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Dustdrop.
A garden that never sleeps—if you squint past the sandstorms that scream like dying gods, the sweat-slick heat that peels paint and pride, and the snake-oil truths whispered through cracked smiles and gold-toothed grins. Out here in the scorched belly of the desert, Dustdrop blooms like a mirage no sane soul should trust: sunburnt, gunbitten, and dripping with temptation thick as molasses and twice as hard to wash off.
The town squats low against the horizon, sprawled like a drunk in the dust, its buildings stitched together with splinters and spite. Streets twist like bad intentions, warped boards creaking beneath boot heels and horse piss, slick with shadow even at high noon. The air tastes of iron and regret. Overhead, buzzards circle like slow-moving thoughts, patient and always right.
Saloons wheeze out music and menace in equal measure. Pianos—gutted, out of tune, barely standing—bang out broken melodies drowned by clinking glass and laughter sharpened like spurs. Laughter that cuts deep if you listen too long. Oil lamps spit gold and green fire across warped walls, stretching long-legged lies that dance into alleys where even the moon won’t peek.
Every doorway’s got a sermon to sell, whether it’s whispered or wailed: Whiskey that burns like judgment day. Cards slick with luck, blood, and cheatin’ fingers. Warm bodies who won’t ask your name—won’t care that it ain’t yours.
In Dustdrop, nobody blinks when a pair of lovers—or liars—stagger down the inn quarter, giddy on gin or grief, mumbling gospel to each other in slurred tongues. Doors close behind them like mouths swallowing secrets. No one knocks when the room above goes silent too long. Not until the smell creeps in—slow and sour—the scent of rot sliding under the floorboards, curling into the dreams of the poor bastard sleeping below like a ghost looking for somewhere to lie down.
But by then, Dustdrop’s already moved on. The cards are shuffled. A new tune rolls out across cracked piano keys. Someone else is laughing too loud, too long, at something that wasn’t funny to begin with.
This town forgets fast. It has to, because memory’s just another weight, and Dustdrop’s got no room left to carry it.
A mug of amber liquid clinked softly against the warped wooden tabletop, catching the oil lamp’s flicker like a shard of sunset trapped in glass. It shimmered in that moment between swallows and silence—warm, dangerous, and waiting.
The bar was half-empty, humming low with murmured talk and the tired drag of conversation worn thin by heat and habit. Now and then came the groan of timber under a shifting boot, or the wheeze of a floorboard too dry to keep its secrets. Nothing loud. Nothing curious. Dustdrop didn’t grow that kind of interest—too dry, too wary. Curiosity got buried fast out here, under sand and side-eyes.
Behind the rim of his drink, the sheriff sat still as a stake post. Spurs still dusted with the desert’s bite—red clay and sun-scabbed grit clinging where polish used to be—one gloved hand cradled the mug with the patient grip of someone used to waiting... but not forever. His quills, once a sharp ocean blue, now dulled by twilight and the trail, twitched faintly when he leaned back.
The hat he wore was brown, broad-brimmed, and tired at the edges. A veteran of too many summers and not enough rain. Tugged low, it cast a sliver of shadow across his face, swallowing everything but the hard line of a frown and the shimmer of watchful eyes.
Around his neck, a red neckerchief hung loose, bleached soft by sun and scoured by wind, but it still burned like a wound—like a warning—against the dust-worn palette of the saloon. The fabric fluttered once, caught by a lazy gust slipping through the door, before settling again like a flag that knew where it stood.
He stared into his drink like it’d just whispered something back—something dark, uneasy, maybe even dangerous. The amber liquid caught the flicker of the oil lamps overhead, casting a molten glow that twisted and danced with every slow breath he took. His fingers drummed a lazy, deliberate rhythm against the glass rim, a slow tap like a heartbeat counting down to trouble.
“Scratch that. Top it off,” he muttered, voice rough, low—like gravel sliding over leather.
“You should’ve had enough for today.”
The voice was steady and deep, the kind that presses down heavy, not with anger, but with the weight of a warning—calm, deliberate, the kind that sits in your chest like the promise of a dust storm rolling over a dry prairie.
Green eyes flicked up from the glass, catching the dim glow.
