Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The town below the mountain had its jaw wide open.

Barren alleyways and streets shrouded by the midnight hour; gunslingers and sheriffs desperate for a payday. Rowdy civilians. Metal on every hip. Blood on every finger.

Bounty hunters who knew him by name.

Grian crouched on the sand, small frame drowned by his red poncho, eying the distant buildings with the conviction of someone who might be eaten alive by them. Maybe he would? Caution was survival, —- survival was all he knew.

Never mind that.

He shook his head, standing, stretching his spine out. Rolling his shoulders until the bones creaked. The wings on his back ached for the same treatment, ——- it had been weeks since they’d been unbound, unhidden.

One breath in. One breath out.

It was just a town.

It was just a town, and when it came down to the wire, a possible danger was far, far more appealing to him than a definite danger. Grian wasn’t stupid. No, no, not at all. He’d seen the man following him, flashes of a figure in the brush, hints of the same face in different stores. Whoever it was had been stalking him for days under the blistering sun. The pit in his stomach told him that this time it wasn’t just a mirage.

He needed safety. He needed to blend into a group of people. To be invisible. No matter how much he didn’t want to approach, the next town was days away and his food pack was agonisingly empty.

A drowning man did not get to choose softer hands to pull him from the tide.

He grabbed the cowboy hat slung around his neck, slapped it atop his head with determination, and continued down the hillside.

————————————-

The saloon was alive.

Locals swarmed the bar front, laughing and cheering, messily downing pints of sticky ale with a fire in their eyes that meant trouble. Men of all ages slurring about their day, twisting lies of glory and slain beasts to whichever barmaid had the poor taste to glance their way.

Some tables were gambling, throwing gold and emeralds down, betting their lives for the chance to ride the high of a win. An unlikely one, but the alcohol on their breath clouded their chances and made the act all that more appealing. On a loss, the watchful bartender would keep one hand on his pistol holster, waiting for the vicious boom of a man who had nothing left. On a win, he would smile like the devil and offer another pint to the victor. The drunker they were, the more they bet. The more they bet, the higher his own cut was.

Grian had seen it all a thousand times before.

He tucked himself into a corner table, angled architecture working just right to conceal him inside shadows. His hat pulled down his face, reclining in the old chair ripe with woodworm. There was a mug on the table in front of him, the contents dark as molasses and bitter, but he did not drink it. Instead, he chewed slowly on warm bread and butter that was definitely not fresh, watching the room tell its stories, watching the door to his left for movement.

Waiting.

Ready to run.

Blending in.

Grian was a lowly traveller of the desert. A normal, human one. He did not have wings tied to his back, clipped short and hidden beneath his poncho. He did not have a bounty on his head for said wings. He loved ale, and he loved the rowdy atmosphere that came with it. Basked in it.

The room told its stories and Grian told his own right back at it. And like everyone else’s in the room, it was fake; full of as many holes as his chair was.

Everywhere he went he’d learnt to play a different man. Sometimes it was fun, pretending to live a certain life. Painting himself just right for the job; poorer posture for a blacksmith, stronger vocabulary for a writer. It was a glance at what freedom could be. The versions of him that could have existed in the great west but didn’t get the chance.

He took a timid sip of the ale. It tasted like a punishment. It tasted like perseverance. He forced it down.

Noise from the table across from him cut short an unimpressed expression, attention flickering over to the two men seated there. One looked wealthy, with golden rings that reflected light from the hearth. His overcoat was sharp, and the revolver on the table was well kept, oiled and polished as his hands. It sat as a warning sign to the other man, pointed and ready.

The other man had his back to Grian, but he was animated, worn leather bunching at his shoulders with every dramatic wave of an arm. Alive. A salesman, judging by the clinical way he charmed. And he was loud, with half of the townsfolk shooting him glares every time he opened his mouth.

And by god did he like to open his mouth.

“No, no, no. Truuuust me, alright? I am nothing but an honest man. These crystals—-” the salesman paused, digging into his pocket to pull something out. Grian squinted as multiple round objects scattered across the table like dice. They looked to be coloured glass, the tints too saturated for authenticity. Even Grian could tell that. “---- These crystals will make you the strongest, bravest gunslinger this side of the desert. See?” The salesman pushed one forward, closer to the barrel of the gun. “This one, my friend, is an extra special one. It will bring you luck. Luck, I tell you.”

The wealthy of the two did not look convinced, —— nor pleased with his predicament —— as he took a long drag of his fat cigar. Smoke billowed towards the beams, ash hit the table. He coughed once, twice, and concealed a third.

Grian shuddered, watching adorned hands inch closer towards the weapon with each blatant lie.

He sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. A shootout so close to him? He couldn’t afford the attention it would bring. The drunk sheriff by the bar would finally tear his head from the countertop it was on, demanding that everyone stay put while he ‘sorted out’ ( escalated ) the situation.

Too many risks, too many variables. Grian didn’t have the patience nor the time.

Boots moved quickly across the floor, bread abandoned as greasy fingers pulled the chair out next to the salesman, slipping in before either party had a chance to stop him. Two pairs of eyes turned to stare at Grian, one curious, one disgusted.

The wealthy man had retracted his hand from the gun. Grian held back a snort. Didn’t want to take on two people at once, huh?

Good.

Praying that the dark circles under his eyes and sun damaged cheeks didn’t kill his social skills, he threw on his best smile. Not intimidating, not polite, just casual. “Howdy, fellas. Mind if I borrow my friend here for a second? Thanks,” ‘friend’ was hissed through gritted teeth and Grian didn’t waste any time on an answer, hooking his nails into the salesman’s shirt and standing up, pulling the bewildered figure back to his own table.

And then Grian sat back down, resuming his prior position. Hat down over dark eyes. Leaning back just slightly. Chewing on bread.

The salesman gingerly sat across from him.

…

Grian heard more than saw the small shards hit the table.

“Are you interested in buying——“.

“Are… wha-“ Grian stuttered, actually taken aback for the first time in a while, chin tilting upwards to stare from under his brim. Was the guy insane? Did he not understand? Death had been looming over his shoulder, scythe sharp mid sweep. A complete stranger had pulled him from it’s slash, and instantly he had straightened up with a grin, ready to try again? “You’re not seriously going to try to sell me that glass?”

“It’s not—-“

“It is,” Grian kept his voice low, brittle and annoyed. “He was going to shoot you any minute now.”

“Oh,” the salesman seemed genuinely shocked.

So he was stupid, then. How he had made it to adulthood in the desert with instincts like that, Grian had no clue. Money? But he didn’t look well-off. Hell, he barely even looked fed. Luck, maybe? Not the crystal kind, though. Grian lowered his gaze, tired. “Just leave. I don’t really want trouble right now.”

The man did not move.

Grian bit into his bread.

“Thank you then, uh, —- for helping me, I mean. I appreciate it.”

The bread was stale.

…

“Yep.”

“I’m Scar,” Scar offered a hand. It was calloused and tan.

“I—-”

The saloon doors were pushed open, wooden batwings swinging back and forth. Cold air came in first, and then chased a figure, clothed from head to toe in dark red. Grian tensed immediately, legs moving on their own accord to slide back in his chair. Standing. Ready to run with his heartbeat in his ears.

But it was too late. He was too distracted. He was too slow.

The shooter didn’t hesitate, — hardly even glanced in his direction. A trace of silver, the smell of gunpowder in the air, and a bang that echoed throughout each and every patron of the saloon; the kind would continue to ring for hours after.

Except… Grian never felt the bullet collide. Why didn’t he feel the bullet collide? Desperately, he ran his hands over his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen. Fingers splayed for inspection. He found no blood, no wound, no pain.

But… the salesman was standing in front of him. When had he stood up? Ah, there was the blood: dripping from the man’s arm like a string of rubies, —- or perhaps cheap glass. Grian watched it trickle until it hit the ground, only then did he look into others eyes, properly, for the first time.

Oh. They were green.

He supposed they were a nice green, too.

Time was slow, a thick coating of honey that was impossible to wade through. Grian felt a sickening sense of deja vu; history’s favourite picture-show on repeat.

—--- What?

The taller man collapsed against the table.

Grian snapped out of his stupor. The world slid back into place. “Shi—-, jesus,” had the salesman just saved his life? Why would he do that? “...I, uh,” was it repayment for him helping earlier? The severity between the two deeds was a little high, was it not? They’d just met and Grian had been willing him away from the second he’d sat down.

They’d just met. Grian couldn’t even remember his name.

He had to go, now.

…

The guy was bleeding out on the table. On his bread. The mug of ale tipped over and splattered across the floor, amber that darkened as it pooled into the blood. Across the room a second shot went off as the bartender fired his own gun. Grian flinched. It was okay, he’d fired into the air. It was okay, it was a warning shot. It was okay. He just wanted people to leave.

Most people had the instant the first bullet flew, the saloon draining like a sinkhole. His attacker was nowhere to be seen, of course. They were too smart, too stealthy to stick around to be identified.

Following Grian for days in the desert, waiting for the perfect moment, a calculated viper learning all of the variables.

They hadn’t accounted for the guy on Grian’s table, though.

He hadn’t, either. He should leave him on it and run. He should escape and get on the road again until he was far, far away. Someone else would help him… eventually.

Grian had led the bullet towards him, —-- a bullet that had been made just for himself.

Obligation, it was a terrible feeling.

Why was everything always so goddamn difficult?

Synapses firing, he grabbed one of the many abandoned drinks from the table across, throwing the contents into the salesman’s unconscious face. He stirred with a groan, but did not move to get up. Okay, that was fine. Grian could do this. With wings tucked as close to his back as he could get them without breaking the bones, he hooked one arm under the man’s shoulder. It was a struggle, and it was frankly embarrassing the way he slipped and dropped him, but eventually he got them both to their feet.

“Listen, uh, salesman—-“

“Scar,” the heavy rock slurred.

Scar? “Alright. Okay. Right,” he tried to take a step forward, the momentum jarring and dizzying. “Scar, you have to help me here. I’m…—” he coughed. “---you’re tall,” Grian was short.

“Mmkay,” and he did. Somehow, the pair of them stumbled around the furniture and various liquids, through the wooden swing gate and out into the night air. The dirt streets were empty, the lack of humanity looming over them like a threat. No one was going to stick around, not after that.

Grian shouldn’t have. He was being so reckless. So stupid. “Do you…” he huffed, struggling, coming to a standstill around a corner. “Do you have a… uh, a house around here?” A house. A room. A particularly comfortable slab of stone he slept on. Anywhere he could take him, Grian didn’t care.

“Y-yeah,” Scar stammered, unsure eyes darting around. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Broken only by the tip tap of blood from his arm and ale from his hair.

…Did he not know where he lived? Was he confused? Wounded people weren’t usually very good with directions. Hell, it was a miracle he was on his feet. Adrenaline was one crazy thing. Grian didn’t know how much longer they could wait, though. Scar was slumped over, hard to keep a grip on.

“Yeah!”

Grian jumped at the sudden enthusiasm, feathers rustling under their binds. …Hopefully Scar hadn’t felt that.

“...Okay. Lead the way and I’ll uh, support you.” The harrowing thought that he could be being led to his death crossed his mind. Could Scar know about his bounty? Judging by his failing business tactics, the man needed the gold.

Should he leave him? Drop him to the floor, turn and run?

He was injured. Because of him.

He was injured and weak. Grian could take him in a fight if he had to. His pistol, concealed under his poncho, was always an option if things got hairy.

A nod. They set off again. The empty town was threatening them with questions and Grian didn’t want to be outside to answer them.

————————————-

Two pairs of feet staggered through a door.

It was pitch black and smelt of mildew and rotting food. They didn’t get more than four steps in before his feet hit a solid object. Grian’s instincts told him to kick it. His second, smarter instincts stopped him from doing that for fear of toppling them over backwards.

The object meowed at them.

What in tarnation—-

A cat? Okay. He liked cats.

“Where’s the bedroom?”

“Gee, moving a bit fast there, huh?” Scar was quick to continue before Grian had the chance to let go of him for his sleeziness. “...Up the stairs and on the…” His head lulled forward, body becoming a dead weight under him. “...left.”

“Dont… don’t pass out, Scar. Please,----” he adjusted his grip. “---- god.” Grian was panicking. He didn’t know why he cared. Did he care? The anxiety gnawing at him was growing and growing and growing. He felt sick. He needed to leave before someone found him. Someone uninjured and capable of a fight.

Why had this guy taken a bullet for him?

Why was he so familiar?

God.

He was so tired. Scar was so heavy. Stairs weren’t an option.

Shifting the arm more comfortably around his shoulders, Grian took a deep breath and hulled them both towards what he assumed was a living room. It was a momentous task, one of the hardest of his entire life, but Scar was eventually dumped on the couch, a cloud of dust motes swimming in the slice of moonlight as he hit the cushions.

Grian choked on the grime, taking his hat off and swiping it in the air in front of him. What on earth? Did he live… did he… He glanced around the small room, at the belongings that were expensive and a family photograph that was not of Scar. Not even slightly.

…He hadn’t known where he lived.

“Scar? Did we just break into someone’s home?” Grian spoke quietly, swallowing his fear. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay calm. His hands were wet. There was a hunter out there, looking for him, waiting to finish the job. In, out. They were not supposed to be here. In, out.

His heart was beating too fast. Thump thump thump. He sat on the floor.

Scar didn’t answer him, blood loss knocking him out cold.

Grian closed his eyes. Could it be abandoned? It was dirty, unused for the most part. And surely if occupied, the family would be home at such a late hour of the night? He wanted to go to sleep himself. Getting back up felt like one of life’s impossible things. Was he having a panic attack? Had he already had one?

Whatever it was, it had drained him of all life.

The back of his eyelids grew darker, phosphenes casting his own private galaxy of yellow. It was pretty, distracting until it faded and he was left with the silence of the room and his own thoughts.

...

No. He had to bandage Scar’s wound. (Did he, though?)

Yeah.

He got to his feet a little too fast, the old woodwork walls smudged and distorted in front of him. Grian waited for his oxygen to adjust, and then walked until he found a kitchen. There was an oil lamp on the surface by the sink and a matchbox to light it with. It took a couple of tries, —- his hands wouldn’t stop shaking —-- but it eventually sprung to life, casting warm tones over cool. Digging around in the cabinets until he had found what he needed.

A half-empty bottle of vodka, a damp square of cloth with various brown spots, and Scar might not like it, but he’d ripped down one of the curtains to tear into a bandage.

It was all he could do. All he would do.

A pair of glowing eyes stared at him from the doorway. Oh, the cat from earlier was back, watching him move about the kitchen. Grian could hardly blame it for the suspicion, — as far as he was aware it belonged to Scar, and Scar was… well, he wasn’t having a good time.

It meowed at him, unmoving.

Did it want to be fed or something? Grian… didn’t know how to do that. “Sorry, kitty,” he shrugged, gesturing towards the bottle and fabric as if the cat would understand.

The cat did not understand.

He was losing it.

————————————-

The wound wasn’t that bad.

Or maybe it was; Grian didn’t have any medical training so who was he to know. The worst he’d had to patch up on himself were slashes from knives and the occasional bite.

But the bullet hadn’t entered anything, — it had grazed the side of his arm, splitting the skin in two. Which had to be better than a hole, right?

He’d removed Scar’s jacket and cut off his shirt sleeve, leaving the man in a very strange one arm on one arm off combo. Like it mattered, the garment was soaked through with blood anyway and would be burnt. Scar hadn’t woken up during the entire process, head lolling against the cushions. Grian had to check for a pulse more times than he’d care to admit.

He didn’t want him to die, …he just wanted to get him bandaged up so he could leave and move on with his life.

The hunter had to know he was still in the town.

Numbly, Grian cut the curtain into strips and got to work.

It took some time. Parts of his shirt had stuck to the wound as it dried and getting them out without restarting the bleeding again was hard. Grian had no idea what he was doing, and he was exhausted, but he tried.

When he finally poured the alcohol on, Scar let out a pained whine, stirring ever so slightly awake. “It’s…” it wasn’t okay. “It’s okay.” How did someone comfort a stranger? A stranger who, up until saving his life, had been an honest to god complete nuisance?

It had been a while since Grian had been around a person in such close proximity.

Scar, eyes shut, responded with something between a gurgle and a laugh. “Nice bedside manners…”

Grian couldn’t see how it was funny. He was very stressed. “Are you always like this?”

“Mmhm.”

Right. Okay. He grabbed the fabric strips, wrapping them around the wound as tight as he could. As he worked, he glanced over at Scar. The man was watching him now, half lidded eyes and expression… unreadable. Something in it hurt his chest. Grian looked away.

They spoke at the same time:

“It’s done.”

“Why was that fella shooting you?”

Grian froze.

What did he say? I’m one of the only of my species left alive and worth more than the house you stole? I’ve been on the run my entire life, and while you helped me back in the saloon, me being here right now is practically a death sentence?
No.

Your shoulder is clean and wrapped. It shouldn’t get infected,” it very likely would. “But if it does, I did my best,” his voice was a blackhole in the room, forcing every ounce of the weird tension Scar had been building into it. He was finished, — he’d settled his debt by helping him back. With a huff of air, Grian sat back down on the floor, leaning heavily against the couch. His wings hurt, his head hurt.

He should leave.

He closed his eyes, just for a second.

“Thank you,” Scar’s voice was quiet.

Just for a second.

————————————-

Floorboards, a ball of dust. Hanging twine and a long forgotten sock.

Grian blinked once, then again. His eyes stung like he’d fallen asleep with his head on a counter and a bottle in his hand and he was looking at… the underside of a couch? He moved his vision upwards, —-- it met green.

A man, who looked as shit as he felt, was laying atop very said couch, and he was studying Grian in a manner that he really did not like. He looked sad, in a soft kind of way; he looked like he knew something. Why? Who was he? What did he know?

Oh.

His name had been… Scar? He’d been shot. Grian had been shot at.

Grian groaned, rolling onto his side despite not wanting to. His entire body woke up then, a symphony of sore limbs and aching joints. He’d fallen asleep on the floor. That was bad. Really bad.

So much for leaving as soon as possible.

Scar was still staring at him but he was not saying anything. Did he always stare at people? Grian stared back, wings twitching with unease. They felt cold. Goosebumps pricked at his bare arms until he shivered, breaking the hostile contest to run a hand over them, and…

Bare arms?

