabbled into some Deadlock days, and quietly mumbled about Blackwatch events. You asked him some normal questions (“Favorite part of town?”, “Been to the High Side Saloon?”), but of course he expected some rather personal ones (“How did you join Deadlock?”). McCree answered those more-or-less truthfully, but when he only gave you silence you knew better than to test your luck.
“I apologize for prying too much,” you said sheepishly.
“Comes with years of interrogatin’ folks.”
You were a good fellow—McCree admitted to you that he enjoyed your company more than he expected—but he couldn’t get too comfortable with someone he just met. A feeling in his gut told him that maybe, just maybe, he could open up to you more with time.
You, on the other hand, talked freely about your life. Before becoming an officer, you were a bit of a rebel in your youth, wreaking havoc in your mother’s diner and stealing bikes parked around saloons. You were a kid with a dream to live up to your family name, capturing and wrangling dangerous snakes from across the lands. It was endearing to see the passion in your eyes, but then you explained that you had to become a deputy to earn money for your family. Your bright demeanor turned into one of disappointment.
“A trade-off, really,” you said sadly.
“Parents didn’t force me to do it either, but we needed more income. Snake wranglin’ can only give so much, and it really pays when something big is out there, which is rare.”
“What made you become an officer then?”
“Similarities. Instead of takin’ out poisonous snakes, I’m takin’ out poisonous people,” you answered, voice taking a more serious tone.
“See it this way: almost all snakes attack humans out of self defense. We take them out ‘cause we don’t want them t’hurt others, but killin’ doesn’t have t’be the first decision. They’re just out there survivin’. The snakes my family catch are relocated to research centers for antidotes.
“People on the other hand? It depends. If you’re protectin’ yourself, alright, I’m just gonna take a different plan for ya. If you’re savin’ someone, I’ll even help if there’s a more wicked party involved. But if you’re hurtin’ someone for th’ sole purpose of being a dick? I’m not about that. I make sure not to kill the guys, but if push comes to shove then a few bullets will need to hit some areas. They all end up in the county jail under my call.”
“So people are like snakes to you?” McCree asked.
“At the start of the job it looked that way, yeah, but after years under this hat, you learn how to decipher a person with a look or two.”
You hung your head down as your eyes were casted to the sands, a distant look on your face. You were probably thinking of those years, having to bring people behind bars for the crimes and felonies they committed. The contemplation made you look a lot older than you were, and McCree wondered if he looked the same on days where he would be in deep thought such as yourself.
“Is that why you haven’t arrested me yet?”
“You’re an outlaw worth sixty million, McCree, but I know a man with a good heart when I see one,” you said as looked at him straight in the eyes.
“Snakes will shed their skin for the season, and people can leave behind their pasts for the future. I know you’re not the man you once were.”
The two of you became silent.
“The way you reference your advice to snakes is almost unhealthy,” McCree chuckled after a moment.
You were about to retort to his statement until you see the genuine grin on his face.
“But I’ll have you know that all your words mean a lot to me.”
McCree watched as you blinked, clearly not expecting his response. You probably weren’t expecting him to be as understanding to your weird philosophy on life, and judging at how pleased you were, McCree would be more than welcome to listen to you talk a lot more. Your eyes then closed as a meek smile came upon your face, and a soft snort came from you as you mumbled something about him being a dork.
Just as you were about to speak, something started beeping. McCree shot up in his seat in alarm, but he noticed a flashing light from a metal wristband you wore on your left.
You had that the whole time?
“It’s a voice call, they won’t see you,” you assured him, pressing the small light on the metal. Before he could ask who you meant by “they”, a small blue hologram came up with a phone icon and words too small from him to read.
[ CALLING FROM: “THE HITCHING POST” SALOON, AMARILLO, NEW MEXICO ]
“Sheriff (Y/N) (L/N) speaking.”
Wait a minute, you were the sheriff? Not just a deputy?
“Sheriff!” a hurried voice called.
Gunshots were heard, and people were screaming from the other line. At this point you had gotten up, your face scrunched up in worry. McCree could only watch as your fists trembled.
“Officer, what’s goin—”
“It’s the Valley Marauders! T-They’re here again and we thought we could handle—”
CRASH!
“If any of ya shits call the cops on us, you’ve got a bullet waitin’ for ya!” a shrill voice rang before a rapid succession of shots came, all of which slightly muffled from all the sounds coming through.
“They just don’t learn their fuckin’ lesson,” you growled.
McCree held his tongue as he watched you worked quickly, sending a number of different messages and signals with the watch. He noticed as you pulled up one red screen with a striking snake symbol, and immediately swiping it up. From afar he heard a loud engine roar.
“I’ve sent more officers. Be there in five,” you answered through gritted teeth, clearly trying to stay calm for the sake of the victim.
“Please hurry—”
The line went dead.