He hadn’t paid much mind to the guy before—just another shadow behind the bar, blending with the worn wood and fading smoke stains. But now, under the wavering gold light, every detail snapped sharp and clear like a bullet sliding into the chamber of a six-shooter.
Black quills slicked back, drawn tight into a ponytail like a rope pulled taut, each strand perfectly in place as if nailed down by some unyielding will. Red stripes cut clean lines across his arms and head—bold brushstrokes, precise and deliberate, carved by a hand with an artist’s obsession for symmetry and order.
His vest, dark and tailored, stretched neatly over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled back with almost surgical care. Not a speck of dust clung to him—not here, not in a town where dirt and sweat were as common as the fading sun sinking behind the jagged horizon. That alone set him apart, like a razor’s edge in a knife fight.
The sheriff’s gaze lingered longer than courtesy demanded. There was something about the man—too composed, too sharp, too damn clean—that pricked at the edges of his mind like a ghost scent on a dry wind. Familiar, but just out of reach. Like the trace of leather on a breeze, or a shadow flickering where it shouldn’t be.
He didn’t belong here. Not really.
The blue hedgehog leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, the aged floorboards groaning beneath him as if complaining about the weight of secrets. One eyebrow lifted slow, deliberate, while a dry grin teased the corner of his mouth like a half-spoken joke only he understood.
“Hmm. Somethin’ ’bout you…” His voice dropped to a rough drawl, edged with just enough wear to sound easy but not careless. “Can’t quite put my boot on it, but you don’t smell like sawdust and sweat like the rest o’ this godforsaken hole.”
The barkeep didn’t flinch, just lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug and replied smooth as river stone:
“Guess I’m just clean.”
Simple words, easy on the tongue. But the way he said it—slick, untouched, with that faint, crooked curl of amusement—was enough to make Sonic’s grin sharpen, his head tilt ever so slightly, curiosity simmering beneath that weathered exterior.
His fingers began to drum against the glass again. Not rushed—just a slow, steady rhythm. Lazy, but thoughtful. Like he was keeping time with something only he could hear.
The silence between them stretched, warm and flickering with the lamplight. The bar hummed with the muted life of a frontier night—whispers from a tired crowd, the scrape of boots against splintered floorboards, the soft creak of the saloon’s swinging doors. Outside, a lone coyote’s howl pierced the dry wind, a reminder that this place was still wild, untamed, and unforgiving.
Sonic leaned back, one boot casually propped on the rung of his barstool, the other foot tapping a slow, lazy rhythm against the creaking floorboards—easy as a breeze rolling through jagged desert canyons at dusk. But his green eyes—sharp and restless beneath the shadowed brim of his tilted hat—never once stopped moving. Never stopped watching.
The other hedgehog sat quiet, still as a drawn gun resting on a scarred wooden table, his cards held tight close to his chest, but Sonic was used to that kind of silence. Folks around here always thought his easy grin meant he wasn’t paying attention. That his jokes, his swagger, the cocky tilt in his voice made him simple, maybe even harmless.
They were always wrong.
Sonic caught the little things—the subtle, silent language most missed. How this stranger never leaned on the counter, like he was careful not to leave a single mark. How his shoulders stayed loose but ready—balanced like a fighter pretending to be furniture, waiting for the right moment to spring.
His eyes didn’t drift like some bored drifter’s, restless and aimless. No, they swept once, methodically—mapping exits, mirrors, hands, every shadow in the room.
And not a speck of dust clung to him.
This hedgehog wasn’t running, not in that wild-eyed, panic-sweat kind of way. No. He was hiding—calm, controlled, practiced—someone who knew exactly how much of himself to show... and just as much to keep locked away.
Interesting.
The kind of trouble that walked in smooth and quiet, like a snake coiling in the sand before it strikes.
“So,” he said at last, swirling amber whiskey around the glass like a restless desert wind, one hand tracing a quiet, restless rhythm on the worn bar, “what’s a guy like you lookin’ for, wanderin’ into a hole like this?”
The black hedgehog shifted—just a slight shrug, smooth as a rattlesnake’s rattle barely sounding in the dry air. A faint twitch curled at the corner of his mouth, quick and practiced. “Only here to breathe a little, sí? No trouble from me.”