His poncho, having ridden up in his sleep, was a scrunched up mess around him.

His wings were uncovered. Scar.

Shit—

Within half a second, Grian forced his body into a sitting position, pain blossoming through his spine as he did. His pistol was out just as fast, thin barrel pointing directly at Scar. Trigger finger unsteady, panicked brain screaming at him to shoot already and get out of there. Was that it? Did he have to kill him? Had he spent all that time fixing the guy up and giving him his pieces back just so that he could tear them from him again?

Because he had fallen asleep. Because of a stupid piece of red cotton.

Grian would have laughed at the logistics had he not been so shell-shocked.

Scar did laugh, loud and cheerful as a dewy morning. “You gonna shoot a man before he’s even had breakfast?” He seemed better than he had been yesterday, closer to the shady salesman from the bar than a corpse to be.

Where was his fear? His sense of danger appearing null. Grian didn’t know what to do; he was ready to end him. He was ready to let him walk. It was a lot.

“Can I at least feed Jellie—-- my cat—- first? I don't want her having to eat my body when I'm dead, that would be hard on her, I'm sure!”

Grian knew enough about cats to know that it would not be. “You.. be quiet. Please,” He wanted to scream but he kept his voice level. It wasn’t that he hadn’t killed anyone before, in their days if you didn’t have a killcount you hadn’t left your house. And he had a bounty on his head! His hands weren’t clean.

He should pull the trigger, then.

“You’re an avian, — a… whadda they call ‘em. Oh! A watcher, though that’s just theory, right?” Scar hummed, nodding proudly at his deduction. He was weirdly calm, like encountering death was nothing more to him than the nuisance of a fly.

Maybe it was. Grian had known him less than a full day and he’d nearly been shot, had actually been shot, and now was close to being shot again. “I said be quiet,” he needed time to think.

“Yeah, that's true you did. But you have a pretty little pistol to my face. And surely, – don’t you think a man is more than entitled to his last words?” Scar actually had the nerve to push himself into a sitting position, running a hand through greasy hair. If his gunshot wound was hurting him, he did a good job of hiding it.

“I guess?” Why was he agreeing with him? Grian felt stupid, —- he was supposed to be the one in control, the one with the weapon and here he was considering his wishes. Scar was… something else. Grian didn’t know how he did it, but every word that poured from his mouth dripped with charisma. It was gritty and unnatural and he had hoped he’d be above falling for that kind of act, but…

Grian scrambled to his feet, gun changing trajectory to stay fixated on Scar’s head as he did. Rolling his shoulders, he forced his poncho back into place hands-free. Keeping him concealed, hidden even if it was too late for that.

His trigger finger tensed.

Scar, so far, had been nothing but passive towards him. And he hadn’t attacked him while he’d been sleeping, which would have been the easiest way to go about it. A quick clean execution and a payday.

It didn’t make much sense and it was a massive risk, but Grian might have no choice but to put his trust in the stranger. “I… I don’t want to shoot you,” Scar wasn’t a bounty hunter. He wasn’t an assassin. He was just some stupidly fast scammer who’d walked in front of a bullet.

Grian hadn’t killed an innocent man for a long time.

Scar shrugged as nonchalant as he could muster, the wince from his bad arm suddenly apparent. Was that, too, an act? To seem more injured to evoke mercy? “Then don’t.”

“I think I have to.”

“Why?”

Grian faltered, his mind buffering. Why… why? “I mean… If I don't, are you not just gonna turn me in? To the bounty hunter, —- or to the Red King, one of the two,” he immediately regretted speaking. Here! Take the list of the people who will pay you for me. Good one, Grian.

“No, I won’t do that,” he could have been imagining it , but Grian swore he saw something dark flash across Scar’s features at the mention of the Red King. That could mean that he either really hated him too, —-- or it was very bad news for Grian.

The house creaked. The wind outside sneaking through the cracks to join them in the world's dumbest standoff. Scar shrugged again, and with his hands out as if approaching a wild beast, he stood up.

Grian backed up a pace. Scar was taller than him so he had to aim his gun upwards to stay in line with the kill shot.

“I'll let you decide what you’re gonna do, okay? I’ll be in the kitchen feeding Jellie,” and with that, Scar had the audacity to leave the room.

Grian stood there, dumbfounded with his pistol aimed at empty air. What on earth was going on? Scar was tricking him, or manipulating him somehow… he knew that but… It was like Scar waltzed through danger, not giving a single damn what happened so therefore nothing did happen. It worked for him, somehow.

He was so strange.

A few minutes passed, frozen in thought until curiosity got the better of him, —- with Grian it always did. Taking a deep breath, he clutched at his gun and followed Scar into the kitchen.

It looked different in the daytime, although he did note that half of the windows were boarded up with ply and rusted nails. A line of sunlight spotlighted the messy room, falling directly onto the dark oak table that Scar was sitting at. Almost as if he’d slanted the plywood perfectly to ensure it happened.

Hm.

Something soft brushed against his calf. Grian shrieked, almost dropping his pistol in the process. “Oh,” it was … Jellie? Had Scar called her Jellie? Round eyes gazed up at him adoringly. Her plate of food on the floor was full of half-eaten rabbit bones and sinew.

“Do not shoot my cat,” Scar somehow sounded both bright and terrifying at the same time. It wasn’t a threat, but it was definitely a warning.

“I wouldn’t shoot a cat,” Grian, on the other hand, sounded offended at the accusation. He gave her a sceptical look, not daring to pet her. No, no, he was too busy holding her owner hostage to do that. He turned back to Scar, and then after a moment, sat down at the table across from him.

The gun was not lowered.

Scar was drinking coffee from a metal cup. “There’s some more over there, if you want it.”

Grian raised an eyebrow. He did want it, but that wasn’t the point. “Give me one good reason why you won’t turn me in.”

“Not a coffee drinker? Suit yourself, cowboy,” Scar took his time taking a sip before answering the question. It was as annoying as it was admirable. “I happen to have my very own problem with the Red King, too. You’re in luck, birdy.”

He cringed. “Do not call me that.”

“I don’t know your name.”

…

“What's your problem with Ren,---- uh, the Red King?”

“He stole something from me, —-- well, someone else did, and then him and his outlaws got involved, too. I’m telling you, some things are more valuable than money.”

That was tough talk coming from the guy who sold fake wares. Grian found it hard to believe. “Okay. And why did you break into this house? Then have me also break into this house.” Where were the people that used to live there? Stowed away upstairs, decaying in a closet?

“Well I rolled into town yesterday morning, needed a place to stay. Of course I was more than ready, – and happy! To pay for a room… but no one was living here… so. I was tracking that bounty hunter that shot us,” us. “He’s one of Ren’s men.”

“You were following the guy that was following me,” Grian narrowed his eyes.

“Seems so, birdy,” Scar laughed. So incredibly chipper for a guy who had got shot the night before. “You sure you don’t want that coffee? It’s warm, and not burnt, that’s a salesman's promise!”

Grian decided. He lowered his pistol, placing it on the table between them in a close copy of the saloon the night before. If Scar was going to kill him, he’d had plenty of chances he hadn’t taken. And if he were telling the truth, he could hold information about the bounty hunter that Grian needed to stay alive.

Scar smiled. It was genuine in the lowlight, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. Grian let go of the breath he’d been holding. The man in front of him was… odd. Unlike anyone else he’d ever met. He still had that weird air of familiarity to him, an unshakeable feeling deep in Grian’s core self. With charm amped to the nines and unpredictability like no other, Scar could, if he wanted to, be a real threat to him.

Grian hadn’t seen that side of him yet, —-- with the way he was living he had no doubt it was there. He didn’t trust him, no, but he had no other choice but to listen to him.

No paths that he was willing to go down.

Scar got up. Grian would be lying if he said his hand didn’t instinctively jump for the gun.

“Woah, relax. —--- Here,” he moved around the table, grabbing a mug and filling it from the pot on the stove, every action favouring his uninjured arm. Grian’s eyes never left him, not until he was once again sitting in front of him.

The mug was gently pushed forwards.

Grian peered inside. Coffee, still warm. As promised.

“I didn’t poison it.”

Grian was too tired to care if he had. He took a sip. He inwardly hummed. It was good, but Scar didn’t need to know that.

“So, birdy—---.”

“Grian.”

“Wha–, oh, okay! Grian. It’s very nice to meet you. How do you feel about joining me in taking down the Red King?”

Chapter Text

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Grian blinked at him as if he were the stupidest man in the jail cell staging a breakout, lacing the two letters with sharp emphasis.

“But… why ever not?”

The pistol on the table whispered his name, —- a tug blurred and distorted beyond his wanted thoughts that said the situation had gone too far. That he needed to take back control to continue. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and ignored it. “You can’t be serious right now, surely?”

“Grian,” Scar leaned across the table until the same stale oxygen circulated between them. He was too close, what was wrong with him? “I am deadly serious.”

Grian looked down into his coffee, watching the inky black. If he squinted, the bubbles looked like stars in a clean night sky. It was a far preferable view to the intensity that was in front of him. Kill the Red King? That was genuinely stupid. No, that was impossible. His group of outlaws were famous throughout the west for a damn good reason. They were ruthless and cruel, and they were everywhere. Any regular man could be a devil in disguise, hiding behind the mundane.

He looked back up.

Scar had to be a new kind of crazy.

“Honestly, I should have shot you when I had the chance. Just for suggesting that,” he still could. Would Scar stop him? Would he grab the gun first, push the cold barrel against his skull, blow his brains out and turn the tides? Nauseatingly, a secluded part of Grian almost hoped he’d try. He would panic in the moment, but something deep in him found home in violence, in escalation, in the thrill. It grew every day, like mould on a carcass.

He didn’t want it there;
It was, though.

“Probably. probably. Maybe I should have let that bullet hit you, then,” Scar chuckled, deep and magnetic. Grian wished he would put more space between them. He could see each hair in his brow, the laugh lines that framed his lips.

The fact was, he could have moved backwards if he wanted to.

“Say, hypothetically, I said yes——-,” what was he doing? His pulse ebbed in his stomach. “——-how in tarnation would we do that?”

“You know the guy following you?”

“Yeah. Hard to forget.”

“Right, right. I have… let’s say suspicions that he isn’t just your average run of the mill bounty hunter. No, no,” the pause for drama was unnecessary; Scar used too many words, it was like his mouth made an abundance and he had to spill them out somewhere so he didn’t choke on them. “---I think that’s Ren’s right-hand man.”

Between the extra vowels, Grian found himself studying the heavy scarring along his jaw and throat. Deep ravines of bumpy white that trailed down, under his collar and out of sight. How many fights had he been in? How many tables had he bled out on?

He couldn't help but feel that he was being served his death on a plate.

“Littlewood? You think the Littlewood is hunting me?”

“Mmhm. Look at this,” Scar pulled away, standing up again. He didn’t react this time, Grian too busy collecting air in his lungs to care if he got his throat slit from behind.

He quickly returned with a gun. “Don’t worry cowboy, it’s empty,” the chamber was shown and spun to prove his point, iron clicking in and out of place. Grian nodded for him to continue. “See this?” Scar ran a thumb over the grip, passing it down for him to see. Inlined with red was the silhouette of a wolf. It looked expensive, but it was clearly an older model that hadn’t been fired for a while.

“Your would-be assassin had the same mark on his gun last night,” he had? “And he fit Littlewood’s description to a T, did he not?”

Grian thought back to the various wanted posters he’d seen: Littlewood’s had been a constant throughout the majority of his life. The red clothing, the black bandana over blonde hair. Scar was right, in the very brief view he’d had of him, he looked the part, he acted the part. “Could be a copycat, but yeah,” he didn’t bother asking how he’d been sharp-eyed enough to notice the wolf emblem on his gun while also being shot at. It was clear by now that he was smarter than he let on. ”And you have that because…?”

“Oh! This little ol’ thing? Well I brought it from a guy,---- he used to run with Ren’s lot. Pretty sure he’s retired and works with horses now, would you believe. I got these shoes from him, too, actually,” he kicked at the floor with his leather boots, a cloud of dust spinning in his wake.

( He gave him his shoes? They didn’t even look that special.) The answer was weird and clunky, but satisfactory enough for him to not investigate further. If the real story was that Scar worked with Ren, and that was instead why he had such a rare piece, Grian wouldn’t have made it to morning, would he?

He’d stay alert, just in case. He was always alert. It would be fine.

It did cement one fact, though: Scar had been tracking Littlewood long before Grian had rolled onto the scene. “And,” there was an implication left unsaid, but he could see it spelt out for him with glaring realisation. “----You want to use me as bait,” he watched as Scar’s eyes grew wide, upset at being beaten to the punchline he’d been building up to. That was a yes, then.

“I think if we leave town he’ll follow,” he bordered on actually looking guilty.

Grian sighed.

An opportunity for change was… something that did not cross his path often. He was sunsick, dehydrated, tired and wearing pain like a second pair of clothes. If he said no, and walked away, what would he do? Where would he go? Littlewood knew who he was. He’d trek into the desert alone, weak and hunted for the thousandth time.

He just… didn’t want to have to run anymore.

“Did you plan this? Taking that bullet, knowing I might aid you in your, — and I can’t stress this enough, — your insanity?” It was capitulation through the tone of his voice.

“Nope!” Scar rocked on the soles of his feet as if the situation were casual, spinning the gun around, having fun. “Guess fate just has a way, huh?”

Fate.

Was that what this was? No, ‘fate’ was just a word people used when they fell into favoured circumstances. But he couldn’t help but wonder if Scar shared the same foggy memories that had sprung up the second they met eyes, if their brains were both filled with worms, with falsehoods and mountains that his feet had never touched. Of the unknown known that beat in him as a second heart whenever he looked at Scar.

It was highly possible that Grian was just too far gone. He’d heard of men who became unstrung under the climate, losing their sanity to the heat waves.

“We should buy supplies, if we’re leaving.”

Scar’s replying smile was dangerous.

—-------------------------------------------

They entered the general store at around midday.

Grian had taken it upon himself to clean up in the house before leaving, washing away what grime he could in a rusted bucket filled with gray water. He scrubbed his nails until the skin had abraded and ran a cloth over his face. It had been a few weeks since he’d had the chance to do it. It felt rejuvenating, if not a reminder of how disgusting he’d allowed himself to get.

—— The stuff crusted into his poncho would have to stay. It was the same colour as the fabric, anyway, so who cared. And he’d left his wings as they were. What they needed was less rope and to be stretched from feather to feather and arch to arch, but that wasn’t happening.

Scar, on the other hand, had not bothered at all.

He waltzed into the shop with his head held high, one arm missing on his shirt, blood everywhere and a hat strung off of his back.

The woman at the counter instantly reached for her weapon, brown eyes like cattle, wide and shiny as she shouted “Please! Don’t hurt me—— we don’t have anythin’ but product to take, my pa, he lost it all gamblin’——“

She thought they were robbing them, naturally. Scar looked fresh from a shootout.

“Oh! Lady, you have the wrong idea. Me and my business partner here,” Scar pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards Grian, who raised an eyebrow. “We just need to sell a few things, buy a few things, and then we’ll be outta your hair.”

Business partner?

Grian wasn’t so sure about that, —- he felt more like a living bear trap to the man — but what could he do but play along? “Yup,” he absentmindedly picked up a tin of beans, turning the colourful illustration in his palm until it creased against the iron. “We… we have things to sell,” did they?

Scar shot him a look. “G, why don’t you grab the supplies and I'll do the trading. Save time.”

That was an excellent idea. Grian took one last glance at the startled shopkeeper, watched as Scar pulled the wolf-engraved gun from his hip like a forgotten treasure ( why had he brought it just to sell it again? just to compare it? ) and started doing whatever it was he did that made people listen to him.

Her demeanour melted, Scar’s dishevelled appearance forgiven as if it had never even existed, propping one arm on the surface to lean on and listen. So she was interested in buying the weapon; so much for having no money, huh?

The town had nothing but teeth.

Grian didn’t judge, —- he was no exception.

He took his time gathering provisions, walking around the store, swiping at lines of soot on the wooden shelving. Admiring the work on knives made of bone and steel. Choosing cans of vegetables and salted meat. Scar rambled on in the background, voice candied, tying up the sale with a pretty bow.

It was fun, in a way.

Usually Grian didn’t have the freedom to browse, —— being more akin to a solo ‘hat down, grab items, pay, leave’ lifestyle. That was if he even paid… life was hard out in the desert for the best of men. Like a vulture, he was always scraping the bottom of the barrel. And on the days the barrel was empty?

He still had to eat dinner.

So if he slipped a particularly nice knife under his poncho and into his pant pocket… You could simply call it old habits. He’d heard they tended to die hard.

…The crinkled bag of dried peaches that followed were noticed by Scar, who met his eyes like a wild thing. Grian froze, watching as he positioned himself so that the woman on the counter was blocked by his stature.

Hm.

Maybe business partners did have a suitable ring to it.

A pack of cheroots fit snugly next to his new knife. Then a waterskin, the stitching quality work and the leather fine. With Scar’s bulk and impeccable speech skills Grian had free reign. The general became his playground to puruse. Delight filling him with each item swiped, his heartbeat drumming. His veins pumping.

A machine that had been stagnant for too long, springing to life a little bit more each time his palm closed around a new prize.

By the time he joined Scar at the cash register, visibly it was only with a handful of tins, a folded white shirt and a bottle of vodka. He placed them down on the oak, smiling for the first time in days until his split lips started to sting and he had to stop.

“The gun is yours for the supplies my lovely partner has gathered, a measly $50 and you throw in a box of .45 colts. —-Just think of the power! The status you’ll gain from owning it.”

He wasn’t wrong, if you were thought to be under the Red King you were either feared or respected, depending on the person. Either way brought you peace. They didn’t brand the symbol on everything they owned for nothing.

The woman took in the stock in front of her. She spent an extra second eyeing Grian, but If she noticed he looked a little squarer than he had coming in, she didn’t say anything. Perhaps her ‘pa’ didn’t pay her enough to care.

“$40,” she practically purred.