McCree attempted to speak to you before he saw dust pick from his peripheral vision. He turned to look and there in the distance a driverless motorcycle came speeding down towards the two of you. The vehicle was a shimmering black and silver, it had glowing blue wheels indicating that it ran on a hard light technology, and it ran in a speed that would break all the laws in the world. The main thing however, was how it looked like a striking snake, based on the way the front area had been personalized.
The motorcycle came to an abrupt stop beside you, bringing with it all the dust from its travel. McCree coughed from all the sand, and just as the cloud dispersed, you were sat on the seat with both hands on the handlebars, revving the engine. On the side of the motorcycle were the words “Death Adder”, and if that wasn’t a better name for the bike, he didn’t know what would be. He didn’t think you could look more badass than you were before, but that thought was cast aside as you pulled him and sat him down behind you.
“Hold on to that hat of yours.”
>>>
When you said that you would be there in five minutes, five minutes was really all it took. McCree had passed Amarillo a number of times to know that from the shooting range, it was an approximate fifteen minute ride at the speed limit 70 mph. However, you kicked the gear to 140 mph (or was it higher? He couldn’t remember over ringing in his ears caused by the winds), effectively cutting time and making McCree wonder how people could handle speeds like these. You slowed down once you were within range of the town and parked just outside of it as to not give away your positions.
The area was quiet and deserted. Even the wind was still, making the air feel suffocating with the midday heat of the desert. You and McCree walked through the street, the clicks of his spurs echoing in the silence. When you make a turn, the road opened up to the main road, an open area that stretched to a cliffside closed off by wood fences.
“Just like the movies,” McCree noted.
“You think we’re gonna have a Mexican standoff?”
Just as you were about to joke back, a stout man walked out from an alleyway and stood twenty feet away at the middle of the road opposite of the both of you.
“I was thinkin’ you were never gonna show up, sheriff!” the man grinned, raising dual revolvers up in the air.
“Not I would mind! It’s ‘bout time you ran with your tail between your legs.”
“What do you want, Danford?” you growled.
“That’s Two-Shootin’ Sherrock to you, (L/N),” he hissed.
“Dual-wielding devil! Gang leader of the Valley Marauders! And you best be rememberin’ it when my bullet hits ya!”
“Hey now, since when did anyone give you the permission to make that call?” Mccree said, taking a step forward.
“If anythin’, you’re the one who’s gonna be takin’ a bullet from the sheriff's gun.”
The man’s eyes widened before narrowing, his grin becoming even wider.
“Well,” he dawled, “if it ain’t Jesse McCree.”
“I’m surprised you’re with the sheriff! Aren’cha just as bad as us?”
McCree glanced at you, then back at Danford.
“I’m not bad, not good… but I sure as hell ain’t ugly.”
You tried to keep your smile down, you really did, but the chuckle escaped you. The stout man puffed up in anger, making him appear bigger than he was. Danford brought his fingers to his mouth and made a long shrill whistle. McCree watched as your eyes widened before taking out Rattlesnake, and he took it as a sign to take out Peacekeeper.
“I’m guessin’ that’s bad.”
“No shit, cowboy.”
Footsteps came from multiple directions. McCree’s first guess was that ten men would come out, but after the thirteenth one he was weighing his options as how to go about the situation. Twenty men trapped the both you in a circle. They all stood fifteen feet away from you, and all were armed with a weapon. More than half had their guns at you, but that did little to lessen McCree’s nerves. Peacekeeper only had seven bullets, and even with a quick reload to take out fourteen, their bullets would be shot before he knew it.
“What’re ya gonna do, sheriff?” Danford called from the other side.
You hissed, and McCree had to do a double-take to make sure you actually did that.
“What did you do to the people?”
The gang leader laughed before snapping his fingers.
From his left, two gang members walked out carrying a limp body. McCree watched as you stiffened at the sight: an officer whose face was beaten in, blue, and bleeding. He was alive, but if kept in his current state it didn’t take a genius to know that he wouldn’t last long. You were shaking in rage, and McCree had to take hold of your wrist to keep you grounded.
“This lil’ guy,” Danford gestured, propping the officer’s chin up with the end of his gun. At the sight of discomfort, McCree tightened his grip as you pulled.
“He called you, yeah? Well, we didn’t like that, so we taught ‘im a lesson. And honestly? You gotta get better men! They’re all cozy over by the back of the saloon.”
“Put the gun down!” you yelled.
You lunged forward, but one of the gang members quickly stepped forward and harshly pushed a gun into your temple. You stood still with the barrel pointed straight at you, but no effort was made to move back. McCree gritted his teeth as he pulled you beside him, wrapping an arm by your waist to keep you from at bay... for now.
“How sweet,” the gang member who had pointed the gun at you smiled mockingly.