“Uh-huh.” Sonic’s voice stayed easy, but his eyes narrowed—just enough to draw a shade darker under the brim of his hat. “You know, most folks ’round here got trouble stamped all over ’em like a brand from the county sheriff. But you…” He grinned wide, teeth catching the dim light like a wolf’s in moonlight. “You’re the kind of trouble that likes to keep to the shadows.”
That line landed like a bullet into quiet wood.
The red eyes flicked sideways, subtle, but not missed—just the tiniest fracture in the calm mask. Sonic caught it—a quick clench of jaw, almost imperceptible, but enough. Not pain. Not fear. No. Something heavier. Something deeper. Memory folding itself tight like the hush before a dust storm sweeps down the canyon.
Sonic didn’t push. Not yet.
“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, lifting his glass in a lazy half-toast, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the oil lamp like molten gold. “I’m not here to judge. I’m just the sheriff in name, really. More interested in keepin’ good company than chasin’ bad guys.”
He took a slow sip, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch the stranger’s expression—unchanged on the surface, but his focus sharpened, subtle like the tightening of a drawstring on a saddlebag.
Sheriff. The word weighed different out here—carried the dust and the blood of a land where justice wasn’t always blind, but often blindfolded by necessity.
The truth was, Sonic didn’t wear that badge for justice. No, he wore it for balance. To keep the scales from tipping too far into blood and ruin. He didn’t haul folks off to jail unless they’d crossed a line—made it personal. Didn’t crack down unless it threatened the fragile rhythm Dustdrop clung to like a prayer whispered in a dry church.
The townsfolk liked him because he kept the real monsters at bay and let the smaller sins slide—like a gambler letting the drunk lose a hand, knowing it kept the peace. Hell, half the time he was one of those sinners himself.
Pale lips curved into a faint smile. “Sounds like we both like bending the rules.”
Sonic winked, tilting his head with a lopsided grin. “You got that right.”
The barkeep—still nameless, still too clean—reached for a fresh glass from the shelf behind him. His movements were slow, practiced, as if he’d done this a thousand times but never got bored of the routine. The cloth he used to polish it looked like it had been laundered in angel tears—spotless, pristine, not even the illusion of effort. Just something to keep his hands occupied while his eyes stayed locked on other.
Half-lidded. Unreadable. But not empty.
“You talk like a man who’s used to answers,” he murmured, laying the glass down with that easy grace—the kind that don’t need to prove nothin’.
“But you strike me as the type who knows when to keep his questions to himself.”
Sonic’s grin deepened, slow and dangerous. The kind that said I see you. But the humor had drained from it, leaving only the sharp edge of understanding behind.
“Depends on who’s answering,” he said. “Some folks open their mouths and give you the truth without meanin’ to. Others keep it behind their teeth like a knife.”
His fingers toyed with the rim of his glass again, but his posture never changed—relaxed, like sun-baked wood—but in the space between seconds, he could move faster than most men could blink.
And he had a feeling this stranger could too.
“Questions only get you what folks want you to hear,” Sonic said, voice low, a little husky with heat and dust. He took another sip—slow, measured, like it might buy him time. “I trust silence a bit more.”
He set the glass down, thumb tracing the ring of condensation left on the old wood. Then, after a beat, he added, “Problem is, yours is real quiet. Like it’s waiting for something.”
The other hedgehog didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just leaned in slightly, both hands planted firm on the worn edge of the bar. Loose. Casual. But Sonic had seen fighters before—gunslingers and cold-eyed killers who wore calm like a second skin, right up until the moment they slit your throat.
This man had that same stillness. The same taut tension coiled just beneath the surface of his dark eyes.
“Maybe I’m just waitin’ for someone who sees things like yo,” he said, voice steady—quiet, but threaded with something sharp and slippery just beneath the words. Invitation or warning, Sonic couldn’t tell. Maybe both.
Their eyes met—green and red, sharp and unreadable—like two blades sliding close, edge to edge before the draw. Like two storms weighing the sky, heavy with rain and fury, sniffing each other out across the brittle silence.
You’re not like the rest, he thought. You’re clean on the outside, sure—but that quiet in you?