Scar’s grin was unbudging and hollow. If the woman was trying to entice him, it wasn’t working. Did he not like her in particular, or did he not like… “$50, and I sweeten it with the very rare crystals I showed you. Free of charge, from yours truly,” the noise the glass shards made as he placed them on the counter was all too fresh. There was no way she would fall for it, right?

Grian bit his tongue.

Hard.

“Hmm… oh, fine, you strange fellas have yourself a deal,” she didn’t look convinced, not really, —— but it was obvious to everyone who was going to win if they kept at it. She was bartering with a man who stole people’s shoes from their feet. She huffed, throwing a box of ammo and silver amongst the rest of their goods.

“Thank you! Have a swell day!” Scar passed his half of the trade over, grabbed the shells and good as bolted from the store.

“Uh… thanks. Sorry about him,” Grian had no idea why he was apologising for a fully grown man. Whatever. Slower than Scar had, he snatched up the rest of their purchases and made his way outside.

Scar was waiting for him on the other side of the road. Grian weaved past a carriage and horse, joining him. He briefly debated being out in the open, but it was unlikely that they were going to be attacked by a singular man in broad daylight.

“My, Grian, were you always shaped quite so much like a box?”

Grian stared at him. A second passed, —— then he couldn’t help it, doubling over in laughter. “That was——“ the shrill sound only grew as his pockets rustled and jingled with every move. “——Scar that was amazing. We gotta go. She knew.”

“Oh absolutely,” Scar was giggling along with him. Soaked in blood. Half dressed. Giggling by the side of the road. “She knew.” He wasn’t a religious man, but there was something almost holy in the image of it.

Grian decided that he was alright. Not trustworthy in the slightest, and goddamn scary with his sharp tongue, but alright. “C’mon, let’s go back before you get shot again.”

Or before they got thrown in a cell.

—————

The pair sat crossed legged on the living room floor with their haul scattered around them.

An oil lamp flickered to Grian’s right. Jellie had taken a liking to the radiating heat, curling up next to it with her fluffy tail laid across her nose. He reached over, sinking his fingers into her fur, scratching between her triangle ears. She liked him better when he wasn’t brandishing weapons, he had found. He’d even given her some scraps to eat.

Her purrs were placating, — he’d always appreciated the idea of owning a cat, but without the stability of a place to call home? He’d never gone for it.

When he looked back up Scar was watching the interaction with the smallest of smiles. Grian noted how tired he looked. Charcoal under eyes, leaning to one side, breathing a little heavier than he should be.

Grian found he couldn’t catch the words before they tumbled from his mouth. “I’m going to check your arm.”

“Oh, It’s all good——“

“Infection will kill you,” he interrupted before the excuses could form.

The sentence poured over them. They both knew what he really meant: if you can’t go on, I will leave you here. I have to check.

“… Fine,” and then he started to unbutton his shirt.

Grian short-circuited. “Wait, you don’t have to—-“

“Grian. We just bought this shirt. Are you going to cut the arm from this one, too?” Scar’s fingers stilled against the third button on his way down, amusement shading his features like a second shadow.

“…” He busied himself searching through their shopping for the bandages and vodka.

Scar continued on.

The alcohol clinked inside the glass as he moved to sit by Scar’s side, - who was now fully shirtless, - unscrewing the top and placing it next to a piece of cloth on the floor. It wasn’t the most sanitary set up, but what could he do?

“Couldn’t you have picked a cleaner house to break into?”

“This one is safe.”

Grian glanced around at the boarded up windows and rotting ceiling. Brown, unidentified liquid dripped from a hole in the corner of the room, soaking into the floor. The air smelt like mushrooms. “This is the least safe house.”

Infection really could become a problem.

Did it matter? Yeah. Weirdly. He didn’t want to jinx it, —— sure, he’d agreed to the world's stupidest plan out of moral obligation more than anything —— but for the first time in his life he felt… something like hope.

Maybe not hope, that was too far.
Hope-adjacent, whatever it might be.

And somewhere along the day that had translated to a selfish, hungry form of care, latched on like a leech. Scar could be his ticket to living, really living, — he had to keep that safe now that he’d made up his mind on it.

He slowly peeled the curtain scraps away from Scar’s bicep, forehead creasing at the mess underneath. The final layer had to be inched from the gooey fissure. He tried to be careful, but it was rough work and he didn’t have a gentle touch. Scar flinched; he made no noise of complaint.

He was resilient, at least.

Grian had the feeling that a lot of him was an act, a tapestry of handpicked emotions and sentences. Very particular in it. He just wasn’t sure which parts were real. Would he ever know? Did he want to?

No. He would help Scar with their Littlewood problem, and then never see him again.

That was all.

Armed with the cloth and the alcohol, he started to clean the wound for a second time. It was different with Scar awake; intimate and tense in a way he didn’t want to digest. He kept his vision focused on Scar’s arm, and definitely not his torso that was littered with messy freckles. Or the way his skin turned golden brown in the lamp‘s glow. Or stupid his muscles, cut from marble like a goddamn statue.

Grian exhaled.

The unnecessary depth of the moment was suffocating.

He focused. The broken flesh actually did look inflamed, —— a little angry in parts. And it was hot to the touch. He bit his lip and didn’t mention it, starting to bandage it back up. At least now they weren’t using dirty curtains. “What about Jellie? Your plan is to leave tonight,” Grian’s voice came out strained and quiet. He cleared his throat. “She can’t come with us.”

Scar nodded, he was looking away into space, motionless for possibly the first time since he’d met him. “She always finds me. I never take her anywhere,” he hummed, stopping a shrug mid-way through when he remembered what Grian was doing. “She just shows up, I guess.”

That was… unbelievable. Grian believed him. “Oh. Alright.”

“Yeah.”

Grian tied off the bandage. His fingers lingering for a fraction where the scratchy fabric met skin. The air was thick. He stood up, stretching, trying to find a way to break into the atmosphere and shake his insides about.

“Do your… your wings, do they hurt like that?”

What. “What?”

“They’re tied. You can undo them in here, if you want,” Scar was gentle, timid, unsure and scared.

Oh, he did not want. Grian bristled, increasingly aware of his own peril; he made a show of stepping as far away from Scar as he could, picking up their provisions and starting to pack them into a roll-top backpack. “I don’t need to,” liar liar liar. “They don’t hurt.”

Scar didn’t push him. Grian tried to calm down.

————-

The sun cascading down the horizon lit the sand on fire.

They’d left town on foot, —- Scar had cemented it as the best option for now and Grian had to agree. The next town over ( where they could get horses, if needs came ) was less than a day's walk at a fair pace, but reaching it wasn’t the objective. If they did, they did. If they didn’t, then they didn’t.

Whatever drew his stalker their way.

They were to act like mice, fresh for the hawk’s picking.

“We’re sure the bounty hunter is gonna follow me with you around?” Attacking one man was fair enough, attacking two was just plain stupid. You had to be either an incredibly good shot, or missing a few things upstairs.

The bandit was, unfortunately, likely to be the prior of the two options.

“If I’m right, —— if it is Littlewood, he will.”

Grian nodded. He didn’t like how aware Scar was of his worth, ( he will follow you, he will chase you, he will risk it. ) but he was correct. Littlewood would do what Ren wanted, and Ren wanted him dead or alive. They were well known for their undying loyalty to each other. There was even word-of mouth that Ren had given Littlewood the chance to kill him at one point and he hadn’t taken it.

What a poetic pair.

Grian would kill them instead if they refused to do it to each other.

They walked for hours in the slipping gradient. Red, yellow, purple, until finally it was dark enough to warrant lighting a lamp. He clutched at the handle, always looking over their shoulders, searching the barren wasteland until his mind conjured up eerie figures and twitching, crooked movements. He knew they weren’t there.

It was too early in their journey to start believing in the insensible.

And as time stretched, he found himself drifting closer towards Scar.

The desert was cold at night, after all.

By hour six, two pairs of feet were dragging over dirt. Grian swallowed thickly, throat raw and itchy. They’d shared the bag of dried peaches back at the house, but it wasn’t enough to keep them fed. And if Littlewood showed up? They needed their wits.

He stopped. Scar stopped, too, tilting his head at him questioningly.

The road they were following had come to a colossal plateau, splitting it in half. Cliffs towered on either side of Grian, he tried craning his neck to follow their height up but his stomach lurched with the gravitational shift. “We should rest for a bit before we pass through here.”

“Good idea,” Scar looked relieved. “---- Off road? We can build a fire.”

Grian nodded. The time it took them to find a decent spot felt like an eternity. When they did, —-- a nook shoved up against the cliffside that protected them from the harsh wind —-- he chucked his backpack on the ground and dropped to his knees. Eager hands searched for his waterskin, tipping it back as Scar hacked at a nearby dead bush for firewood.

He might have spent a few extra seconds doing nothing before he got up to help.

When they were done, they sat side by side against a jagged rock, two figures framed by a patchwork of earth tones. The flames in front of them steady and strong.

Tales across the west said that a fire catching on the first try was a sign of luck to come. Grian didn’t think that was true, —- he was just really good at starting fires.

“Hungry?” He passed Scar the only thing they had to eat at a moment's notice: pemmican. He wished they’d had the foresight to soak some beans, or even pick up a rabbit on the trail. They would have to go hunting in the morning, at the very latest. Or he would, — Scar probably couldn’t draw back a bow in his state.

That was okay. It would be good to have a fresh meal. To use his hands and feel useful like nature intended.

“Thank you,” Scar didn’t seem to mind the meagre offering, taking the dried meat and berries, chewing. And chewing. And chewing. It was bad. “This is bad.”

Grian let out a half-laugh, more air than anything, taking a bite of his own square. “It’s actually horrible.”

“You think we’ll get food poisoning and die out here?”

To die of something so insignificant and avoidable? It felt fitting. “Littlewood shows his face, all ready to put a bullet through our skulls, and we‘re already gone.” Grian forced his mouthful down, leaning his head back against the stone, hat in the sand by his feet. The flames were making him drowsy. “Might be easier.”

Trust him to be the one to kill off the last of the avian species through pemmican, of all things. He hoped his ancestors had a sense of humour.

“We’ll be fineeee, Grian,” Scar bumped their shoulders together. Grian half-withdrew from the touch, straightening his posture, withdrawing further into his poncho. Grian. Scar had a way of saying his name like he’d been saying it for decades. It was dizzying. “Littlewood can’t shoot two bullets at once.”

Yeah. He couldn’t, but he could shoot two quickly.

“Get some sleep, Scar. I’ll watch,” even as he spoke he felt heavy, submerged in water that wasn’t there. It weighed him down, begging to drag him into a dreamless sleep. He refused to comply, standing up to get more fuel for the fire despite the fact that It didn’t need it.

Grian knew he would have a harder time fighting if he didn’t rest, — but he was stubborn and guarded and a little silly. So what? He wasn’t the one that needed to fight against infection, anyway.

So he haunted the clearing, knife in hand, gun loaded, as Scar drifted off.

————-

“Scar—,” Grian hissed, crouching down beside the brunette. “Scar,” he tried again, hesitating before shaking him awake with urgency.

Sleep-filled eyes opened, glassy and confused as they bore into his. “...Huh?”

Too loud.

Acting on impulse, Grian slapped a hand down over the man’s mouth, vision darting around the desert. “Shhhh,” he could feel breath against the back of his knuckles with every rise and fall of Scar’s chest. “There’s someone here,” he waited, then removed his hand slowly, searching Scar’s features for understanding of the danger they were in. He found it, alongside flushed pink cheeks.

Sunburn.

?

“...Okay,” Scar whispered back, reaching for his holster. He paused, and then, “Grian.”

Grian followed his line of sight.

“There,” he pointed to the right, towards a distant thicket. A streak of red concealed behind the bush of dead sticks. And then Grian saw the notched arrow. It was slight, and he had to squint to see it, but it was glinting under the moon, aiming directly at them.

He barreled into Scar at the exact same time it left the string.

Scar screamed as they hit the ground, the sound torn from his throat before he could silence it. Grian untangled their limbs, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling them both to their feet. It was only once they were safely hunched behind the rock that he noticed Scar was bleeding again, the fall having torn something, one hand struggling to put pressure on his arm.

“Sorry—— shit,” Grian cursed, replacing Scar’s hand with two of his own. It was slippery and warm. He pushed down. At this rate it would never heal, and if it did it would need stitches. Grian couldn’t give stitches confidently.

If they survived the night maybe the next town over had a doctor of sorts.

“Man, I should stop buying white shirts,” Scar huffed, bending forward like he was going to be sick, hands braced against his legs. “That was Littlewood.”

Grian was practically vibrating with anxiety, feathers fluffed up and painful. “Yeah. It was. Hold,” he ordered, Scar obeyed, taking over. Blood had seeped between his fingers, he wiped them on his pants. The air smelt like copper and ash.

Gun armed and pointed, Grian slowly peeked around the corner. The clearing was quiet, broken only by the wind as it whipped against the sand. Hm. He couldn’t see anyone, not even back in the original bush.

The thing was, there weren’t a lot of places to hide, and their attacker wasn’t dressed for camouflage.

He took a step forward. He waited.

Nothing.

Another step into view, frazzled with nerves. He was bait, after all. That had been the plan from the beginning, so why could he taste his heartbeat?

There. Movement from near the plateau walls. He hoped Scar was ready to shoot.

…Was he able to shoot? He wished he’d asked him before walking out.

Crimson attire filled his vision, jumping back just as a blade missed his face. Grian screeched, taking a shot at his attacker, and then another one —— but he was too fast, appearing too sudden for accuracy, weaving out of the way and disarming him. The gun was sent flying, then both of his wrists were grabbed and twisted until his knees buckled and his stomach filled with bile.

Grian was face to face with Littlewood, a horrible feeling of dread burning behind his ribs. He was defenceless in his grip. No matter how much he hissed and spit and kicked and squirmed, he couldn’t escape.

Finally, was this his end he was meeting?

“Boss wants to see you,” Littlewood shrugged.

And then Scar hit the guy over the head with a rock.

Chapter Text

Grian backed up hard, boots slipping against sand as he clutched at one wrist with the other. Scar was standing across from him, dripping rock raised to the heavens, staring down at the unmoving body on the floor with wide eyes.

As if he hadn’t been the one to bring the weapon down.

“Is… is he…”

Grian tried to shrug in response, but his body wouldn’t let him, frozen in place. The plan. The… the plan was ruined. They were supposed to capture Littlewood alive. He was supposed to lead them to the Red King.

He was supposed to be his shot at freedom.

If he was dead… maybe… — would Ren care enough to look for his body? They could guard over it. A stake out; sit and watch and wait in ambush. But how long would that take? First, Ren would have to notice Littlewood had been gone for… too long. Second, he would have to somehow find him.

They were in the middle of nowhere surrounded by stone and silence.

The worms would find him sooner.

Grian closed his eyes.

“Grian.”

He ignored him. How could Scar have been so careless? One quick bullet in the arm was all he had needed. Non-lethal, —-- just enough to incapacitate him. ( And god knows Scar was familiar with the injury. ) Hell, he could have knocked Littlewood unconscious with the barrel of his gun if he couldn’t shoot.

Instead he’d chosen a rock you’d use to crush a snake.

“Grian,” Scar’s voice tried again. It was different than before with a high crack towards the end. Was it a relief? “Grian it’s okay, —- he’s… he’s breathing.”

Inky eyes opened to see his ‘partner’ crouched on the floor next to Littlewood, two fingers pressed to his neck. “Slowly, but he’s alive. I can’t believe it… — wow,” Scar was exhausted, falling until his back was flat to the sand with his knees bridged. “I really thought he was going to kill you there.”

His heart skipped a beat. Grian didn’t say it, but he’d been thinking the same thing. Fresh bruises bloomed across his wrists as he rotated them, a rosy reminder of the experience that would remain for days. He exhaled, shaking away visual fog, gathering control enough to walk over to Littlewood; he had to see the rise and fall of his chest for himself.

Scar was correct: It was shallow, but there.

“Right,” Grian nodded. Thinking fast, he ran for his backpack, throwing tins and ammo haphazardly until he came across a small piece of rope. He tugged it once, testing the hold until satisfied enough to use it. “Alright,” using the toe of his boot, he peeled Littlewood onto his front. A difficult task only made possible by adrenaline.

“Hold his hands together behind him.”

Scar groaned, exerting himself with the force it took to sit up. “He isn’t going anywhere, — the guy has a crater in his skull,” but he did as asked, and Grian used the rope to bind his arms into a tight knot.

Together, they pulled Littlewood onto his back so that he didn’t suffocate in the grains.

“Now he isn’t.”

Scar nodded, pleased with the work. “That was scary, huh?”

Grian fixed him with a dead expression. Somehow, despite him saying it, Scar didn’t look scared. Not anymore. The corners of his lips were turned upwards into the hint of a smile, and his eyes… his eyes looked almost amber under the glowing ash of their fire.

Like something out of a devil's tale you’d tell to disobedient children.

He couldn’t look away. “A rock?”

“I… I panicked! …Can’t a man panic? Besides, It’s not like I hit him that hard! He’s fine. Just fine.”

Grian pinched his nose bridge and choked back harsh words. Finally, he allowed himself to sit down and reset. Trembling fingers wrapped around the fabric of his poncho, fixing it into place. He had no idea where his hat had gone, — lost to the darkness of the desert and the fight of it all. As most things ended up.

“What do we do now, Scar?” He was so used to running, it had been a while since he had come that close to actual danger. Every inch of his body felt electrified. Usually he had a knack for keeping distance; even back in the saloon his attacker had never touched him.

Admittedly, he had Scar to thank for that.

And now, rock or not, he was alive once again.

“We wait.”

“Until?”

“Until our good friend here wakes up,” Scar threw the sentence out with a yawn. He was on his back again, jawline tilted to the side as he watched the avian. Then, quieter, “I don’t want to say too much, you never know.”

Ah. Grian glanced over at Littlewood. At the blood drying in his pale hair and the bump he knew was forming. It would be one hell of a concussion.

Hopefully.

“Hey,” Scar was in front of him, somehow. “I’m gonna clean up this arm, it’s not too bad this time, just torn,” he prodded at his grit-filled wound with a grimace. It looked awful. Grian could still hear his scream. “And i’ll clean up and bandage him, too,” he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t be very good hospitality for us to let him get an infection in the brain now,” he paused to catch his breath. “Would it?”

