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Micah has had an awful day, the worst day in years.
(The worst day since Pa died over two years ago, leaving Micah alone and directionless and pathetically scared.)
Nothing has gone right today. First of all, Micah followed a lead he discovered yesterday, planning to rob a man who lived alone and kept a substantial amount of money somewhere in his house. But when Micah arrived, he found the man dead and the house already ransacked—somebody beat him to it, leaving Micah feeling like a humiliated fool.
Then, only a few hours later, Micah got ambushed on the road by a pair of bounty hunters. The bastards weren’t difficult to deal with (Micah took them out before they finished threatening him, a bullet from both his revolvers hitting the idiots in the head), but the encounter left Micah jumpy and uncomfortable, convinced another ambush was coming any second.
And that’s how he realised that he’s having one of his goddamn ‘off days’. Because he normally loves the thrill of a gunfight, but today… everything is just too much. If he isn’t careful, he’ll end up having one of his stupid ‘episodes’, and Micah would rather not have to find somewhere private to curl into a ball and yank on his hair until everything stops goddamn overwhelming him.
Embarrassed and annoyed by everything, Micah rides into the nearest town, wanting to get drunk. He locates a saloon, far busier than he would like, but he still manages to find a table in the corner. Before long, Micah is comfortably tipsy, sipping yet another beer and wishing everyone in the saloon would shut the hell up (because other than gunfire, Micah has never been a fan of loud noises, and in such a pathetically fragile state, every little noise makes his chest tighten and his ears ache).
But getting drunk always makes it harder for Micah to supress his weird traits, so whilst a sober Micah wouldn’t dare do it, a tipsy Micah begins to rock back and forth in his seat. He only does it subtly—so you would need to really pay attention to notice—but even subtle rocking is too fucking weird to do without some alcohol to numb him. And Micah thought that the saloon being so crowded would mean nobody would notice him doing it… but when Micah raises his head to pick up his bottle again, he sees a man staring straight at him.
Micah freezes, the soothing motion stopping instantly, and forces eye contact with the stranger despite how much he hates it (he doesn’t understand it, but eye contact hurts, and Micah always finds ways to avoid it wherever possible—such as wearing a hat with a massive brim to hide his eyes). He glares at the man, hoping he looks intimidating enough to scare the bastard away, but the man just smirks like Micah pulled a stupid face at him.
And then, to Micah’s horror, the man walks across the saloon. Putting his hands on the back of the spare chair at Micah’s table, the man grins down at Micah, his eyebrows raised.
“Piss off,” Micah mutters, taking another long sip of beer.
“Aw, don’t be so rude,” the man says, his tone patronising like he speaks to a child (and not a thirty-seven-year-old outlaw who’s wanted in several counties and has two fucking revolvers on his hips). “Just wanted to ask you a question.”
Micah sneers at him, slamming his beer bottle onto the table so hard it almost shatters. “What?” he spits, not in the mood for this bullshit.
“I just couldn’t help notice you rockin’ in your seat,” the stranger says, his smirk broadening. “And I was wonderin’… is it safe for someone like you to be out on your own?”
“Excuse me?” Micah says, his stomach coiling into knots. “What d’you mean, someone like me?”
“Oh, y’know… a moron.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said you’re actin’ like a moron over here. It’s kinda disturbin’, to be honest. Freaks like you shouldn’t—”
And Micah doesn’t even need to think of what to do next. Despite feeling off today and despite the alcohol flowing through his veins, Micah jumps to his feet and fires from the hip, hitting the bastard in the stomach. As the saloon erupts in screams of terror, Micah steps towards the man, who now hunches forwards, groaning in pain, his hand pressed to his bleeding gut.
“What… the fuck…?” the man gasps.
“Moron, huh?” Micah says, wishing his hand would stop shaking around his gun. But even though his hand trembles, Micah doesn’t struggle to aim at the man’s head. “Have fun bein’ killed by one, cocksucker.”
And he shoots the stranger through the head.
“Anyone else got anythin’ to say?!” he yells to the rest of the saloon, waving his revolver around.
He smirks when nobody dares to even look at him. And then he decides that now would be a good time to get the hell out of here. So, Micah races out of the saloon, climbs onto Baylock, and rides away before the law show up.
---
He rides for over an hour, his stupid, useless body feeling worse with every second that ticks by. His chest gets tight, his head throbbing, his skin crawling and everything feeling so wrong wrong WRONG that he wants to fucking scream. He holds the reins with one hand, leaning forward in the saddle to pat Baylock’s neck with the other, running his fingers through his horse’s mane as he longs to get somewhere private enough to give into the breakdown his body wants to have.
Eventually, Micah finds a thicket of trees a safe distance from the road, leading Baylock towards it. He hops down from his horse and, pacing back and forth on the spot, Micah finally accepts that he can’t escape the humiliation any longer, knocking his hat off his head in his haste to reach his hair.
He doesn’t understand it (he doesn’t understand most things about himself, to be honest), but when he’s so freaking overwhelmed, the best way to make his head stop feeling so goddamn weird is to grab handfuls of his hair and pull until pain erupts across his scalp. It’s shameful and pathetic, but with nobody around, Micah can’t bring himself to care. So, he tangles his fingers in his long hair, and, trying to control the distress and humiliation building up within him, he tugs his hair so hard it hurts.
Micah pulls harder, a pathetic wince of pain escaping him, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. And it isn’t like he has anyone in his life who cares about him hurting himself. Screwing his eyes up, he pulls harder and harder—
And that’s when a warm, wet nose bumps his face. Micah’s eyes snap open, finding himself face-to-face with Baylock. Did he forget to hitch his horse?
“What… what’re you doin’, boy?” Micah says, struggling to get his words out (as always when he feels like this, he can’t speak properly, stammering over his words like a goddamn fool).
Baylock nudges Micah’s face, licking his hand as it trembles around several locks of his hair. And when Baylock continues to prod his hand, Micah understands. Slowly, he unclenches his fists, releasing his hair from the vice-like grip, and Baylock’s nose bumps his forehead again.
“Thanks for, for stoppin’ me,” he says, voice stilted. “You’re a, a good boy, ain’t y-ya?”
He can’t know for certain, but it really feels like Baylock just reminded Micah to stop pulling his hair until he ripped it out. Hands shaking, Micah fumbles through his saddlebags and gives Baylock an oatcake, patting his horse’s face.
But without causing himself pain, there is only one other thing he can do. Sighing, Micah sits on the cold ground, pulling his knees up to his chest. He rests his face against his knees, rocking back and forth, harder than he did in the saloon, but it doesn’t matter when nobody is here to see him acting like such a little freak. So, he just keeps rocking, trying to soothe himself after such an awful day, and wishing he could get that man’s words out of his head.