Outside, the wind scratched dry fingers against the saloon’s shuttered windows, rattling their loose frames. A dog barked once—distant, hoarse—and then nothing but the slow, steady hush of the desert night.
Sonic let the silence stretch between them, like the pause before a draw. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he pushed his empty glass forward—slow, deliberate, a move in a game neither of them wanted to admit they were playing.
“You always this poetic,” he said, voice soft but edged like a stiletto hidden beneath silk, “when you’re settin’ roots, stranger?”
A pause followed—sharp and delicate, like breath held between thunderclaps.
Then the other hedgehog finally spoke—not with a smirk, not with the easy deflection Sonic half-expected, but with something quieter. Something that felt like honesty, stitched tight and small behind each word.
“Only when I figure I might stick 'round a spell."
The blue hedgehog tilted his head, giving the bartender a once-over that didn’t bother hiding its curiosity anymore. No point pretending, not now. The stranger didn’t rattle easy, and Sonic had always liked puzzles better than straight answers.
When the other took the glass, green eyes tracked the movement—slow, precise, practiced. But it was the twitch of gold that caught him.
Just the slightest spasm from the rings around the stranger’s wrists. Barely a flinch. Not the kind of thing most folks would catch, but Sonic had spent too long reading the space between footsteps, between heartbeats. He didn’t miss things like that.
Not nerves. No, this one’s too tightly wound for that. More like… memory. Pain that ain’t healed all the way.
He filed it away, casual-like, under the same mental shelf where he kept the unreadable tone, the spotless clothes, the way this guy never blinked first.
Someone like that didn’t just wander into Dustdrop.
They came with a reason.
They came carrying ghosts.
The golden liquid hit the bottom of his glass with a soft splash, catching the light like fire caught in honey. The bartender set the bottle aside without a word, sliding the glass back across the scarred wood and Sonic caught it one-handed, didn’t drink just yet.
He spun the glass between his fingers, slow, deliberate. Watching the whiskey slosh like it might spell something out if he looked long enough.
“So.” He leaned an elbow against the bar, that easy drawl still curling off his tongue, but quieter now. “You always pour this smooth for every dusty drifter that squints at you too long, or am I just lucky?”
The other hedgehog didn’t smile, but something in his posture shifted—barely a breath, barely a crack. His voice came low, even.
“You’re not a drifter.”
Sonic’s brow rose, amused. “No?”
“You watch it all,” the barkeep said, easy and calm. “Even when you act like you ain’t.”
A beat passed. The glass stopped spinning.
Then Sonic chuckled, soft and without heat. “Well, damn. You do pay attention.”
He took a sip, let the burn bloom against the back of his throat like dry lightning. Then he leaned in just a bit, voice dropping like a bootstep in a still room.
“That so? Then tell me, stranger—what else you been sizing up while I wasn’t lookin’?”
The barkeep’s red eyes met his again—steady, sharp, unreadable as ever.
“Enough to know I best watch my step.”
The blue hedgehog grinned, slow and lopsided.
“Good. Hate to think I made all that effort for nothin’.”
The air between them held still—not empty, but waiting. Like the town itself was holding its breath just long enough to let the dust settle in their silence.
The blue hedgehog didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t smile again either. He just watched, and for once, let himself be seen. Really seen.
Whatever flickered behind the barkeep’s unreadable stare never broke the surface. No shift in tone. No twitch of muscle. Just a stillness so precise it felt deliberate—like a man trained to take up as little space as possible, holding himself tight… until the moment he had to fill the whole damn room.
Yeah, he thought. You’re dangerous. But not to me.
He could’ve left it there. Should’ve, maybe.
Instead, he drained his glass in one long, slow pull—careless, like a man chasing down a bottle to forget, but with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it too many times to count. Boots thudded heavily against the creaking floorboards, uneven and a little off-kilter—like a drunk trying to keep his balance, but failing just enough to draw attention.
A few heads at the far end of the saloon turned, eyes narrowing behind thick lashes—curious, cautious. But just as quick, they looked away, pretending the sheriff’s stumble was nothing more than the weariness of the day.
Sonic set the glass down with a quiet clink that cut through the murmurs.