Uh. The assassin had tried to kill him. “Sure…” Grian nodded.

“How about,” Scar went to place a hand on his shoulder, drawing back at the last second. He’d clearly seen something in his features that stopped him from closing the contact. “... How about you go and rest? You never did get your turn and honestly, Grian, you look terrible.”

Terrible.

He looked terrible.

“Yeah… yeah, okay, Scar,” come to think of it, his eyelids were dragging. And the boulder in the corner was sloped better than some of the wooden beds he’d slept in. They were okay. The danger that had been looming over him had been subdued.

Grian was tired, so he settled down and closed his eyes.

————-

“And that’s the story of how I met my cat, Jellie.”

Scar’s deep voice echoed through his consciousness, tearing him from senseless dreams. Something about a mountain and a tower. The stakes had been different there, and so had he. Always about a mountain and a tower, yet forgotten as soon as his vision met the blue sky.

It was early morning.

Grian had no idea how long he had been asleep for, but it was the most refreshed he had felt in days. Weeks, even. An object was on top of his head, too. He reached a hand up and laid his palm flat on it. Leather.

It was his hat, protecting him from the deadly sun.

Scar must have put it there. That was… nice of him. Practical, of course, — blisters would be such a hindrance to their job.

“Can you just kill me now?”

Huh?

Fully alert and frazzled, Grian leapt to his feet so fast it made him dizzy, — his gun coming out from his holster to point at the speaker. Was it even loaded? It didn’t matter.

Littlewood was awake.

“Woah, woah. Steady. I didn’t mean it,” Littlewood spoke with a heavy tint of surprise, as if he would have held his hands out with fingers spread, had they not still been tied.

He didn’t mean it. His assassin didn’t mean it. As if them killing him would be irrational. Insane, even. As if Grian shouldn’t put a stupid bullet through his stupid skull. “Scar,” he hissed, weapon aimed. “Can we go talk over there, please.”

Scar, eyebrow raised and far, far too relaxed, ( had he just been telling their prisoner about his cat? ) nodded and followed him until the pair of them were out of earshot. Grian walked a few extra paces, just to be sure.

“...He can't move?”

“Nope,” he popped the P. “He’s …secured… to that tall rock, nice and snug.”

Grian sighed. What was the pause for? Scar gingerly reached forward, slowly placing a hand over his and lowering it until his gun was pointed towards the ground and not at him.

Oh. He’d still had that up?

“We don’t need any more injuries, G.”

“Sorry, — uh, I’m a little stressed,” an understatement. “How's your arm today?” Grian asked, just as gingerly. He could see fresh cloth wrapped around his bicep, spots of red blooming through. “And why are you shirtless?”

“It’s hot!” (The weather?) “And the arm is… honestly, I probably need to see someone about it. Not to bag on your medical skills, of course, of course! You’ve done a great job.”

“Riiight. And him? What do we do with him now? You actually never told me what comes after the… rock,” come to think of it the rock had never been mentioned either. He shouldn’t have agreed to such a half-plan, especially with someone like Scar. Desperation could drive a man to do crazy, crazy things.

“Okay, – don’t freak out,” Scar eyed his gun with caution. “I loosened his ties a little before he woke up, and—-”

“Scar! You what?” Grian interjected with a shriek.

The brown haired man visibly cringed. “----No, no, listen, listen,” there was that salesman's pitch. It meant danger. “ We wait for him to notice and ‘escape’, then, and this is real genius, Grian: we track him.”

“We track him.”

“Uhuh. Yep. Yeah. He’s hurt, dehydrated, and alone in the desert. Where will he go? Right on back to The Red King himself. He’ll lead us directly into the heart of it all, wherever that may be.”

Grian hated to admit it, but it was… not that bad. It was probable. Littlewood was in no fit shape to be taking on anyone, dead or alive. Going back to his base town was his only option. “And then we take them all down. An entire bandit camp, — known to be some of the strongest in the West. Just us. Somehow,” he stole a glance back towards their prisoner.

“Exactly. You get it. Me and you Grian, we can take over this desert,” Scar leaned forward then, hush-like and excited as if he were a child telling a secret. “Don’t you want to be the hunter for a change?”

His skin prickled. He did.

He really did. And maybe it wasn’t just out of obligation, either. Always within him: the want to chase. To seek out problems for the sheer hell of it. He couldn’t before, but Scar was… Scar was an enabler, poking holes in Grian’s already weak moral compass. Again, and again, and again until the glass shattered. They were greasy and bloody and distressed and disgusting and oh so in over their heads, — but it didn’t matter.

Maybe he was living instead of just surviving.

“Yeah. I do.”

“You’re with me?”

A sigh. A hesitant second drawn out looking anywhere but Scar’s abs. “Have you thought this through?”

“I’ve thought it through,” he most definitely had not.

…

“I’m with you.”

“Yes! Alright,” Scar held out a hand, calloused and tan, just like back in the saloon. “Partners.”

Grian took it in his own, unlike back in the saloon, and shook. “...Partners.”

He could only pray their death be gentle.

————-

The wind picked up, splicing the rabbit’s agouti fur up and down its spine. It twitched its ears, watched with beady eyes, and paused.

Grian, downwind, held back on clearing his throat, the dust that spiralled his way catching on the folds of his clothing. Silently he drew back his bow and let out the air that he’d been trapping in his lungs, timing the exhale with the release of his arrow. It soared across the clearing until it met flesh with a thud.

He made his way over to the prey.

It was messy, the arrow having missed both of the animals major kill zones and ruined some of the meat. “Oh, tarnation,” he placed his bow on the ground, taking the short piece of rope from over his shoulder and wrapping it around the rabbit’s hind legs. It wasn’t much, but it was food, and it would have to do.

Grian knew the sloppy work was his own fault. Any other day and he would have done much, much better, ( he had been providing his own food his entire life, for goodness sake. ) but his mind was still coming down from… a lot. Everything was foggy and unfocused, thoughts wandering instead of locked in on a target.

Ironically, it could have something to do with his lack of a proper meal.

Still, for the first time in too long, he was alone. So he sat down on the sand next to his kill, unfastened his poncho, crossed his legs, and stretched his arms out and around until his shoulders loosened up. He felt his spine crack with the movement, wings raw under the friction of their twine.

It wasn’t the longest time that they had been without being free, not by far, but they ached nonetheless. He kept going, rotating and twisting, pulling the muscles in his back, working the space where wing met body with the point of his knuckles. It took a lot of strange angles and bending in the sand, but he kneaded for minutes until the pain lessened.

It helped.

Grian briefly toyed with the idea of cutting through his bindings, if only for a while. But he didn’t have enough rope with him to hide them again, and plus… he had left Scar in charge of Littlewood while he was hunting.

The next actual building he slept in he would do it.

For the time being he put on his poncho and picked up his catch.

————-

“You know how to skin that?”

“Of course I do, Grian.”

Grian blinked at his serious tone. Scar had been following Littlewood across the desert for a while now, hadn't he? Even before he himself had come onto the scene. It was weirdly easy to forget that the man was capable of fending for himself.

That was the point, though, wasn’t it? Scar’s charismatic business facade was supposed to make you underestimate him. It was the small things, pitch changes and bright smiles, the cant of his jaw, the way he rambled about nothing important until you forgot he’d even spoken. Cogs in a machine, all working to cover up his strong appearance and dangerous skills. And work it did, —- maybe a bit too well. “But…” Grian tried to save face. “Your arm, is it good to be doing it?”

Scar shrugged, picking up the rabbit and turning it over. Grian watched as he grabbed the scruff of its neck with one hand, glinting knife in the other. He sliced cleanly from the stomach to neck, making precise slits and removing limbs and fur until his awful hunt looked like a decent meal.

“You are aware you fellas are dead, right?”

Grian huffed, grabbing a small stick and throwing it in Littlewood’s general direction. He went back to feeding the fire, not checking to see if his shot had landed.

“Ow,——! I’m serious. You’ve messed up biiiiig time. Boss isn’t gonna just sit around and let you buffoons do this,” he sounded incredibly sure of himself. Almost proud, as if being under the Red King made him invincible.

Even when captive, concussed and outnumbered.

“You know what, Grian? I don’t think you were at your best today. This rabbit, why it hardly has any meat on it,” Scar laughed, the knife in his hand a funnel for sticky blood to roll down his wrist. “And you know what else, Grian? Sometimes, sometimes when you’re out in the desert, it’s hot. Realllly hot. And you are hungry”

Grian wasn’t sure why he was suddenly digging at his hunting skills, or where he was going with it, but he picked up on the change. The way Scar’s voice dropped in octave, and his words drew slower. He glanced at him. His energy felt wrong.

“—-And sometimes when it’s hot, and you are hungry,” he stared straight at Littlewood, tied to his post. “You make do with the meat you can find.”

Littlewood stared right back at him with a bitten tongue.

“Oh! But who knows. Maybe god has blessed us with just enough to fill our bellies.”

Grian wasn’t sure he had, but he wasn’t about to interject. Scar’s threats, no matter how transparent and backless they might be, were a little too far out for his liking. He wanted to put a bullet through Littlewood’s skull, sure, and he was hungry, sure.

But not that hungry.

He had never been that hungry.

They ate in silence, save for the crackling of their fire. The alcove was beginning to grow stale, too familiar for Grian’s liking. He wasn’t used to staying in one place for so long, —- not outside of a town without the safety in numbers of a crowd. It didn’t matter that he had a clear view of the man who had been chasing him, — his heart hammered with anxiety all the same.

Scar must have sensed his restlessness, because only a few minutes passed before he spoke up. “Grian, I need to stretch my legs out. Coming?”

Oh.

Catching on, Grian tilted his head in their prisoners direction, finishing up a mouthful of cooked rabbit and cleaning his hands on his pants. “Okay,” and then after a beat. “Bring your weapons, you never know when there are snakes in the grass.”

Really, he didn’t want Littlewood taking his chance to escape and stealing them. Arming him was not part of the plan.

They both geared up, and walked. And walked and walked, until the campsite was but a blurred dot, melting down the orange horizon. “He’s going to know what we’re doing, you know.”

Scar nodded. “I know.”

“No one is this stupid,” Grian greedily drew his canteen to his mouth, searching for the last few drops of water in it. It was a good job the next town was so close, they would have no choice but to visit it soon. He was not for the vultures.

“Don’t worry, cowboy. Our friend doesn’t have many options. Where will he go? Straight into town, where else,” Scar slowed to a stop next to a large cactus. “Remember that stable I told you about? With the ex-bandit?”

“The one you ‘got’ the branded gun from?”

“Got I did. Uhuh, he’s goin’ to head right on over there and so are we, just a teeny tiny bit slower.”

“That’s a lot riding on a guess, but alright....” He was in it now. Grian shook his empty canteen in front of Scar’s face. “And we can get supplies. What happens at the stables?”

“I talk to the guy and get information on where Littlewood is headed. He likes me.”

Grian snorted. Hell… that was probably exactly how it would go, judging by every other situation Scar had talked himself through so far.

The conversation dipped into a lull, Grian balancing on the heel of his boots and Scar watching the skyline. Grian couldn’t tell if he was looking for signs of Littlewood or simply appreciating the changing hues. It brought him back to his dream from that morning, of the desert that was different.

Had Scar been in the dream, too? He couldn’t remember but the hairs on his neck handed him an inkling of the truth. “What did they steal from you?”

“Huh?” Scar was torn from his trance, turning to look at him.

“Back at the house, you said you were hunting Ren and his people because they stole something from you. What was it, Scar? It must have been expensive for you to come all this way.”

Scar busied himself picking at his bandages until dots of fresh blood appeared, “Ah. It doesn’t matter.”

Grian raised an eyebrow, swatted Scar’s hand away from his wound and then crossed his arms stubbornly. “How do I know I can trust you?” If they were to be partners then he needed to know. “I mean…” he trailed off with a sigh, fully aware that he was milking it to sate his own curiosity. “If you can’t even tell me something so insignificant…”

Scar’s face slowly morphed into a half-smile, as if he knew Grian was playing him at his own manipulation game and didn’t care at all. “They… they stole my horse, alright?”

A horse.

They stole his horse.

Scar was doing it all, —- violence, stealing, kidnapping, threatening acts that god couldn’t endorse —- for a horse? Grian stood mouth agape, taken back. “That… your… what?!”

“My horse, Pizza.”

“Pizza? What does that mean?”

“I…” that puzzled Scar, leaving him just as confused as Grian felt. “…It’s his name.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Sure, sure. Maybe.”

So not only was he stacking sins upon sins to re-obtain a horse, it was a horse that may or may not be alive. Grian ran a hand through his hair until his fingers bumped into the hat strung around his neck. He had only spent a few days with Scar, but every single hour felt like a new challenge. Something difficult to devour.

Scar was insane. He knew that. Undoubtedly out of his mind, —- Grian wasn’t fussed about it, wasn’t scared of it. Not really. No, he knew what it felt like to be hard to swallow. To be a little off the rails. The sun was hot and times were tough.

But it was a lot, and he had the headaches to prove it.

“C’mon, let’s head back. Surely he’s gone by now.”

“Surely,” he had to just go along with the ride.

————-

Littlewood was nowhere to be seen by the time they got back.

That was fine. Good, even. It was exactly to plan. Things had a habit of going how they wanted it to happen when Scar was involved.

The world had grown dark, so they spent the evening finishing up the rest of the pemmican, sorting backpacks, and sleeping in shifts. And then when morning kissed the sky, Grian tapped Scar awake and they set off towards town.

It was a few hours on foot, so by the time the pair stepped out of the convenience store and onto the busy street it was gone-midday.

“Where to next?” Grian shuffled, staying close to his companion and picking at the loose threads of his poncho. It was beginning to get ratty, the long edges frayed beyond repair.

He liked it all the same. It was irreplaceable, it made him him.

Scar lowered his throat and passed him the freshly filled waterskin, which Grian was glad to take. The water wasn’t freezing cold but it wasn’t warm either, so he held the refreshing liquid in his mouth for a few extra seconds before swallowing.

“The stable is just outside of the town. It’s a nice one, too, you’ll love it, Grian.”

The nice stables owned by ex-members of the bandit group that wanted him skinned. Grian was positive he would just adore it. “I don’t want to ask a stupid question here, but this place… it’s safe, right?”

Scar hummed thoughtfully, which frazzled Grian, and started walking. “This way, Grian. Annnnnnnd yes, yes. It’s safe.”

Grian did a little jog to catch up. “For me, Scar? Its safe for me?”

He watched as Scar spun on his feet, facing him and walking backwards. His shirt was undone, billowing with every step. Grian wanted to reach out and do the buttons up. He didn’t.

He didn’t look anywhere but Scar’s face, though.

“Safe for you. I wouldn’t take you anywhere unsafe.”

He glanced down at his wrists, now a nasty shade of purple.

Grian doubted that.

————-

The stables were big.

Multiple wooden buildings stood on the property, tall and sturdy, surrounded by a large plot of land where horses were grazing. Two of the buildings were obviously for the animals, while a third one was smaller and had a patio held up by beams wrapped around it.

For the residents.

Grian took a deep breath. It was fine. They were ‘ex’ bandits. Not current bandits. Current bandits didn’t sell horses.

He pulled his wings taught to his body.

“OH, GOODNESS. Not you again.”

Grian leapt away from the horse he’d been slowly reaching to stroke, turning to face the voice that boomed across to them from the house. His eyes met a short man whose dark green poncho was far too large for his frame, making it appear as more a cloak than anything else.

“Bdubs! A delight to see you, as always,” Scar singsonged back to the man, tugging on Grian’s arm as he walked past him, beckoning him to follow him in greeting the man.

Grian hesitated, straightened his spine and followed.

“A delight I’m sure,” Bdubs cleared his throat obnoxiously. “Whaddya want this time?” He turned to look at Grian, then. “And my condolences go to you.”

Grian laughed just enough to seem friendly. Bdubs seemed satisfied, puffing out his chest as if he’d told the world’s greatest joke. Grian surveyed him; the way his curls peeked out from under his brim, and his eyes which were too-large. He was animated as he spoke to Scar, the pair rambling to each other about god knows what.

Grian was tuned out.

Bdubs was… an odd fellow. He’d decided he was harmless, if prideful — but a harmless man was never just that.

“BAH. THAT—-! You can’t just stroll in here demanding to see Etho, Scar. He’s a… —-” Bdubs paused to wave an arm wildly towards the pasture around them. “He’s a busy man!”

Scar started to speak in protest, but Grian cut him off. “I’m looking to buy a horse, actually.”

“You are?” Bdubs and Scar both said at the same time.

“Yep. Two,” he elbowed Scar. “You said this was the best place around. The finest horses,” Grian shrugged. “Or was Scar lying about that?”

Bdubs stuttered, and then reset his entire body until he looked welcoming. “No, no, hold it cowboy, this is THE place. THE FINEST! You won’t find any others like ‘em.”

“I’d like two, then.”

“EXCELLENT. — Yes, yes, right this way,” he started off towards one of the stables.

Grian shared a glance with Scar, “I’m not wrong in assuming this isn’t the guy, am I?” He whispered, falling into step behind the green-clad man.

Scar chuckled. “We need his partner.”

Ah.

————-

“This one, oh, this one is just—” Bdubs reached up to give the animal a pat on the muzzle “---he’s a real beaut. Just flawless.”

Grian gave it’s all-white coat a once over. He wasn’t used to riding, but of course he knew how. To him, a horse was a horse. “We’ll take him.”

“Wha— really? You don’t want to give him a run around the pasture?”

“He rides?”

“Smooth as silk.”

“Yeah, we’ll take him and that brown one then.”

Scar clapped his hands, startling every man and animal in the room. “Perfect! Here’s the money,” he shoved a large handful of coins in Bdubs direction, who accepted them with sparkling teeth.

“Scar.”

Grian hadn’t noticed the new voice walk into the stable until it was right in front of them. That was a problem. — The speaker moved with silent feet, dressed in black from head to toe save for a green duster that made Bdubs’ strange outfit fit in.

He bristled, eyeing the bandana that concealed the lower-half of his face. He was undoubtedly the ex-bandit they’d come to see.

“Etho! Oh, how wonderful. Bdubs here said you were busy,” Scar reached over to tap Bdubs’ atop the hat.