“Is the outlaw your boyfriend now? How would that look on your reputation, sheriff?”
McCree couldn’t see your expression.
Danford pushed the gun further into the chin of your officer, and at the sight of more pain you struggled under McCree’s grip. He held unto you tighter, not wanting you to get a bullet or twenty into either of you.
“I swear to the all the gods, Jesse,” you murmured just enough from him to hear, “release me.”
“No can do, sheriff,” he replied.
“Bad things come out of people without a plan.”
A face came to McCree’s mind, but the memory was suppressed.
His words were enough to calm you down as your posture slackened. McCree released his hold as you stood straight, looking down at Rattlesnake. Danford barked an order from afar, and all the guns around you were loaded. McCree felt a light jab at his side, and he moved to stay back-to-back with you. You held the brim of your hat before taking it off it completely, a clear sign that you meant business. Before McCree could ask, you pushed your hat into his free hand.
“I didn’t want to use this,” you sighed, grip tightening on your revolver. McCree could feel heat building up from the side where you held your gun.
“At my call, I need you to get down.”
The tone in your voice was similar to when you had threatened him earlier that day, but the malice in your voice was not directed to him. McCree knew that you couldn’t see his nod, but the sentiment was taken as he heard the familiar click of a gun.
“Now!”
BANG!
Silence followed
Your ejector rod clicked the cylinder out, making multiple shell casings hit the ground. McCree peered up to notice a dust cloud clear around him, and he realized that you had done a full 360 turn based on the skids on the dirt. He clutched your hat closer to his chest, and the gunslinger looked beside him to count almost twenty-four empty casings on a pile, not believing that you had shot and loaded quadruple the amount of bullets in your gun.
What in tarnation—
“Argh!”
McCree looked up to see each gang member drop one by one, each clutching to one of their sides. He looked up at you just as you blew the smoke from your gun, and when you looked down at him to give him a small smirk.
“What? Did’ya think that only guys like you had all the flashy shit?”
Once all the bodies hit the ground, McCree handed you your hat as you pulled him up. The leader was shaking. The two gang members who had brought in your officer had fled the scene, leaving Danford to hold up the unconscious man by the scruff of his uniform. He was shaking so much McCree was convinced he’d turn himself in, but when the gun is pointed to the head of the unconscious man, McCree just knew the guy was stubborn.
“Now, y’know I don’t like repeatin’ myself,” you spoke you walked forward. McCree’s gun was pointed straight at the man.
You and McCree backed Danford up to the fence, the wood creaking by the pressure of the man who tried to find an escape route. The cliff was steep slope that curved into a desert meadow with high grasses and rocks. Most gang members would take the opportunity to get down the hill with the assured safety of the grass, but it was obvious that Danford didn’t have the physicality to do so.
“STAY BACK!” Danford yelled, pushing the tip of the gun into a wound, making the officer wince.
McCree sucked in a breath.
“Come on now, Sherrock, no need to get all riled up.”
You and the gang leader looked at him incredulously.
“What?” you seethed.
McCree pointed his gun to you, and you held your hands up. You had no more bullets to shoot.
“Put the man over to the side, and I won’t let the sheriff get t’ ya.”
“McCree, what—”
“Gun down, (L/N).”
Your eyes widened before your expression shifted, and you put your gun back to your holster. He tipped his head down to nod at Danford, and you barely caught the wink he gave you under the brim of his hat.
Sneaky.
Danford wasn’t convinced by McCree’s sudden willingness to help him, so you took the initiative to back away, hands up to prove that you weren’t able to pull anything on him. The man gave McCree a grin, thinking that he had won with the help of a fellow outlaw, then threw the officer to the side. You ran over to him to inspect the wounds; the damage had been done, and he would have to be out of commission for a while.
“Now partner,” Danford said, patting McCree by the shoulder while grinning mockingly at you.
“What do you think we should do ‘bout the deputy? I say we should beat ‘em! It’s two against one!”
The leader was too busy reveling in his “win” that he hasn’t noticed the shift under McCree’s serape. Just as he turned his attention back to him, a flashbang was thrown at him square in the face. You whistled as you watched Danford fall to the ground; it would be an understatement to say that it hurt, judging by the burns to the face. Unfortunately, McCree was barely a few feet away, so he also got the force of the flash.
You ran up to help him, but you weren’t fast enough as he staggered back, lost his footing, and fell on his behind.
“You’re smart,” you said to him with a smile, kneeling beside him to check for any injuries. Besides a slightly singed beard, you handed him a small patch that used biotic technology.
“But reckless. Really reckless.”
“Been livin’ life that way,” he groaned.
“I go with a plan, but I never promise they’d work out perfectly.”
A small beep came from your watch. A hologram was pulled up between you and McCree, and you cursed under your breath. The reinforcements that you had called before your fight had gotten in a scuffle with another gang, and they were just about to reach the scene. While you were glad to get help to rally up the Valley Marauders, McCree would get taken in the moment he would be spotted.