“Mind walkin’ me up?” he asked, voice low and lazy, like it weren’t nothin’ special—like that slow, heavy step of his was just part o’ the dance.
The barkeep’s brow lifted—just enough to count as surprise. Just enough to let Sonic know he hadn’t expected that.
“I thought you said you weren’t drunk,” he said, calm, but with a hint of something unreadable threading through the words.
Sonic’s grin returned—but this time, it curved slower. Meaner. Not quite friendly.
“I ain’t. Leastways, not on whiskey.”
A pause. Long enough for the lamp above to flicker once, casting a wavering glow that made the shadows dance just a little sharper. Long enough for the silence to pull taut between them like stretched leather, thick with unspoken questions.
Then the barkeep stepped out from behind the bar.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Every step deliberate, quiet, like a man who knew every inch of this room—and every escape route should he ever need it.
The blue hedgehog watched him come closer, noting again how clean he looked, impossibly so against the sweat-stained walls and dust-choked air of the saloon. He didn’t stand out because he tried to—he stood out because he didn’t try. Like a blade honed sharp in a barn full of rusted tools.
He rocked back slightly, more than a little unsteady, the weight of his boots shifting unevenly on the floorboards. The barkeep reached out, steadying him with one firm hand against his shoulder—gentle but unyielding.
“Tranquilo, sheriff,” the other murmured, the words rollin’ off his tongue like honey warmed by sun—soft, low, with just enough spice to linger.
Sonic let himself be guided, leaning just enough, playing the part—one boot dragging, the other tapping out a slow rhythm on the floor. His grin flickered again, sharp and crooked, a wolf playing at being a drunk.
They crossed the room without a word, the quiet following them like a shadow. It wasn’t quite fear—but it was something close. Something heavier.
The kind of recognition that settled in the bones of Dustdrop’s folk—the kind that said, Something’s about to change.
The stairs groaned beneath their boots—slow, deliberate, like the bones of the place remembered every step. Each creak echoed up the narrow shaft, rhythmic as a dying heartbeat. No voices from above. Just the restless murmur of old wood and the wind’s low moan slipping through warped walls, dry as whispered prayers.
Second floor.
The hallway opened up like a forgotten page in a book long left to gather dust. Dim light stretched thin from a single gas lamp bolted crooked into the far wall, casting shadows that clung like cobwebs. Doors lined the corridor—scarred, crooked things, each one bearing the marks of past tempers and old sins. Deep gouges from rings, from fists, from knives.
Some spilled a faint sliver of lamplight beneath their frames—proof of lives still burning quietly behind them. Others sat in total darkness. Shut tight. Breathing quiet. Listening.
The saloon’s life below bled through the boards in lazy pulses—warm laughter blurred by whiskey, muffled clinks of glass, the distant trill of a piano missing half its keys. But up here? It was a world apart. A pocket of silence. Intimate. Waiting.
Sonic was the first to move.
He stepped back, slow, every inch of him deliberate and unreadable, like a man who knew exactly how close the fire was but didn’t mind the heat. His hand slid along the cracked wall, fingertips skimming faded wallpaper like he was testing the edges of a dream. His grin was crooked, carved in mischief, and his eyes half-lidded beneath the lamplight’s gold. Behind him, the door at the end of the hall waited—his door.
He reached it in that lazy saunter of his, the one that always walked a line between flirtation and challenge. Then—
Thud.
His back hit the door with a short grunt, breath knocked loose. Eyes widened in a flicker of surprise—gone just as fast, swallowed by something else. Anticipation. Recognition.
Because the other was there. Right there.
The space between them vanished in an instant, reversed like the wind shifting before a storm breaks. One fluid motion—silent, smooth, practiced. Not rage. Not violence. Control. Enough to make the walls lean in a little closer. Tension wrapped tight like a gun cocked low under a gambler’s table.
The stranger bracketed him in, arms planted firm to either side of blue head, quills casting shadows like daggers in the low light. His breath came hot, tasting faintly of smoke and grit, brushing Sonic’s jaw with the ghost of words not yet spoken.
His eyes flicked down, then up—slow, calculating. Hungry, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. He leaned in, voice low enough to make the air feel heavy.