“I was,” Etho shrugged. “My, we sure have been getting a lot of guests through today, huh ‘Dubs?”

Bdubs paused in his act of brushing down the brown horse to bark laughter. “Sure are.”

“You know why we’re here,” Scar accepted the fact with ease, slipping into a more comfortable tone.

“Mmhm. What makes you think I'll tell you anything, Scar?” Etho matched his energy, putting his hands in his coat pockets and leaning back with a low exhale.

“Ah,” Scar moved closer, slinging one arm over Etho’s shoulders and turning them both towards the stable door. “Walk with me, Etho,” and then in the distance as they were leaving “Don’t you want to maintain your friendship with us? You know we’re taking them down with or without you...”

Bdubs turned to Grian, who was unfazed as he spoke. “Soooo… D’ya need help? We can hide you in that hay bale and say you ran away.”

“I might take you up on that.”

————-

They returned 10 minutes later, neither looking any worse for wear.

Scar came into the stables and stood straight by his side, while Etho lingered by the door. “Well, well, look at the time! We must be going, Grian,” and then to Bdubs, “It’s been wonderful as always. We’ll just be taking our horses—-”

“Oh hey, Scar, what happened to my gun that you borrowed?” Etho called over.

“Huh? Gun? Whatttttt. Oh we really must be leaving,” Scar started to hurry, grabbing the reins of the brown horse and leading him across the barn. Grian did the same with his own new horse, getting caught up in the sudden panic-filled whirlwind that was Scar.

“You borrowed my gun, sold it, and then Bdubs let you use that money to buy two of our horses, didn’t he?”

“HEY! … WHAT??? ETHO, I DIDN’T KNOW.”

“Evidently,” Etho sighed, but he didn’t seem angry, moving to the side to let them leave with the livestock.

Grian couldn’t help but laugh a little manically once they were out of the pasture. How was Scar alive? How was he alive? “Did he tell you anything?” He adjusted the saddle on his horse, unrolling the leather stirrups to suit his height.

Scar was already mounted on his. “Oh, my dear friend, he told me everything we needed to know.”

“Why?”

“He likes me!”

Grian huffed as he pulled himself up, feeling queasy from the sudden altitude. Was riding anything like flying, he wondered? His wings hadn’t been in good health to fly for a very, very long time. He couldn’t recall the feeling. “You’re… impossible, Scar. Where is Littlewood going?”

“To a certain old town called St. Wardog.”

Chapter Text

The buzz was unmistakable. Low and grating, it circled him. Weaving in, out, around. Getting louder and louder, each dive daring to close the gap between it and his eardrums. A shake of his head, a swat in the air. The beast avoided all, airborne since birth; it had a goal and it would achieve it. It landed on off-white fur, noise dropping in octave, vibrating as it dug through the coat. Ready to draw blood—

Grian slapped his hand down hard, his horse whinnying with the action. The fly fell to the ground, dead. “We oughta find someplace to sleep, soon.”

To his left, Scar gave the reins of his horse a tug, the animal veering an inch in a new direction as he did. “Sure, sure. We can camp out here, or…” he glanced down at the railway tracks that they were following beside. “...Or we could stay in the next town.”

Grian hesitated. They had been riding for days, only stopping to sleep and eat scraps. He tossed the idea back and forth between his mind, playing catch with the thought of a warm meal. An actual bed.

“We could even ask the locals if they’ve seen any bandit activity,” Scar continued on, free hand gesturing through the air.

They hadn’t seen any trace of Littlewood since leaving the ranch. They’d heard plenty: loose lips outside a saloon, shopkeepers fearing for their inventory, even a few passers who had taken Scar’s word for being a ‘sheriff’. Everyone was happy to talk, and everyone knew that a wanted poster came with a price point. Grian had no doubt that Etho had told the truth and they were heading in the right direction.

He hadn’t ever been to St. Wardog, too far out for his liking. It was a place good men went to die, and bad men went to live. Grian hadn’t a clue where he fit in between the two, but he was sure to find out soon enough.

“We have gold left over.”

To the ears of a stranger, Scar would sound smart. Practical. As if he were making plans with their end goal in mind. To Grian’s ears, he could only hear begging. Scar needed a roof over his head, if only for one night. He needed to rest, to slow down.

To recover.

Grian sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, the skin on his forearms was peeling and he had saddle sores where he didn’t want them.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” it wouldn’t be a hindrance, to take a moment while they still had one to spare.

—-------------------

The saloon was… dead.

Grian picked his way through the empty chairs, the rare occupied one staring up at him through violent eyes. He bristled back just as well, all teeth and fangs with a closed mouth.

“Howdy. Do you fellas offer rooms here?”

Scar of course got right to business, leaning across the bar with ease. The man behind it had his hand in a glass, cloth muddied with spots of brown. He didn’t stop in his work, acknowledging Scar with nothing more than a grunt as he twisted the fabric around and around.

The glass looked dirtier by the time he had dried it.

“...Is that a yes?” Scar tried again, glancing at Grian for help, who shrugged back. He wasn’t the silver tongue of the two, anything he said would get them nowhere. Or somewhere worse.

“Not that I’m willing to sell ya,” and that was that. The Barman finally looked over, surveying the pair up and down. “Christ,” he slammed the glass down in front of them. “You two drinkin’ somethin’ or causin’ trouble?”

Grian took in the glass, the prismatic ridging, the fingerprints smudged around the rim. He’d drank from worse. “Drinking,” he decided, pulling out a barstool and sliding in.

Scar was quick to follow, hopping up by his side. “Two whiskeys.”

“Doubles,” Grian interjected.

The Barman snickered. “Drinkin’ and causin’ trouble are we?”

“No, no. Quite the contrary,” Scar reached into his jacket, pulling out a tarnished piece of metal in the shape of a star. It was a shit fake, but he was quick with it, flashing it in the man’s face before tucking it away again. “Bit quiet, isn’t it?”

—-“Why won’t you sell us the room?” Grian grabbed the glass as it was slid in front of him, tipping back the contents in one. He didn’t need to ask for a refill, it just happened. Acting brash painted a man in a certain way.

“Cool it, m’ sure you’re fine men, despite the…” caked on blood, torn clothing and general smell. “Bein’ a sheriff ‘n all. We had one of Ren’s men come through a day ago. Spooked the locals.”

“Oh my, that’s terrible,” Scar nodded solemnly, turning to Grian with a grin.

Still on the right track.

“Uhuh. So we ain’t accepting business for sleepers. Ya never know who is who,” and then he went back to drying.

Grian couldn’t blame him, not really. As it was they’d been there for less than ten minutes and Scar had already lied to his face. He swirled the whiskey in his glass with a rotation of the wrist. It was light, like straw. Over the years he’d heard men talk about darker whiskies having more complexities.

He thought it all tasted bad, what was wrong with those men?

“We could try the general. Sometimes they have rooms,” Grian barely put effort into his words, as if he had already admitted himself to another night resting in turns under the dark sky. He was hardened to it, wasn’t Scar? It was obvious that the man didn’t often stay in one place, but everyone had their limits.

Typically the injured had closer ones.

“Sure,” Scar didn’t let his disappointment show, cheerful as ever as he peered into his own drink. “We can do that.”

Grian watched him as he knocked the alcohol back and pulled off his hat, stringing it around his neck. He didn’t notice the singular drop of amber that ran from the corner of his mouth to the cord across his Adam's apple.

He didn’t.

“Aye, they do. I’ll take ya in,” a voice spoke up, blighted by years of cigars. “S’long as you’re… quiet.”

Grian jumped, eyes going from flesh to a weathered looking woman. He’d spotted her as they had come in, glued to her barstool and snoozing. The time she had woken up was off of his radar. When had he gotten so sloppy? So distracted?

He had a feeling he knew.

The woman reached across the empty stool between herself and Scar, palm open. “Sheriff.”

“Ma’am,” Scar shook her hand with confidence. “You have a room? We have money.”

“Names Sadie. I run a little shop off the corner of town,” she tried to glance around Scar to get a better view of Grian, but Scar was bulky and unmoving, almost as if seated in a purposeful manner. “Another of these—” she motioned to her ale. “—and i’ll get you boarded up. Ain’t much but it’s warm.”

Grian snorted. “Should see the places we’ve been sleeping.”

“Yeah? You after the bandit that came through? Littlewood, wasn’t it? Caused a right problem he did. No one would serve him ‘til he started waving a gun around.”

“No,” Grian and Scar spoke in unison.

Sadie gave them a look, but didn’t pry.

—-------------------

She had been right about the room not being much.

Grian stood in the middle of it, taking in the empty space. It had a double bed, a small table beside it, and what some might consider a unit for placing clothes. It looked like storage crates that had been cobbled together by a blind man. On top of them was an already lit oil lamp, the flame a dancing shadow across the far wall.

At least she’d had a place for them to keep their horses.

“No wind. And the floor is made of wood!” Scar gave it an experimental stomp.

“Scar! She said to be quiet,” Grian whisper-screeched.

“Sorry, sorry,” he didn’t sound it.

They ended up in a familiar situation: sat on the floor facing each other, eating dried beef by lamplight. It was too salty, the cut unsatisfactory to the tongue. With every piece pried off, Grian had to remind himself that any food was good food. “...Do we have enough gold left to grab an actual meal in the morning?”

“Do we?” Scar kept his laugh low. “This is my gold, you know, Mr.”

Grian gave him a look, taking his time chewing and swallowing. Trying not to gag. Overexaggerating disgust at the mouthful.

“Okay! Fine. We do, but we need to make some money on the road somehow.”

He hummed, crossing his legs. “You think the saloon has eggs? Or will it be hardtack stew?”

“We might have to rob someone. Possibly murder.”

“Maybe they’ll have fruit. And I could really go for a cup of coffee,” Grian sighed wistfully, leaning back on both of his arms.

Scar smiled into the silence that grew.

It was nice. They were under a roof, away from the snakes, and fuzzy from their nightcaps (some more than others).

…Grian felt safe. The realisation hit him abruptly, but it wasn’t as unwelcome as it should have been. As it would have been only a few weeks prior. No. He was tired, —--- that was probably it. “I’m going to bed,” he broke through the tension, halting a staring contest that was going too far.

Scar coughed, animated once again as he started packing the preserved food away. “Alright. I’ll keep—” and then he froze mid-motion. “...I guess no one needs to keep watch.”

They both looked at the bed.

“Let’s… let’s just get some sleep, Scar,” Grian resigned himself to the possibility of that strange trust being broken. A real, full night of sleep for both of them was something they couldn’t pass over. He lowered the wick in the lamp and extinguished the flame, before unfastening his poncho and climbing under the sheets. He faced the centre, his wings towards the outside.

Scar did not move.

“Scar.”

“You sure?”

“Am I… Scar get into bed.”

Grian heard the rustle of cotton, felt the corn husks in the mattress dip with the added weight of an extra body, and then nothing but shallow, hesitant breathing filled the room.

…

“Have you actually eaten a human before?”

The breathing stopped, an eternity of quiet seeming to grab the room in its fist and squeeze the oxygen out. Then, Scar rolled over so that they were facing each other, though through the darkness Grian could only just make out distinct features. “No.”

Grian exhaled.

One word, spoken in a way he had rarely heard from Scar. Gentle, but true, —- devoid of manipulation. It was what was under the facade, the 24/7 theatre show that was Scar. The real scare was that Grian didn’t think he would have cared, either answer. Maybe he was a bad man. Maybe he wouldn’t go to St. Wardog to die.

It was likely God had far more sinister plans for a man like him.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Grian.”

Scar did not turn back over.

—-------------------

When Grian woke up he was alone in the room.
Everything looked worse off in a blurry morning haze. The empty space across from him riddled with stains, shoddily hidden by smokers bedsheets. Grian groaned, turning onto his back. A movement he regretted, the twine on his wings getting caught in the shift like a saw across his skin.

“Shit,” he sat up, shaking away sleep. Running a hand up his face, across his eyes, through his greasy hair. It was more knots than loose waves.

He felt dirty.

He didn’t think a quick wash would fix it.

On the bedside table was a squared piece of parchment the same shade as the sheets. Grian pinched it between thumb and forefinger, scanning the page. He could only read every few words (they didn’t tend to give stowaway avians access to the little education the west had to offer) but he got the general idea. ‘Doctor’ and ‘return soon’ stood out to him.

On the way over the previous night they had spotted the little building, a sign out front advertising medical care and coffins. Ironically, the town doctor also doubled as an undertaker.

Hopefully Scar didn’t get the leeches. The leeches were the worst.

Next to the letter were a handful of gold pieces. Grian scooped them up, tensing the cold metal in his hand. For Sadie.

Dressed and concealed, he skipped the last two steps on his way down, spinning on the heel of his boots to face the general store countertop. Sadie was there, lazily flicking through a magazine of her own wares. She, too, looked worse in the daylight. A woman of age she was.

Grian could only imagine the kind of life she had led, the things she had seen. He hoped it had been exciting.

“Morning ma’am,” he nodded, walking over to deposit the payment down in front of her. Then quieter “Thank you,” she had shown them hospitality, and she had not put her nose in any business. It was more than he expected.

“Oh honey, I ain’t got a problem with the likes of you,” she said, putting the coins in a lockbox under the counter.

The what.

Grian stuttered, veins icy, heart hammering. Did she know what he was? Had she seen his wings, somehow? The gun on his holster itched to be drawn. His tongue felt wrong in his mouth, saliva nonexistent. He wasn’t ready to kill this woman, but if he had no choice…

“Calm down, cowboy. Your ‘partner’ is waiting outside with the horses. Nasty wound he’s got there, but we’re blessed to have a good doctor. Most of his patients end up fine”

Partner. The word was stressed, sitting in the middle of her sentence like an ill fitting shirt.

Oh.

He held his breath until his heart rate calmed down. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

—-------------------

Scar was outside, as foretold.

He looked… better. Not healthy, god no. But better. The way he stood a little taller, his eyes brighter. Cleaner, too, with a fresh button-up on. Strands of dark hair shaded his cheekbones as he reached down to scratch a cat behind the ears.

Was that…

“How did she get here?!”

“Grian!” Scar did a small circle turn with his arms spread, kicking up dust. “Look at me, good as new. The doc stitched me up, I feel a-mazing.”

Grian grinned. Putting a hand up to cover the white hot sun as he made his way across the street, his neck burning. “Scar, is that…” he couldn’t remember the name of his cat, but the feline was familiar with its cream and grey coat.

“Jellie. Yeah,” Scar looked down proudly, Jellie skirting around his legs. “I told you, she follows me.”

Evidently. Grian crouched to her level, running his fingers down her spine. She purred, headbutting his knee before sprinting off.

“Hey,” Scar offered him a hand up, which he took after a second of thinking about what Sadie had said. “Let’s get breakfast. I have excellent news.”

“That isn’t terrifying at all,” Grian rolled his eyes, grabbing the reins of his horse and leading it towards the saloon.

—-------------------

It was hardtack stew.

Grian prodded at the bread discs; tiny plateaus floating in an unidentified brown liquid. Even the sparse vegetables were suspicious looking. “You reckon this is more flour than it is weevils?”

Scar was equally as perplexed, holding up a piece of ‘meat’, oil dripping onto the table. He shoved it in his mouth. “The… whatever this is, is warm. At least.”

Grian made a noise of agreement, pushing his bowl to the side half-empty. The coffee was good, —- he didn’t need anything else.

Avians had small appetites anyway.

“Doc said I was lucky,” Scar chewed. “Scooped a ton of dirt from my arm and said I should have an infection.”

Huh. So his own medical skills weren’t as rough as they seemed. “Did he try to amputate?”

Scar barked laughter. “Oh definitely,” he raised his uninjured arm, flexing the heavy muscles. “I had to beg. Told him I was nothing without these.”

Grian flushed pink, subtly pushing his face into his mug until Scar was acting normal again. “What, uh… what was the news? You said you had news.”

“Oh! Oho,” Scar went from playing with his stew to rummaging around in his rucksack, he came back up with two small rectangular shapes. He waved them in Grian’s face.

“Tickets?”

“Train tickets, my dear friend.”

“We’re going on the train? To where?”

“Tumble. It’s not far, well, it would be on horseback. Figured since we’ve lagged behind here—-“ They wanted to make it to St. Wardog at the same time or before Littlewood, not days later. Finding Ren would be impossible if he warned him first.

“We can catch up by train,” Grian nodded. He couldn’t remember the last time he had used the railroad, if at all. “…We could even make some money on it,” he shrugged innocently, sipping his beverage. Everyone knew the train cost a pretty penny, and those that rode it carried a few more.

“How do you think I got these in the first place?” Scar whispered excitedly, eyeing the bartender across the room for any sign of open ears. “I’m sure the doc didn’t need them as bad as we do.”

“Scar!” Grian laughed. “You are an awful person.”

“I am a man of business.”

—-------------------

“These tickets are first class.”

Grian wasn’t surprised. What did a doctor who also built and sold coffins do? He made cash, no matter what the dice rolled. It was smart, if ethically dubious. Draining a man from the jugular didn’t often go well, but that was okay. Sorry ma’am, your husband died during surgery. How about burying him in one of these bad boys, hand crafted from the same wood as the operating table?

It sounded like something Scar would be doing if he had stability.

Scar clapped his hands together as he walked towards him, having led the horses to the cattle car. They were still unnamed, a fact Grian felt mildly guilty about. Everything deserved a name. “I know. Excited for a luxury ride?”

Grian wasn’t answering that.

They found their seats inside the wooden coach, facing each other by a window. They had little privacy; men and women, and even children bustling around the packed car. Some were sleeping, some chatting happily about nothing of importance. The man across the train to Grian had his head back, snoring loudly with a newspaper falling off of his lap. Grian peered closer at the headline open, ‘RED WINTER IS COMING’ was printed in bold, the glossy ink still drying. A terrible sense of nausea bubbled in his throat, as if the paper was talking to him and only him.

Red winter. He knew what that meant. The endgame that would follow. He knew whose blood would paint the desert crimson.

The train sprung to life with a piercing sound, steam billowing, wheels moving. Grian blinked. The headline read “THE BEST IN SILK: TOP HATS FOR MEN.”

There was something deeply wrong with him. He laid his knuckles across his forehead, checking for a temperature. Was he sick? Was it the heat?

