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Summary
McCree isn’t a good fella. A ‘good fella’ doesn’t get done shooting a man in the middle of the street and then waltz in a rickety old bar for a drink and then sit himself down like he hadn’t just ended a life. But here he sits, hunched over his whisky with his hat brim tipped low after receiving the said compliment from the bartender. The drink he ordered is half gone now, and the burn of his last swig still fizzles in his throat; but as he goes to chase it down with another sip, the barstool creaks next to him. He doesn’t stop to swivel his head, but it takes an extra second to raise the glass to his lips.
“You’re a good shot.”
The barstool speaks now, but he still doesn’t look over to respond. He swirls the whiskey in its glass and watches the honeyed liquid gloss over the sides before settling back into itself.
“Ain’t too happy about it, I’m afraid.” He responds with a grimace.
The barstool chuckles, husky. “Self-righteousness does not suit bloodied hands.”
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Two fucked up dudes. A bunch of fucked up moral codes. One mission: find a man, don't get killed.