You looked at the fence, and then an idea came.
“Roll off the hill.”
McCree froze just as he was placing the patch you had given him.
“Roll off the hill?” he repeated, looking over the slope.
“Go.”
“Are you shitting me—”
“It’s sloped. Do you trust me?”
McCree slapped his knee with a sarcastic bark, “Don’t you pull that bull—”
“I will kick you off and hope a combat roll is automatic, cowboy,” you commanded.
“Now, do you trust me?”
McCree glanced at you, then at the thirty foot slope awaiting him after the wooden fence.
“… Looks like I got no call in this, sher—”
You swiftly kicked a part of the old fence down, and the wood that rolled off the hill did little to help the situation. McCree is given no time to comprehend what was happened as you grabbed him by his arm, pulled him to the edge, and pushed him.
“Sorry!”
The first two seconds brought more pain to his behind as he hit a few rocks, but McCree willed his body to get into a combat roll as his armor and serape helped against more debris. He skidded down the remaining slope and into the grassy meadow just as he regained balance. Years of being on the run definitely helped, but even then your idea had been uncalled for.
McCree watched as the dust cleared from his trip down the slope. From the top, he could hear the roaring of motorcycle and car engines, boots stomping over the dirt, and your voice barking out orders to deal with what the gang had done. He narrowly missed a few cops that looked over the cliff by rolling into a crevasse of a neighboring hill.
He watched as you stood by the cliff, pointing to the general direction of where he was. For a second, McCree thought you had ratted him out, but after a moment your officers went back to the direction of the town. Just as a few minutes pass, he heard car doors close and the motorcycles speeding away. You still stood by the cliff, and McCree poked his head out just enough for you to see him. With a wave, you skidded down the slope just as he did, albeit a lot more gracefully.
“What’d you tell them?” he asked, walking to you as you dusted yourself off.
“Had them round up the gang,” you explained.
“Apparently someone got word of us meetin’. Told them you got a hit on me and fled.”
“Damn, that’d look good on my resume, wouldn’t it? ‘Escaped the snake sheriff of Amarillo who can can shoot twenty men with a rattlesnake revolver and ride a badass Adder motorcycle’. How the hell did you do that?”
McCree paused as you snorted.
“And you didn’t tell me you were the sheriff! Highest ranking officer of the county! Good lord, where are all your badges?”
At this point you were doubled over, laughing at how McCree was fussing over not addressing you properly—it was cute. He crossed his arms over his chest with a pout, but a small smile came upon his face to see that even after what had happened, you were doing well. You wouldn’t show it, but he was sure that seeing your people in danger had shaken you up.
“About badges, I don’t wear ‘em ‘til I have to. The amount’s too heavy,” you shrugged. To this, McCree sighed.
“And about my shootin’?”
You hummed.
“Let’s just say Rattlesnake doesn’t use normal bullets.”
McCree was about to comment on that line, but he figured that was a whole conversation for another time.
“Now that the fun’s over,” you said, kicking the dirt below you.
“What’re ya gonna do now?”
The realization hit him like a bullet; he was heading back to Gibraltar tomorrow morning. McCree would be picked up by Lena at a town just north of Amarillo, and as much as he wanted to lengthen his stay, he already had a mission waiting for him when he got back. A few days definitely wasn’t enough, but what could he do?
“My trip ends tomorrow, so I gotta pack up,” McCree said, looking down to fiddle with the end of his serape.
“How ‘bout you?”
You pressed your watch, and soon there’s the loud engine of your bike from the distance.
The both of you stood in comfortable silence, neither of you wanting speaking up as you were in each other’s company. When McCree glanced at you, you were looking at him. A faint smile was on your face, but your eyes showed how you felt the same about each other’s departure.
“You’ve done an awful lot for lil ol’ me,” McCree spoke up, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“Like I said, I know a good heart,” you said.
McCree lent out a hand for you to shake, but just as you took it, you pulled him in for a hug. He’s taken aback for a moment, but he eased into the embrace, lingering a little longer than intended.
Now, he really wished he could stay.
“Besides,” you added, pulling away for him to see a grin on your face.
“I also know a good-lookin’ guy when I see one.”
The bike arrived. McCree stood by as you mounted it, subtly mentioning about how he would love to ride it sometime, to which you give him a shrug and a “maybe” to his request. The two of you shared one more laugh together, clearly trying to stall for a bit more time.
"Y'know,” he piped up just as you revved the engine.
“If we knew each other back in th' day, possibly back at th' shootin’ range, I have a good feelin’ that we’d be great partners.”
You tipped your hat at him, and McCree returned the gesture.
“Who says we can’t be?
McCree grinned.
“See ya soon.”
“I’m sure ya will.”