“Are you alright, Grian?” Scar cut through, soft with concern. “You look a little pale.”

Grian couldn’t meet his gaze, for he knew he would see the eyes of a dead man. “I’m… fine,” you are going to get killed and I can do nothing to stop it.. “Just the goddamn sun.”

Was he crazy? That was the safest assumption. Grian couldn’t predict the future and he most certainly could not foresee the fallen. Was it the devil's work? His sins sure were stacking, perhaps had he left himself as an open door? One thing was sure: he couldn’t tell a soul. They would lock him up and throw away the key. Or worse, kill him for his crime of existence.

He oughta buy a cross and learn to pray. It was long overdue.

“...Okay,” Scar didn’t seem convinced, but he went back to looking out the window. The golden-green sky whipping past in a motion blur, like strokes on an oil painting.

It was a long journey. Grian closed his eyes.

—-------------------

“?—” Grian woke with a start, the toe of Scar’s heavy boot kicking him in the shin.

Scar, with his bulky arms crossed over his chest, nudged his head in the direction of the newspaper man.

Reluctantly he followed his cues, avoiding reading the paper as he looked at the man. He was still asleep, blotchy face smushed into the train seat and mouth gaping. Scar kicked him again, to which Grian shot a glare.

“His satchel,” his partner whispered.

In his personal garden of Eden, Scar was both the apple and the snake.

The train car had fallen quiet as they rode into the evening, people taking naps to pass the time. Very few remained awake. He was envious, —-- his dreams had been silent, a void to hide within. The waking world was scaring him as of late.

Newspaper man’s leather satchel was sitting in the aisle, buckles popped open and unattended. A rooster crowed as they passed a farm; no one stirred.

Grian sighed.

If it was the devil that had taken him, he would have plenty to feast upon.

He swung out his leg, hooking a spur under the tawny strap to drag it towards him. Then, he bent down, untangling himself from the contraband. Inside were various items. A pocket watch, some papers, an engraved steel flask. Grian gave it a little shake, it sloshed with liquid inside. He tossed it over to Scar, who caught it and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

And then there was the money.

Grian reached for the coin bag. Inside were several $50 gold slugs. He palmed one, the coin deep and pretty. He looked up at Scar, who looked down at his hand. Newspaper man sucked in a deep sigh.

“Shi-” he hissed, shoving everything but the bag back into the satchel, leaning across to place it on the floor exactly as he had found it. The train jolted with turbulence. Newspaper man was still unconscious.

They were fine.

He grinned at his partner in crime, who was throwing one back tenfold.

—-------------------

Tumble was inside of a giant mesa.

In the distance a cowbell rang, horses galloped on the dirt streets. The sounds bounced off of the towering stone walls, creating an echo chamber of life. It took his ears a few minutes to adjust to the amplified sounds. Wind whipped across the cliffs.

“It’s very …loud,” and busy. With the railroad slicing through the middle, Tumble was a hotspot for traffic. A woman brushed past him, too close for his liking. He instinctively drew towards Scar.

The way he existed around him was changing.

At the beginning he had created space, unnerved, ready for a knife in the back. A shell to the head when his guard was down. He could remember the first few nights he’d spent around the man, delirious as a prey animal in a coyote den.

Now, closing that space was an act of comfort.

Scar had proved countless times over that he had no ill intentions towards him. …That, of course, was unless he was playing the long game, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

(Okay, so he wasn’t changing that much that quickly.)

“It is! I like it,” Scar flitted his eyes about excitedly, taking in the colours, the shops, the humanity. “Did you know they call it ‘the bowl’? It’s like a giant came along and scooped out the earth with a spoon.”

The bowl. It suited it.

“Isn’t that interesting, Grian?” Scar genuinely sounded like he wanted him to find it interesting.

“Sure,” Grian laughed. “It’s interesting, Scar.”

They ended up staying at a saloon again.

The thing was, they had enough money for two rooms. They had even talked about it as they dropped their horses off at the stables for the night, wherein Grian made sure to give his an extra attentive brush-down. Compensation for his lack of identity.

They only paid for the one room. It was safer that way. That’s what he told himself to sate the guilt.

Grian upgraded from full hesitation to half-hesitation in the dark, stripping his outerwear and climbing into bed without too much thought. Scar didn’t even bother turning to face the other way when he joined him.

He fell asleep with his knee an inch away from Scars. He woke up with them knocked together.

Neither man mentioned it.

—-------------------

They were saddling their horses, ready to move on across the desert, when they were approached.

“Good mornin, boys,” the short man brandished a sheriff's badge. “If you’ve got a second, and surely you do, alright,” his accent was thick, his hat too big for his head. “—I need to talk to you about somethin’’.”

And underneath his brown coat, Grian swore he saw a flash of yellow feathers.

Chapter Text

The west was silent.

The wind hadn’t disappeared, of course; The great mesa had simply decided to hold its breath for the first time in human history. Sand and debris did a loop and settled mid-swirl, smoky grains blanketing the trio.

Grian stared at the ‘Sheriff’. The ‘Sheriff’ stared at Grian.

Scar stared at them both.

Grian looked… he looked tense. With dark eyes narrowed to a dangerous slit, almost animalistic in nature. Unblinking, without a light reflection nor an attempt to hide one within them. Scar had grown used to, even fond of his bristles and edges, but this was different. Grian’s hand hesitated over his holster, inching towards the scratched iron. He was scared. Scared enough to consider shooting a stranger in the middle of a busy street.

Why?

And then there was the ‘Sheriff’... well, Scar was no fool. The hat on his head was oil-tan and clean, with barely a pinch dent in the ridge. If he wore it often, it didn’t show. Shirt tidy. No holes in his shoes. But most importantly was his badge: clutched with his fingers splayed around the glossy star points, his palm discreetly covering the insignia branded to the centre. A smart trick, perhaps better than the flash and conceal that Scar was so used to performing.

He was a fraud, through and through. (Scar made a mental note of the way he held it. He would have to try it for himself sometime.)

The man extended his empty hand, ignoring Scar and directing it at Grian, cutting through the fat and straight to the meat. To what, or who, he clearly wanted. That, Scar did not like. Was he a hunter posing as a sheriff? Hiding behind his cover, waiting for just the right moment to kill? He didn’t look like the kind of man that could take on either of them, though. Perhaps he was particularly agile… or an assassin!

But his fingernails were clean. Not a speck of blood.

Interesting, very interesting indeed.

“Jimmy. I’m the sheriff around here.”

Scar waited for Grian’s response, aware that he had been distastefully voted out of the conversation, and if Scar pulled a face of mock offence, no one noticed or cared. He was important, too, goddamn! But his partner wasn’t bothering with the timed greeting, in fact, he wasn’t even looking at Jimmy’s face. No, he was staring daggers at his coat tails, flapping about and—

Had Grian also spotted that Jimmy was a fake? The quality of his coat, the cut, the stitching…

“Sheriff,” he sang with an interjection, smile set to dazzle despite the fact that he was really tired. ”The name’s Scar. Always a pleasure to meet a fellow defender of the law,” Scar reached across the trifecta, transferring grime and sweat to Jimmy’s weirdly soft grasp. At least he was a fake sheriff that got his hands dirty.

No respect for the craft!

Jimmy’s neck could have splintered with the speed that he whipped around to face him, choppy straw hair falling in his eyes. “You ain’t a sheriff, alright. I take this job real seriously you know,” he seemed to beam in all directions, comically confident for such a scrawny man.

“Of course, of course,” Scar nodded along as if he hadn’t spoken, holding eye-contact and moving to put just the slightest inch of his body between the newcomer and his partner. If Grian was getting so worked up over a measly 5 foot something, he surely had reason to be, right?

Grian hadn’t even been scared of Scar when they’d first met and he was way taller and more intimidating–

It only made sense that he knew something more. Perhaps this Jimmy fella had tried him in the past? He knew that a lot of people had. They wanted to gut Grian like an exotic bird and strew his guts all over the floor, — though Scar had barely seen these prized wings with his own eyes, just once or twice and he’d tried not to stare, it was rude, after all.

But he knew that they were there. His friend was different, and worryingly sought after.

Scar didn’t really care about that stuff, not all that much. Sure, maybe at first the money had intrigued him, but it had only lasted a couple of seconds! Man of business or not, he liked having Grian around, and if this sheriff, or anyone else, thought that they could hurt him, – well, he’d shoot them twice and spit on their corpse.

So he put on his most dangerous expression; A smirk, oozing with bravado.

Time ticked. Silent. The showdown stretched.

If he had known in advance he would have hired a bard for some music, a guy or two to throw a tumbleweed past the scene. Should he suggest ten paces? A quickdraw? Scar looking at Jimmy. Jimmy looking at Scar. Grian…

…Grian snapped back from whatever hole he’d fallen down and immediately stepped around his new bulky line of defence, swatting every raised hand. Both men recoiled like scolded children. And then, as if regretting his bold outburst, Grian retracted a pace. “Look, you… uh, you said you wanted to talk to us, right?”

…“Yeah!” Jimmy’s demeanour flipped, then, features forgetting the past minute or so. (Scar needed to figure out what his stance was before he got sick from the whiplash.) “How ‘bout we get some grub. Lunch?” He peered up from under his brim, cheeks jammy, the pale sun only just beginning to drape the bowl. “Well, err. Breakfast. Boys?”

Jimmy turned to leave with false authority, as if the world would chase without consideration. Phft, okay. Scar noted the lightness to his spin, his feet barely kicking up a billow. What did this sheriff weigh?

He tensed his own biceps, shirt sleeves taut until his wounds stung, stitches threatening to spill. He would do it, too. He would bleed right there in front of everyone to prove that he was the better, more legitimate fake sheriff.

Uhuh.

If Jimmy was a real sheriff, then he had definitely never bled for any of the laws he so valiantly swore to uphold. It was easy to doubt that he’d ever even fired a gun. Scar shared a look with Grian, fixed the avian with a raised brow. It asked him a direct question in contrast to his explosive thoughts: do we?

“Are you hungry, Grian?” The sentence flirted with sincerity, a little gentle. A little casual. If Grian wanted to go, they would go. If he did not, they would not. Scar wanted to follow him. Would follow him, whatever he chose.

He just wanted him to feel comfortable. That was all. A man deserved to feel comfortable.

“Maybe he…” there was something between the words that Grian was not telling him. “Let’s just see what he has to say, and then we should get out of here.”

—-------------------

The last thing Scar had been expecting was to be led to an occupied table.

With similar poise to a basking cat, a man, late twenties or so, was good as laying across two chairs in the middle of the saloon. Drink in one hand, food in the other as he studied the ceiling lint.

it didn’t seem as he had been expecting them to show up, either.

“Jimmy! You did it, you found them,” the newcomer held a twang that Scar couldn’t place, voice airy and thick. He scrambled to remove his feet from one of the seats across from him, gesturing for everyone to sit as he straightened up, spine never quite reaching full composure.

Jimmy sat by his side.

“Of course I…! Yeah, yeah I did actually. Here,” The ‘sheriff’ introduced them. “Grian, Scar. This is Scott, my–” he fumbled with the string of his hat, rolling the knot anxiously. “--He works with me. Sheriff stuff.”

Scott laughed, all grin and closed eyes. His features were young, but his hair was beyond his years. Strange strands of near-gray that Scar’s brain kept trying to supplement with blue. It couldn’t be, of course. Had the man fallen head first in a barrel of berries? He moved forward and like a pearl, it held an iridescent sheen.

It was unlike anything Scar had ever seen before. But he had been seeing a lot of that lately and frankly it was getting less exciting.

Not that it mattered. Jimmy and his weird working partner could have had any hair colour under the rainbow. Or horns. Tails. Wings (Well, not wings. That was Grian’s thing.) None of it was bringing him any closer to finding Pizza. Scar leaned over the back of a chair, growing rapidly impatient with the whole pantomime. “Yes, yes. Now, I hate to be rude fellas–”

“Why did you bring us here?” Grian beat him to the question.

Of course Grian was desperate to get going, too. The last time they’d had a confirmed sighting of Littlewood was miles back. If he wasn’t already halfway to decomposing in the sand then he had surely crawled back to Ren’s scheming arms. The Red King and his men might not even be in St. Wardog anymore.

His beloved horse... gone, just like that.

And Grian’s freedom, of course.

Scott locked eyes with Jimmy. Jimmy shrugged. Scott sighed. “We want to help you with your… bandit problem,” and then he paused, seemingly unsure if he should go on with so many watching eyes in the room. Tumble was a lively town, an oasis in the middle of the desert regularly used by travelling men as a depot. Anyone could be listening, countering their plans two steps ahead before they had even made them. “It is also our bandit problem, if you get what i’m saying.”

Oooh. So they were claiming to be the enemy of their enemy? That did hold his attention. He couldn’t help but take a bite into the drama of something juicy like that.

Scar sat down, propping both elbows on the table and staring at them quizzically. “How do you know about our… ‘bandit’ problem?” His whisper wasn’t a whisper at all. Grian shushed him.

Now it was Jimmy’s time to laugh, throwing his head back in disbelief. “You guys ain’t exactly been keepin’ it on the down low. Do you know how many men, good and bad, come through Tumble because you boys keep askin’ barkeeps and storefronts about Littlewood?”

That did make sense, they hadn’t been all that subtle. It was true that him and Grian had drawn attention to themselves. A lot of it, too. They’d been questioned and rung dry to get where they were, giving reluctantly but never quite avoiding oversharing to get closer to Ren. To Pizza. To revenge. Hell, he’d told Etho practically everything and he’d barely even asked! Something about his mysterious air had given him the heebie-jeebies… he’d just kept talking.

“It must be very good for the economy?” Scar supplied.

“Yeah. It is, actually.”

They ended up grabbing that breakfast, after all. Gnawing into dried fruit and sipping on what barely qualified as drinking water. Scar decided not to look into what exactly the lumps in his cup were. It was for the good of his mind’s sake that he didn’t know.

He glanced at his right where Grian was hovering. Even while eating he was refusing to sit down, the hem of his poncho frayed as it draped over Scar’s shoulder. Not quite direct touch, but a part of him kept close anyway.

Scar hadn’t noticed when exactly it had started happening, the gaps between them growing narrower. He secretly hoped it continued. He knew that he shouldn’t, but every place of contact jolted through him like the firing of an unannounced gun.

And while they snacked and rehydrated, Scott, and Jimmy, who Scar was coming to believe actually was somehow a real sheriff, (just a very short one…) explained all that they knew:

St. Wardog was close. Real close, in fact, to Tumble. With a nasty bit of a turf war between the two towns growing more violent by the day. Scar wasn’t sure how he didn’t know about that, but mapping the land was for those organised folk. He went where his feet took him! Anywhere with trade and people to sell shiny and expensive gems to was just fine. He wasn’t picky enough to know the land. Didn’t need to.

Worse, not only was it close, but it was seemingly under full control of Ren and his men to the point that your regular old cowboy couldn’t even enter without reason and weapon checks. They probably hadn’t even needed to trail Littlewood to find Ren. They could have just shot him straight and had one less problem to worry about.

How embarrassing.

Grian at least had the decency to look sheepish at their combined geography knowledge of zero. Not Scar, though. He nodded on through Scott’s politics of the area as if he’d been up to speed with everything about everything the entire time.

He had more important things to ask, anyway. “How do we know we can trust you? For all we know you could be blindsiding us. I don’t like being blindsided, you know.”

“I guess… you don’t. Man, but if you stay here more than a day you’ll see for yourself just how bad it’s got,” Jimmy looked solemn. Did he really care for his town? It was almost sweet. And then, quieter “They’re planning somethin’ big. Somethin’ to do with the railroad. That’s all I can say here.”

Huh.

“Scar, I think we should discuss this,” Grian meant elsewhere. Alone.

Scar couldn’t help but agree.

—-------------------

Grian sat by the church window kicking his feet, his spurs chipping away at the timber with every idle sway. Behind him in a shallow
alcove was a glass scene, the painted segments forming an apple tree. Red and gold. Midday light peeked through just enough to stain him technicolour.

Scar tried his best to stay focused on their conversation.

“-There’s also the fact that they could be lying to us, easily.”

“Sure, sure.”

“It could be a trap. A really bad one. I don’t want to die to a really bad trap, Scar. That would be just silly.”

They had left Scott and Jimmy with an agreement.

To the west of Tumble was a watchtower, and further on from that watchtower was a town. St. Wardog, encased within its slatted cobble walls. Now, Jimmy had told them that the watchtower was abandoned on a sandy overlook, with the perfect surveillance view to track who came and went into the compound. If they wanted his and Scott’s help, they were to meet them there just as the sun died.

It… it did sound incredibly suspicious.

“Scar, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” no.

“What did I say?”

“… We’re gonna die?”

Weirdly, Grian shrunk at that, feet hitting the wall with a little too much power, wiping his palms on his knees. “You… We aren’t dying.” He stressed the first part and then locked in the second. A half-assed recovery.

…He’d been acting odd since they’d met Jimmy that morning. Shaken and distant, though Scar couldn’t place why. The more they’d sat with the duo the more he’d realised that they were alright. Jimmy hadn’t been that bad! In fact, Scar had decided that he liked the guy. In a better life they probably could have kicked it with a bottle of scotch and discussed arrest techniques. How best to wear a necktie to assert social dominance.

Jimmy needed that conversation. Bad.

Sure. He saw a bit of himself in him. Though, he wasn’t telling him that lest it go straight to his badge.

“Okay,” Scar offered a smile and moved to sit on the window next to him, laying a hand on the cold stone a hair-width away from Grian’s. “We aren’t dying then,” pinkie brushed pinkie.

The church was empty, but Grian pulled away.

Scar understood enough to not let his heart sink. His smile did not budge. He changed the subject. “What if we go anyway? Just to see what they have in mind. But we’ll stay really, really alert. Like, really.”

Grian sighed, and then, — in an act that took Scar so by surprise that he actually jumped, — took his cowboy hat off and laid his head on his shoulder.

Scar could feel a shallow rise and fall, every time the man took a breath it went through him, too.

“It might be smart, I guess,” Grian sounded defeated.

“It might be, G.”

They had already discussed the reality; if St. Wardog really was as fortified as they’d been told, if Ren and his army really were as strong as Scott and Jimmy said…

Without more heads they stood no chance.