“You like makin’ t’ings complicated, don’t you, cariño?”
The hallway held its breath.
Downstairs, the world kept spinning—boots scuffed across old floors, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loud at something not funny. But none of it reached up here. Up here, there was only the door, the wall, the hush, and the way Sonic tilted his chin in defiance—or was it invitation?
Sonic’s brows arched, slow and deliberate—more entertained than taken aback. That grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, smug and sharp, like he already knew how this would end. Green eyes flicked up beneath the lamp’s flicker, catching the light like a spark about to kiss powder.
“Oh?” he murmured, voice velvet wrapped around a blade. He tilted his head just slightly—just enough that his nose brushed the other’s cheek, a deliberate graze that lingered like smoke. “Just when somethin’ tells me the trouble might just pay off.”
His tone curled low in his throat, almost a purr, but there was weight under it. Intention. Confidence laid out like a poker hand face-up—daring, dangerous, and impossible to ignore.
And then his hand moved.
It slid along the other’s side—slow, smooth, familiar—not to push, not to challenge. Just to guide. Palm settling on a hip, fingers splayed firm but easy, like he already belonged there. A touch light enough to feel accidental, but there was nothing accidental about it.
He didn’t shove. Didn’t try to take control by force.
He redirected.
With the same ease a rider adjusts the reins of a restless stallion. Subtle. Commanding without needing to raise his voice—or his hand. Just a shift. A reminder. That he wasn’t pinned. That he wasn’t playing defense.
He was choosing.
The hallway felt narrower in that moment, the old walls pressing close with breathless anticipation. Somewhere down below, laughter rose again, distant and hazy like it belonged to another world entirely. But up here, everything had narrowed down to the heat between them, the quiet drag of breath, the way two wills circled each other like gunmen waiting on a twitch.
His thumb dragged just slightly along the curve of that hip, deliberate as a drawl. Felt the fine tremor through layers of self-control, buried deep under polish and purpose. Most wouldn’t have noticed it. Most wouldn’t have dared get close enough to.
But Sonic had always been good at reading pressure points—knowing just where to lean to make someone feel it.
And judging by the way the other was holding himself—tense, breath a fraction too shallow, a flicker of restraint trembling beneath all that composure—he didn’t seem to mind either.
Not that Sonic missed it.
***
The morning light slanted weakly through the dusty slats of the sheriff’s office blinds, carving pale, spectral stripes across the room like a prison of sunlight. It caught on the cluttered mess spread over the battered oak desk—dog-eared wanted posters flapping slightly in the draft, half-scrawled reports bleeding ink from the heat, and an unopened telegram curling at the edges like it was trying to disappear. The desert air was dry enough to flay skin, thick with the scent of old paper, gun oil, and stale sweat. Dust motes drifted in slow spirals, suspended like ghostly dancers in the stillness, each one catching the morning glare like tiny embers.
Outside, the town hadn’t quite stirred yet, but the land already ached with heat. A crow let out a sharp, grating cry from somewhere beyond the window—raw, guttural, and far too human in its misery. It sounded like it, too, had regrets about whatever the hell happened last night.
Sonic groaned from deep in his throat, shifting in his rickety chair like every movement cost him something. His skull pulsed with a low, grinding ache, like wagon wheels rolling over gravel behind his eyes. His tongue felt like leather, and his throat scraped with dryness. Each sound hit him like a bullet—the distant clang of hooves on sunbaked dirt, the labored creak of the warped ceiling fan turning overhead, and the soft, incessant tick of the wall clock slicing the silence with surgical precision. Every second landed like a nail in his brainpan.
He gritted his teeth and pressed his fingers hard against his temples, willing the pain to back off. When that failed, he reached out blindly toward the chipped tin mug resting precariously on the edge of the desk. The coffee inside was cold now—bitter and thick as regret—but he drank it like it was holy. It didn’t fix anything. Just slapped his soul awake enough to sit up straight.
His eyes, red-rimmed and shadowed with exhaustion, flicked to the telegram again. Still sealed. Still curling in the heat like it had something in it he didn’t want to know.
The day had already begun, and it promised to be long, hot, and mean.