Scar didn’t want to die. And now that he’d told Grian that neither of them would, he intended to keep his word.

—-------------------

Sweat rolled down his brow. Scar palmed at the salt with a sigh, flicking droplets to the ground.

The pair of them stared at the outside of the watchtower, the building softly cradled by the last of the day.

It was unique, if you had an architectural eye. The ground floor was part-buried, dead plants and ash piled against the walls, almost camouflage-like as it blurred into the surrounding rock. And on top of that was the tower itself, old brick mixed with wooden slats the colour of sand, crumbling yet formative and stacked high. So high that he had to tilt back to see the top where an array of unlit lanterns were strung.

It tugged at Scar until he felt woozy. He’d seen it before, familiarity so potent that he knew that if he were to walk through the broken door and take a left turn, he could close his eyes and paint the visual unseen. Something hidden; a tightly coiled spring. A memory. A story he’d been told as a boy, perhaps? Though he couldn’t recall anything about a tower on a hill. Still, history swam through it and out the other side.

It had clearly seen a lot of use at some point.

Scar could see why, from up on the mountain any inhabitants would gain a free monopoly on the area. So how come it was empty? A pin on the map between Tumble and St. Wardog. Unassuming during the night and a sun-shelter during the day. If it were up to him he’d settle down nice and cosy. Create a toll of some kind, force everyone who came through to pay a pretty penny otherwise he’d shoot at their feet and claim he saw a snake. Make them dance until their pockets turn.

Some people just couldn’t identify a goldmine when they saw one.

…Or it was a trap.

“We could just turn back now, y’know,” Scar wasn’t worried, and he did not sound it either. Not even a little bit. “We don’t need them to find Pizza.”

Grian shook his head with vigor. “This is the best direction we’ve had since you smashed Littlewood over the head with—”

“Okay, okay!”

“Loaded?”

Well he couldn’t not respond to that. “Always,” Scar brandished Grian with a wink, spinning the barrel of his pistol. Click click click.

Jimmy and Scott were there to greet them on the inside.

Really, it was Scott who greeted them first. Jimmy, the ‘sheriff’, was busy stamping out the firepit as if he were an entire herd of cattle just by himself. He yelped, flicking an ember from his boot. “Oh, – was worried you were Ren’s men here to… nevermind,” he tipped his hat with a nod. “Nice of you boys to join us.”

Right. Not a trap.

The next hour was spent directly trying to bore him to death. Strategising. Discussing. Stay here, just the two of you. Don’t let anyone in. Keep watch. Take notes, names, numbers. Who was under the Red Army? Find out. Had they come on foot? Yes? Good, don’t bring any horses. Don’t light fires after dark. Don’t go far during the day. There’s a room to the left, sleep in there in turns when needed.

That part, admittedly did catch his attention, eyes drifting towards the opening of the shrouded room. He didn't mention that he already somehow knew it was there, the stained sheet that smelt like wildflowers and gunpowder.

“So we’re working for you?” Grian asked.

“No, we’re helpin’ each other help… each other.”

“Do we get paid?” Scar asked.

“We’ll bring you provisions every few days so that you don’t shrivel up and die out here?”

It could have been worse.

Scott and Jimmy left them, then. Topping up the bundle of supplies strewn across the table before vanishing down the mountain. Back to their duties, so they said. There was a thick leather notebook among everything, half filled with names, descriptions and timestamps. Scar thumbed through the list curiously.

That was the job that they would be taking over - ( Could Grian write? He knew that he could read, or at least he’d left him a note before and assumed he had read it.) writing down nonsense until they found out any more information regarding the upcoming train attack.

If there was even going to be one.

Scar wasn’t sure where Jimmy was being drip fed his information from, but couldn’t his sources have given him a bit more to work with? Would it have been all that much trouble to throw in an extra word or two? A ‘next week’? He was positive that if he were to meet the rat on both sides of the war, he would be able to get a timeframe from them.

Maybe he could arrange a meeting if he promised to keep the bloodshed to a teeny tiny minimum.

A little spillage between men was healthy! Or if it was a woman, – Scar didn’t mind.

Grian lit a lantern, the glass foggy, the light barely sparking enough to fill the room. He attached it to the hook in the ceiling nonetheless, a single pair of shadows jittering along the brick.

He looked like shit. Scar knew he probably did, too.

There was a metal bucket under the table filled with water and a few scraps of fabric. He fished one out, watching the stream as gravity pulled it back down. Clear. Ish. Wringing it out, he chucked it at Grian who caught it with a nod.

They fell into a peaceful sort of quiet, scrubbing away at themselves until the bucket was half full and murky. Usually he would fill the silence with anything and everything, rambling on until Grian told him to shut up. Often it was about the stars, the way they fascinated him.

He wondered what was up there. Would any of them ever know?

But… he was exhausted, so he kept his mouth closed unless it was to tip back his water skin.

Once his body felt significantly lighter, in weight and tone, he turned to his companion, who was rolling and stretching his shoulders like one might fold over a finished newspaper. His eyes scrunched up in pain, an annoyed whine following.

“Thought you said that didn’t hurt.”

The glare thrown his way was worth it.

“It doesn’t,” one arm went up, fingertips reaching towards the ceiling. “Much.”

Scar smiled softly. He knew not to ask any further questions, - the last time he’d done that Grian had caved in on himself in an attempt to avoid the conversation. And he could understand why. If he had wings like Grian did he’d probably have cut them off and sold them before someone else could even try to do it. “Right, of course. Of course,” he pointed towards the small room with the bedroll in it. “Would you like me to take first watch, then?”

Grian paused, both hands somewhere under his poncho at the back. Then, he pulled a face that said that he might vomit. Very soon.

“--Grian.”

“Scar, can you help me?”

Oh.

“Y-yeah,” he agreed before he even knew what he was agreeing to, taking one step towards Grian only to freeze in the middle of it. “Wait, with…?”

“Yes,” he didn’t sound very ecstatic. In fact, Grian sounded so put off by the whole idea that Scar still didn’t move. “Sorry. Yes. Please,” and then he lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs under him as he tugged his poncho over his head. With his arms folded, he stared directly at the wall.

His wings were… in a terrible way.

Scar swallowed, unhooking the lamp and bringing it over. Grian coughed loudly, prompting him to join him on the floor. Gingerly, the floorboards creaked as he sat behind the man, eyes unsure which part of the mangled mess of feathers and blood to look at first. In the middle of his wings was a piece of twine, tied tight around his midsection.

It probably hadn’t started out as pink.

“Okay,” he could do it. “Alright. Woo. You want me to remove that?” he gestured in the half-light.

“The rope.”

Yep.

The rope. Scar waited, but for what he wasn’t sure. Grian wasn’t saying anything else, posture tense and rigid. Slowly, he reached out, fingers grazing over the well-worn knot. He tried not to pay attention to the way Grian flinched, – pretended in his head that he was just doing it because he was in pain. It was the nicer thought, so he favoured it.

He was briefly reminded of that night that he’d first met Grian, dipping in and out of consciousness while the avian poked and prodded at his wounds. They’d been strangers back then. They weren’t strangers anymore. And now, on the other side of the dynamic, he tried his best to be delicate.

Every time his hold slipped against the twine, something ebbed deep in his chest. An ache. A hole. Empty space.

“Now, you're not going to like this, so don’t freak out, but I think I need to cut this, G,” that would not be well received.

Scar trained his patience as Grian considered him. He wanted to reach into his pants and pull out his pocket knife, slice through the stubborn knot and save Grian from his rapidly approaching limb-loss. But he was a smart enough man to know that if he started waving around a weapon brashly then he might as well stab himself with it, because it would be going in him either way.

“Fine. Be careful, though, Scar.”

For once he would listen. He popped the blade from its pouch, grasping the carved wooden handle as he inched it into the space between the rope and Grian’s body. Then, with the promised care, he pulled back until his wings broke free with a horrific crunch. “Woah!” Scar yelped, holding both hands up and out. “Did I…” break them?

Grian actually laughed. Short-lived and kind. “It’s just my bones. You know, like when you stand up after being on a horse for too long.”

That made sense. His wings had bones in them, of course. Why wouldn’t they?

Grian gave them a little shake that Scar had to swerve to avoid. Now that they weren’t scrunched together anymore he could see just how big they were. Long white primaries that faded into smaller creams and yellows, different sizes, some speckled, some not.

The colours of the desert.

Scar breathed out. He was pushing his luck. He knew he was… but he could see angry, inflamed skin towards the base, and crusty blood splattered throughout. He picked his knife back up and slowly reached around, placing the blade by Grian’s knee. Arming him, and in return, disarming himself.

He hoped that he understood.

“I could, if you wanted… I could uh, remove some of the blood and stuff? If that would help.”

Grian responded with a sigh, and Scar was certain that was it. He’d overstepped, gone just too far! And now Grian was going to hate him forever, cast him away, chuck him over the mountainside to rot–

But then he nodded too, adjusting the way he sat. Getting comfortable.

Scar leaned over and grabbed a wet cloth.

The night had quickly darkened, so he moved the lamp, shuffling forward in order to be able to do a better job. He was taking it seriously. Under the close flame Grian’s wings were even more impressive, orange edging each feather like the sun dappled through trees.

He started with the largest feathers. It was logical, and it was how he would approach it if he had them. Dabbing carefully, scrubbing lightly. Sometimes he had to get his fingers involved, tugging pieces of debris and grit loose. And when he reached them, he did his best to clean up any lesions. That wasn’t easy or nice, but Grian didn’t complain.

In fact, as he worked, he felt Grian begin to relax under his touch. Shoulders dropping, spine curving to rest his head on a palm. He looked content, casually lending some of his weight into Scar’s hands.

It hurt.

It shouldn’t have done. Scar really didn’t understand, but it hurt. An overwhelming, suffocating, too-big for him pain. It didn’t even belong to him, he had no reason for it, but it was lodged in deep. He brushed along a particularly soft feather, his fingers stilling against it, curling.

Grian meant a lot to him. More than he was supposed to.

“That’s. You’re all done. Aha,” he coughed as he stood. Far too fast, tripping on his own shoes. “You’re welcome, – My, look at the time. I’m going to take first watch, goodbye.”

—-------------------

Oftentimes, the desert was blue at night.

It was more of a silver, really. Sweeping dunes capturing the moon and throwing it back tenfold. Cool tones.

Scar loved looking at it.

Sat on the ledge he could see for miles. Canyons and hills, plateaus and dry rivers. St. Wardog, too, off in the distance and down below. Too far away to make out anything but rough shapes. The wall. A road. No people.

Nothing stirred. He had considered lighting a cigar, but it really wasn’t for him. He’d even tried just holding one, mimicking the habits of weathered men who sat on barstools. It hadn’t felt right. He knew they were supposed to be good for you, – but he would always rather save the pennies and trade the sticks.

…
The stars were nice, anyway. No cloud fall, clear. Purple like an old bruise.

Footsteps approached, louder than they should have been as if the owner had purposefully let him know they were coming. Grian joined him by the edge. He had his poncho back on but his wings were still free, brushing against the floor as he sat.

“I didn’t clean those for nothing, you know,” Scar smiled into his arms, eyes returning to the twinkling sky.

“And here I was about to dunk them in our wash bucket for fun.”

He laughed. They sat for a while. Scar could still feel that pit in his stomach, but it was far less sickening. The cold air circulating his lungs. Chilling his skin. Calming him. Grian didn’t need to know how he felt, – he surely wouldn’t understand it or why.

Why he knew him. Why he knew them.

Was he losing it? Scar knew he’d always walked the line between cuckoo and sane. He wouldn’t be all that surprised if he had finally crossed into the other side of sanity. It was predetermined.

Sure was a funny way to go about doing it, though.

“Seen anything?”

“No… Hey, what if we just set the entire town on fire?”

“The walls are made of stone, Scar.”

“...Oh. Yeah. They are.”

…

“Get some sleep, I'll take over, okay?”

Scar didn’t need telling twice.

Chapter Text

Repetition.

Wake up at night. Watch. Sleep during the day. Wake up at night. Watch. Nothing. Sleep during the day, tossing and turning in a yellowing bed. There was a hole in the sheet towards the end that his foot kept pushing through. Wake up at night. Watch. The heat never lingered beyond early sundown but Grian wished that it would, fingers always tucked away inside his poncho.

Repetition.

Wake up at night. Watch. Tossing and turning. Sleeping in minutes, in brackets, in theories. Wake up at night. Watch. Grian hated how long it had been since he had last had real sun on his face. The moon wasn’t even full and bright enough to act in its place, a thin sliver against the night sky. Grian didn’t know how the moon and its many phases worked, but it just wasn’t good enough for it to abandon him in his time of need.

Repetition.

On their fourth night in the tower and his sixteenth ‘shift’ by the ridge he was bored out of his mind, elbows pressed into the thicket as he surveyed the valley below. Thick stalks of arid grass circled Grian’s smaller frame, the rest of the patch crunched underneath him; it would have served as excellent camouflage if he wasn’t so stubbornly wearing red. He huffed in frustration and spit out a seed. Watching the desert. Listening to the desert. Trying not to entertain the desert.

Mirages and miners. That was all he ever saw.

Little ants in a line with their pickaxes over their shoulders, indistinguishable from his vantage point. They came and went, trudging out of St. Wardog as the day broke, ruddy with black soot from head to toe.

Nothing about any of them was important enough for him to note down. Just your average, run-of-the mill, hardworking men operating on a clockwork schedule. The only thing separating them from any of the other miners elsewhere was location: making a pretty penny in a coal mine that just so happened to belong to a bandit camp.

Grian wondered if they cared about the morality of the men they shared quarters with. Or the danger, if not that. Did Ren’s men demand a cut of the profit or did the groups coexist in a shaky peace? Should they care? It was always going to be easier to be the problem, not to be affected by the problem. He’d had his fair share of situations like that himself and… the protection the miners received was cushy. Could he really blame them? He wanted it, too. Grian just wasn’t sure if he would take it from the same places that they did.

The town below the mountain… it was a mouth for certain, but its jaws did not close around everyone.

Interesting.

On day six he was blurry eyed and dazed from exhaustion and ended up walking a little too close to Scar during a switching of shifts, bodies bumping together in the lowlight of their living quarters. Scar’s fingers gripped at the skin on his arms, pressing divots into muscle, breath warm across Grian’s face. Coffee and rye. He seemed to hesitate before he applied enough force to steady them both.

“...Sorr-” and then, as if he had a personality quota to fill “Careful there, cowboy.”

The charisma was an afterthought and off-puttingly thick like molasses, yet Grian swallowed and nodded all the same. It wasn’t the way he spoke at all, he was used to Scar and his tricks. it was the way his wings itched with memory and he wanted—- he wanted Scar to touch him again– but he batted the thought away like a fly. It was getting far too out of hand and based on Scar’s reaction last time, it was a fruitless endeavour.

He really had to get it together. They had many more important things to be doing, things that would be much harder done whilst dragging themselves through muddied water.

Day seven. Wake up. Tossing and turning. A nightmare that Grian forced down before it could leave his throat, gasping for air as he came to. So much blood. It was always just blood, wasn’t it? Running in his hair, on his hands, pooling over crushed bones. A red desert. It was nothing but badly veiled anxieties that his brain thought mattered. They didn’t. Wake up at night. Watch.

Etho.

Etho, approaching the gates of St. Wardog on a tall black horse. He knew it was Etho in the distance because Bdubs was in tow as well, his mossy green cloak loose as they rode, a memorable shade of the earth that you just didn’t often see. He probably wouldn’t have recognised either of them separately, but when put together it was so easy to connect them.

Both men rode with their heads down low, hats geometric as if to hide. It didn’t matter; Grian couldn’t make out their faces but he had little doubt, waiting until they had been frisked and entered the compound before he wrote down their names and a rough timestamp, using the position of the moon.

It wasn’t very readable, - ink untrained in his hand - but it would do.

“Scar,” he shook him awake. Scar mumbled and babbled, fingers twitching across his face to dislodge the last of sleep. “awahddya——“

Grian stifled a laugh and coughed, his next words too serious for it. “Scar, listen. I saw that guy, Etho, from the stables. He rode into St. Wardog… I thought you said that he was a retired bandit?”

At that Scar shot up, blanket creased around his bare torso. He had grains of sand on his shoulders, the little building more outside than it was in. It caught Grian’s eyes as he moved and it tumbled, following a white scar that trickled to his collarbones. Forked lightning.

“Hmm… he was supposed to be.” How grim. When he looked back up Scar met his gaze, too confused for comfort. Grian had been hoping for an easy explanation.

Even a lie would have done him just fine.

Sleeping. Watching. He rarely saw the daylight but it existed in other ways, sunshine carried over through dry lips and herbal notes in the air. Grian stoked the fire, throwing in odds and ends until the height looked healthy. Not too high, not too bright. Toasty.

“Oh, hey. Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? Your watch isn’t yet.” Scar entered the building, greedy hands going straight for the flames. He rotated his wrists across, knuckles tinged pink once he had completed a circuit.

Grian shrugged. He was supposed to be. He wouldn’t, though. “It’s kinda– It’s a little…”

Scar smiled and waited.

And waited.

—”I’m not too sure we’re doing the right thing by being here, Scar,” he knew that he’d agreed to the new plan, had even been hopeful about it, but the cliff outside painted his mind like a headshot painted a wall. A carcass laid at the bottom, one with twisted limbs and squelching maggots and an overly charming personality. “Maybe we should just go somewhere else,” he didn’t say where because they both knew that neither of them owned a ‘where’. Grian cringed at his own words.

It was stupid. He was tired. So tired. He didn’t want to be a walking fortune teller anymore. He didn’t ask for it. The job suited Scar’s personality much better, – why did it have to be him?

“We could become gold miners,” Scar played along happily. Was always happy to. “Like the ones in the valley. D’ya think they’d notice if we snuck in with the crowd?”

“Maybe… They’re coal miners, though - you do know that, right?”

“Phft. Of course, of course.”

The fact that Scar entertained his strange ramblings was… kind. Unneeded but needed. It was better for them both to just pretend that the hypotheticals were more than hypotheticals. Some false hope to stave off the 4am insanity.