Paperwork loomed in front of him, blurred at the edges like heat shimmer on the horizon. Sonic squinted at the mess and shuffled through it with all the enthusiasm of a man digging his own grave—slow, bitter, and already resigned to the dirt. Blotchy ink bled across pages filled with nonsense: citations for bootlegging, cattle gone missing from Widow Carrigan’s ranch, another damn fistfight outside the dry goods store. Nothing urgent. Nothing real. None of it could stick.
Because his mind kept slipping—dragged backward like a boot snagged on barbed wire—straight to last night.
The swing doors of the saloon thudding shut behind them with a finality that still echoed. The sharp, rhythmic clatter of boots on the narrow upstairs steps, hollow with anticipation. That hallway—lit in dripping gold and sharp shadow—had smelled of dust, sweat, and cheap perfume. The air there was thick as molasses, slow and heavy, sweet with tension.
And then him—standing in that flickering light, eyes like wildfire behind half-lowered lashes. Deep reds, burning low but dangerous, fixed on Sonic like he was prey—or maybe something worse. A challenge. A promise.
Then—
The crash of the door behind them. The jolt as Sonic pinned him hard against it. That soft grunt—half surprise, half want—breathed out against Sonic’s throat. His vest was still buttoned, absurdly neat between them, while everything else—sense, space, restraint—came undone. The blue hands knew what they wanted: quills, hips, the edges of a belt yanked just enough to make the man gasp. He dragged him in like a secret too long buried, uncovered now in the dark.
Their mouths met like they’d done this before in another lifetime—desperate, reckless, devouring. Not gentle. No reason to be. Tongue and teeth, the burn of stubble scraped raw over skin. A mingling of whiskey and hunger and something else neither of them dared name. And still, there was precision in the other’s touch—measured, deliberate, like everything he did. Even his passion came dressed in careful control.
But it cracked.
Just once.
He remembered the hitch in his breath, the faint tremor in his arms when he pulled Sonic closer than was strictly necessary. Remembered the way his vest finally came undone between their bodies, the wall cold at his back, the heat of the other man trembling through every point they touched. The low, velvet voice—usually ironclad—had broken when Sonic whispered something he couldn’t even recall now. Something thoughtless. Honest. Whatever it was, it hit like a bullet.
The feeling stayed. Always did.
The blue hedgehog blinked, pulled suddenly back to the present by the scratchy silence of the office and the weight of a pen resting still in his hand.
He hadn’t written a damn thing.
A stupid, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, uninvited and half-sober. He let it linger. Just for a second.
Then he sighed, loud and exasperated, and shoved the paperwork aside like it had personally wronged him.
“Hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his quills. “Ain’t even noon.”
Then—thwack.
A wanted poster slapped down hard on the desk, the sharp, papery thud slicing clean through the haze like a pistol shot. The blue hedgehog blinked, slowly lowering his coffee cup, expression half-lidded and unimpressed. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
“You’re lookin’ like you been rode hard and hung out to dry,” came the dry, unimpressed voice from above him. Clipped, but not unkind.
“Well, ain’t you a ray o’ sunshine this mornin’,” Sonic rasped, voice rough from whiskey and sleep, lifting his eyes to meet the disapproving scowl of Deputy.
Tails stood there with his arms crossed, twin tails flicking behind him like irritated metronomes. The badge on his chest gleamed like it actually got polished, and his shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle. The fox always looked regulation-ready, even when the world around them sure as hell wasn’t. His spectacles were pushed high on his nose, sharp eyes scanning other like a ledger he was already disappointed in.
“You were supposed to finish the livestock dispute filings yesterday,” he said, gesturing to the paper swamp that had overtaken the desk. “Instead, you left me chasing three drunk cattle rustlers through the east gulch while you were in the saloon, rollin’ ‘round like some tipsy tumbleweed.”
Sonic leaned back in his chair, hands lifted in a mock-defensive shrug. “Didn’t plan to get drunk, partner. The whiskey just made a damn good argument.”
Tails gave him a look so flat it could’ve been used to plane wood. “You reek of regret and low-grade tobacco—and that sure ain’t your cologne, is it?”
That crooked smile returned, unrepentant. “Ain’t cheap when it’s on him.”
The kid pinched the bridge of his nose like he was weighing whether to throttle Sonic with the poster or the mug. “For once in your life, could you just—pretend to be a sheriff?”
Green eyes flicked to the poster. A scowling face glared back, all scars and ugly intent. Big bounty. Bigger mess.
“Depends,” Sonic muttered. “How badly do we want this guy caught?”
“Badly enough that I’m not doing it alone.”
There was history between them—deep, well-worn, and full of bite. Tails had been Sonic’s deputy for years now. Too many. They fought like brothers, worked like opposites, and still moved like clockwork when the time came to draw. Tails was the reason Sonic hadn’t lost this job years ago—or burned down the jail by accident.
He was the brain to hedgehog’s instinct, the storm anchor to his wandering wind. And beneath the snipes and scolding, Sonic trusted him more than anyone still breathing. Not that he said it. He just let the kid yell, let him curse and clean up, then followed anyway. Always did.
The blue hedgehog sighed, straightened, and set the coffee aside like a man about to get back into the saddle—reluctantly.
“Alright, alright. No need to get your badge in a twist,” he muttered, grabbing the poster. “Let’s go arrest a bastard.”
Tails huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he tossed Sonic his hat—filthy, sun-creased, and slightly askew—and turned toward the door without waiting.
“Try not to get distracted this time,” he called over his shoulder.
“Not makin’ any promises,” Sonic grinned, standing up with a groan, one hand brushing absently over his sore neck. “Last night kinda set a precedent.”
The fox rolled his eyes with a noise that sounded like a real long exhale from the soul. His boots creaked against the floor as he leaned over the desk, pulling another stack of reports into something vaguely alphabetical.
“We tracked him near Dead Mare Ridge last week. That’s where he hit the supply train. I figured he’d bolted north—but if he’s stupid enough to be circlin’ back into town, maybe—”
Sonic’s chair scraped back.
He’d squinted at the poster once. Now, he leaned in, fingers brushing the edge of the paper like it might bite. His eyes narrowed. The face on the flyer wasn’t crystal clear—half-cast in shadow, blurred from a bad copy, but the bone structure was there. Jaw like a sculptor’s dream. One eye slightly narrowed, like he was judging the whole damn world. And those marks under the cheekbones…
“...Wait,” he said, his voice cracking halfway between a breath and a disbelief-soaked choke. “That’s him?”
Tails turned, halfway to the door. “What?”
“That’s him. From last night.”
Tails blinked. “Him him?”
Sonic just stared at the poster, lips parting slowly.
From the doorway, Tails leaned in again, his eyes going wide as saucers, ears standing straight. “You slept with the Outlaw?”
Green eyes darted up, wide and sheepish. “...He said his name was ‘Shane.’”
There was a long, very pointed pause.
Tails just stared at him, as if the sheer weight of idiocy could be transferred through prolonged eye contact alone, the kind of breath a man gives when God is testing him for the third time this week. Then, quieter—resigned, heavy with disbelief and something dangerously close to pity—he muttered:
“Of course he did.”
The hedgehog rubbed the back of his neck. “…He had really intense eyes, alright? And a hell of a grip.”
Tails’s hands slapped to his hips like a disappointed schoolteacher. “Sonic. You do realize this guy is wanted in three territories. Armed robbery. Arson. One count of impersonating a preacher.”
Sonic gave a slow blink. “...That explains the vest.”
“And you—” Tails gestured with the fury of someone swatting invisible flies, “—you just invited him upstairs like he was selling miracle tonic?!”
“Well,” Sonic drawled, that crooked grin already fighting its way back onto his face, “he sure cured something.”
Tails groaned into both hands.
The blue hedgehog, though, was already standing, the poster clutched in one hand, a new light in his eyes—half thrill, half trouble. “Guess I gotta mosey on over and find out if Shane wantin’ breakfast… or maybe some cuffs.”
“You are not going back to him alone,” Tails barked. “He could shoot you the second he wakes up!”
“He could,” Sonic agreed, striding for the door with the lazy swagger of a man already picturing the next bad decision. “But something tells me he won’t.”
Tails followed him out, muttering the whole way. “This town’s gonna kill me before the job does…”