Grian understood his own situation enough to know that he was backed into a corner for good. Any life he could ever have in any ‘somewhere else’ would be nothing to yearn for, even if they did complete their current mission. No matter how many bandit camps and bounty hunters they tore through…

They both knew that it would never end.

Movement. He lived in movements and never in familiarity. Perpetually on the road. It used to be okay with him… was it okay with him?

Scar could be still, though. Scar could live a better life. Settle down on the frontier in a shabby town and sell the first piece of trash he laid his hands on. Glass crystals. The dirt on his shoes. That was just the kind of man he was. But he wasn’t doing that. He wasn’t doing that, and something or someone desperately wanted Grian to know that that was not a good thing.

The longer they spent in the tower the worse the feeling grew.

Watching. Sleeping. Not sleeping. Half-sleeping. Dreaming. It wasn’t Scar’s death this time, —- it was Jimmy’s. A limp winged frame held tightly under gray-blue hair. Grian couldn't tell where he was, peripherals full of blobs and unnatural structures that his subconscious wouldn’t let him look directly at. Smoke in the air. Casings on the floor. Another emotion too-strong for a stranger he barely knew. He took a step towards the duo and someone fired a gun.

Grian screamed.

And screamed and screamed and screamed.

Blindly he thrashed. He kicked up at something hard, bone to bone, foot to flesh. Cold fingers wrapped around his wrists and pushed them into the mattress, – it did not hurt but he fought for his life all the same, screeching as his nails reached to find contact on his attacker, hitting once and missing twice. He tried to use his teeth instead, synapses lit with years of survival instincts—

“Ow, G, — Grian!”

?

It was…

He stopped moving.

Both men froze, one unsure of their safety and one half-awake. Scar scanned him. Then, the hold on his wrists relaxed, a set of calloused palms sliding down against his, fingers just barely interlocking. Scar was breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling, knees bent on either side of one of Grian’s as he supported himself on the mattress. Grian wasn’t breathing, dizzy as he stared up at Scar who stared at him, face far too close to his own. Green searching for answers in dark, dark, dark brown.

Scar laced his fingers forward. Grian curled his against knuckles. Neither man said a word. Would they ever say a word? The nightmare echoed as it faded from his memory, each retelling playing back with more blank holes than the last. After a few more seconds he couldn’t remember it at all. Where was he?

He was on the floor-bed at the watchtower.

Scar let go of him sickeningly delicate, rolling to the side and onto his back, an arm draped across his forehead as he forced a laugh. “Sorry, G. Are you … alright? Came in to get some water and you were, uh, getting a little violent there– a nightmare or— didn’t want you hurting yourself or, y’know, screaming so loud that the entire bandit camp–”

Grian ran a thumb across four of his nails as Scar went on with his ramble. He’d clip them.

————————————-

The world was golden. Gilded dunes of sand to the left, right, down and up the side of the mountain.

For the first time in over a week Grian was finally standing beneath sun, orange putting his features in high contrast. He’d dressed for the occasion, too, scrubbing his clothes clean over a rock and binding his wings back away safely. (That part was rough work, but it had to be done.) Lazily spending the rest of the morning popping sweet dried apricots into his mouth while Scar double checked their writings. He felt good. Fresh. A few years younger than he actually was.

And he was filled to the brim with the last of their food and water.

“Ugh,” Jimmy’s face was flushed, glistening and mottled as he took the last step up the rock, peeling hands lugging a pack that was clearly made to be towed by a horse. He chucked it down in the sand next to Grian, and then himself, too. “it's,” puffing. “A tad warm today.”

Grian nodded, basking in the rays. He wanted to continue to enjoy it for a little while longer before he forced himself back on the night watch, but it was suddenly difficult; the sight of the sheriff returning him to his nightmare. He sighed and joined him on the ground, cowboy boots pointed at the sky. Did he really have to tell him? In that moment the conversation he was about to have felt significantly worse than any gruesome images his brain could conjure up.

No. He had to warn him eventually, — avian to avian.

But first… “Scar say’s Littlewood went out last night, he thinks it was Ren with him but we’re not too sure.”

Jimmy picked up a handful of sand, distracted as it slipped through the lines in his fingers. “Yeah, we know that ‘cause the pair only went and tried to threaten me into a stinkin' coalition. Thought i’d just up and join them if they flashed some iron. Obviously, I didn’t,” he shuddered as he thought back. He seemed to disappear from within for a second. “I’m not gonna lie, though, t’was scary stuff. Wanted gold in exchange for protection.”

“Protection from…”

“From them. Yeah.”

So the Red King really did want Tumble for himself. Could that have been how the coal miners ended up in their position? St. Wardog as a town had been standing for a while, but Grian’s knowledge of its history stopped there. Maybe the workers had been there first, a small mining community too tired and lacking in the means to fight back so they’d folded like a weak poker hand. Without a leader to stand up for them or their land, the people of Tumble might have done the same.

Maybe not, though. It was bigger, and with the constant traffic from the railroad, the locals were better guarded. Better armed with the latest iron, too.

Grian glanced over his shoulder, checking the mountaintop for any sign of Scar. He’d taken to the cot after breakfast, having been on the last watch shift after Grian and told him to wake him when Jimmy arrived. That had been a good few hours ago but… he’d decided it best to just let the man sleep. It would do him well to catch up, and it meant that he did not have to expose Jimmy to any more people than necessary.

Not that Scar would have cared about Jimmy being like him, sometimes it felt like his partner didn’t even remember that Grian was an avian unless his wings were in front of his face. (It was comfortable, though. He got to feel like more than a price point when he was with him.)

How on earth did the sheriff keep so down low in such a high position? Grian only had to walk into a bar and someone would try to shoot him dead. Did Littlewood or Ren, in the midst of their bargaining and toil, not think ‘hey, what's that under the Sheriff’s coat? Oh, it’s what we wanted from that other fella, but easier’.

He tried not to let it annoy him, but it really, really did.

A leather-bound book of names was thrown Jimmy’s way, who caught it, dropped it and fished it up from the floor. He flipped through the papers with interest, stopping on two names that were heavily underlined with emphasis, three times over so that no one could miss them. “Etho… and Bee-dubs? Who the ‘ell are they?”

“Ex-bandits under the Red King. Well, now they might be bandits, no longer prefaced with ‘ex’. We… Scar knows them, – we met them at their ranch,” It felt like so long ago. Grian didn’t mention that Scar had good as robbed them, leaving the duo with two less quality horses only for them to end up abandoned in the Tumble stables. Hopefully the stable hand working there gave the poor thing a name and a better brush down than he ever had. “I guess they’re evil now.”

“Damn. D’ya think Ren and his fellas got to them as well? Y’know, approached with a gun and some fancy words but they weren’t as tough willed as me–”

Grian did not have the energy reserves. “You have to leave.”

The ego died on Jimmy’s tongue, eyes narrowed in almost-anger but he clearly didn’t want to commit to the feeling. Instead, he gave playful irritation. “Yeah alright, I bring you your provisions, lug ‘em all the waaay up the hillside like some kind of prancin’ pony, and you won’t even allow me a moment to catch my breath? Wow. Just wow.”

Grian sighed. He turned in the sand so that he was facing the sheriff, pointing towards his coat tails. “You,” he waited for Jimmy to follow his sightline, peering down at his own torso, checking himself over like he’d been shot. He looked lost, as if the sheriff himself had forgotten he had wings. It was so annoying. “Have to leave. Not here, Tumble. This side of the desert. I don’t know where…”

It was all the help Grian could offer.

“Huh? I can’t leave. I have… why would I leave? Are you alright, Grian?” Jimmy dug around in the rucksack until he could present him with a water skin, chuckling as he pushed it his way. “You need this, alright. Clearly the sun is gettin’ to ya.”

Grian wanted to tell him more. He wanted to sit with Jimmy for hours, baking in the daylight while he asked him the thousand questions plaguing him: How are you alive? Were there more of them? Had he also thought that he was the last of his species? Did Scott know?

Surely Scott knew… because… well.

He ignored the water skin. Grian wasn’t crazy through heatstroke nor anything else so trivial. And it wasn’t just his nightmares, either, —- there was something there when he looked at Jimmy, never always, but on the occasion: an echo or a flicker. An overlaid stack of stencils of the sheriff. Different outfits, different bruises, rougher hair, cleaner hair. He had been on that very mountain before, too, and in a million other places that Grian had both been to and never seen.

Different versions of Grian. Different versions of Jimmy. When had his universe became so confusing?

It didn’t ache the same as it did when he looked at Scar, — but it was an ache all the same.

Grian thought back to the train and the newspaper, to the big bold ‘RED WINTER IS COMING’. He hadn’t a clue what it meant or what a red winter could entail, but he knew a warning when he saw one. —Or at least when he saw a dozen of them.

Everything in him wanted to look the other way and simply pretend nothing at all was going on, get back on with his prior life. Drink some ale that he didn’t like, sit in some rotting chairs; but maybe just this once… he could help Jimmy escape his fate, however impossible that might be.

Grian stood, reaching out an invitation to pull the sheriff to his feet, too. He took it, watching quietly as Grian pulled up the hem of his poncho, ruby fabric balled in a fist… and then, he got to witness first-hand what he himself had felt during their meeting back in Tumble.

Recognition.

“… Huh!” Jimmy blinked. “What.”

“Yeah,” yeah. That was all that they had. A ‘yeah’ and a ‘what’. Hundreds of years. The constant death and trophy hunting of avians across the west. How many more of them were hiding in plain sight? Working saloons, as doctors, as bounty hunters, even. Living in between everyone and Grian had just… never found them.

Surely it couldn’t be just the two of them? If there was a god then Grian was ready to start praying that it was not just him and Jimmy. (There goes the whole bloodline—-)

“I thought…” the Sheriff sat back down again, hat in his lap. “I thought that… I’m not?”

Grian solemnly joined him, shoulders lax. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Bit stupid to assume that you were the only one left, though…” what Jimmy did not know about Grian’s inner thoughts was irrelevant.

“Wha- so you knew that there were others, then?”

“...Obviously. Had to be…”

“Man.”

The pair sat in silence for a minute. The wind blew dust around carelessly, the sun vivid and hammering as ever. Nothing in the universe had changed just because two people who felt isolated had found each other. Grian still felt isolated and Jimmy… never really was in the first place, anyway.

“I’m gobsmacked. Wait, so do you also see stuff like weird dreams and… um, other things?”

Grian didn't know how to answer that, but if Jimmy was smart he could read between the lines. “You have to leave. Take Scott, too. You can have our horses—

“But, Tumble—”

“Jimmy. Leave.”

————————————-

The next time Grian had a nightmare it was a normal one.

His teeth were wobbly, as teeth in bad dreams often were. He spat out a little blood mixed with saliva and pushed at the enamel, trapping the tooth between his thumb and forefinger. It moved, the one that was second to front on the top row. That was bad, — but every lived man lost a tooth or two. Nothing to cry about. He wasn’t the fancy type to replace it with ivory and gold, though. He’d just smile less and grimace more, and then no one would think a thing of it.

Grian pushed it again until it broke loose from his gums. He inspected it for a beat, – definitely not white anymore, too much coffee – and then let it fall from his grasp. Down and down and down it fell, further and further and further off of the cliff's edge. He looked around. There was a cactus to his right, and one to his left, too. The green part oddly-square and almost… perfect. Each side calculated in ratio; he spun and suddenly there was a circle of them, prickly and short and without a difference to pick at between them.

Encasing him. He took a step back towards the cliff.

Closing in.

He didn’t scream or yell when he woke up this time, throat bobbing as he forced down acidic bile. Instead Grian laid flat as a stone, staying loose, his brain fighting to drag the dream away from him when he so desperately wanted to go back. If he wasn’t going to stop having such ridiculous, unfair dreams then surely his talents would allow him to try to understand them? For tarnation sake, he wanted answers. What good were stupid weird psychic visions if he couldn’t even figure anything out in time to stop what was going to happen?

At that rate he might as well pack up and join the travelling circus. Behold as this freak predicts that you are going to die. When? Oh, goodness only knows. That’s your problem.

He rolled over, shoving his face into the straw pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. Tight. Tighter. Green and blue spots fizzed over the back of his eyelids, yet still his brain wouldn’t allow him to return to his dream.

Only after giving up did Grian let out a frustrated scream, soundlessly into his pillow as to muffle it. And then, as if he were a completely normal, untroubled man, unburdened by forces beyond his comprehension, he reached out and checked the pocket watch on the floor beside the bed.

3:42.

His part of the watch wasn’t for over an hour, but got up anyway.

He stumbled outside with tangled hair and two cups of coffee, steam billowing as he made his way over to Scar.

“Howdy,” the brunette fired a lazy finger gun his way as he sat.

“Howdy.”

The dusk atmosphere had a way of making every meeting feel like an ending, even when it was irrational. A melancholic pull that made him feel sick. Because it was dark. Because it was cold. Because it was quiet. Grian looked at Scar, who was very much alive, passed him the drink and said something that come morning he would know he was only saying because it was dark, cold and quiet. “I think something terrible is going to happen to you really soon.”

“Yeahhh, probably,” Scar yawned behind his wrist as if he didn't have a care in the world. “It does tend to. You really should worry less. It’s not good for the health! They say that stress can age a man faster than a gun can shoot a rabbit, you know.” It wasn’t the answer Grian wanted but it was the type that he knew he was getting, no matter how he worded the dire warning. Jimmy had barely been any different, trudging off back to Tumble under a muttered ‘I’ll think about it’.

And he was right about the stress, but he also was not actively being tormented by the gods. (Or whatever.)

Grian didn’t want it to happen. Not to Scar. Everything that had led up to them sitting on their silly little mountainside, sipping on burnt coffee… none of it had been his idea of a good life lived, but there was an allure to it all that was just so addictive. Stealing and shooting, bleeding out and patching up, rough nights and blurry mornings… alone it was hell, but with Scar it was freeing. When he looked at Scar, Grian saw a part of himself that he rarely saw in others. A desperation to survive was easy to come by, every cowboy had it ingrained from birth, but they shared an unspoken slant to it.

The way his eyes would mirror firelight whenever something had the chance to go wrong. Eagerly awaiting the dice roll to finish, praying for a safe six while hungry for a one.

The heartbeat. The sweaty palms. Salt and blood. The aspects that drove him.

“Hey why don't– …Do you want to just— we should just go to sleep,” Scar turned to him as he finally got out his words, face veiled by streaks of moonlight, looking like he wanted to be photographed. If he didn’t stop it then Grian was going to kill him before any stupid prophecy could.

He did want to sleep, though. So badly did he want to sleep. It was as if Scar were reading his thoughts: why not just not do what they were supposed to be doing? What were the consequences? Grian didn’t know, but he knew what came of men who didn’t sleep. “Okay. I mean, it’s not like anything is actually happening out here… ” despite agreeing straight away to the only other present person, Grian still felt the need to rationalize it. “And if it does, what — what can we really do? Really.”

“Exactly! There’s two of us,” Scar was already on his feet, coffee abandoned. “What could we really do!” He sounded far too gleeful to be giving up his post, as if the idea had been stewing inside his bored head for days and he was finally accepting it as an option now that it was a spoken thought.

“Nothing. They’d shoot us. Just like that.”

“Yeah. Which would be awful.”

They continued justifying it all the way back into the watchtower. As they entered the bedroom, as Scar unbuttoned his outer shirt and Grian his. As they both climbed into the bed not made for two and barely made for one. It was awkward with his wings in play, both men having to take up their usual position of laying on their sides facing each other, except for the first time neither cared who touched who where. A leg of his overlapped Scar’s – for a lack of a better placement – his hairs were itchy against Grian’s own and his skin was cold but he intently leaned into it and not away.

It was an… unusual tangle for friends to be in. If Grian hadn’t been so tired he might have thought more on it, worried a little, inched himself up to the very border of the mattress and at least made it look like he was trying to create space between them.

He wouldn’t have let the tips of his fingers rest near Scar’s jaw, one bold wrist movement away from a caress. Scar probably wouldn’t have closed his eyes and used his ankle trapped between Grian’s to pull himself closer flush, either. But he was tired and so was Scar and there was chance one or both of them would be dead soon.

It didn’t have to matter any more than they let it matter.

Grian didn’t dream at all for the rest of the night.

————————————-

When he came to, the bed was empty beside him. In fact, it wasn’t an abnormal awakening for Grian at all, with his wings twisted uncomfortably and his hips rotated in a way that was sure to cause him problems later in life. Sunlight filtering through cracks in the walls just right to hit his back. He felt warm, comfortable and rested. His own steady breathing filled the room, laying in the kind of post-sleep peace that shattered if you acknowledged it too hard.

He could almost forget that Scar had slept in there with him at all. That was until he walked in to grab something for breakfast and there he was, sitting topless around the musty table, chewing on smoked jerky. Grian tried his hardest to make it casual, standing stiffly in the doorframe — not quite meeting Scar’s eyes as he greeted him good morning and started talking about this and that.

It wasn’t that Grian cared that they’d shared a bed, they’d done that multiple times already and it hadn’t ended the world. It was just… different somehow. Too-close. Too raw.

The afternoon that followed was much the same, sequence upon sequence of stolen glances and stale conversations. Painful small talk and obvious cover ups, both men avoiding the real topic at hand. Maybe Grian was okay with that? If Scar was okay with that, then he was okay with that.

It was good to avoid problems. It was even better when everyone involved also wanted to avoid the problems.

And they had almost made it through the full entire day without one meaningful word between them, when Scar was on the way out of the building to take first watch, Grian tipping back cold water from a flask. He heard his name get called with a sense of urgency.

“Yeah?”

…”Yeah?”

No answer. He followed him out.

Scar was standing in the middle of the outlook, a thick stick lodged into the ground in front of him. On top of the stick hung a wool blanket, white with red and green stripes, It looked sturdy, tasselled. Like the type you'd use to shade a horse.

“That… is Pizza's.”

Grian thought he sounded terrifying. Not angry in the conventional way, with malice and spat words, but in a distant, clinical way. Like somebody, whoever it may be, was going to pay a price and he was going to make sure of it.

And it would come easy.

“They know we’re here,” he whispered. And they couldn't care less.

“I told you not to come here, Scar.”

Both men whipped around to face the speaker. Etho, – barely visible through layer upon layer of black scarves, – casually standing by the trail that led down the mountain.