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"there ain't nothin' stopping me now, cole."
the way his name rolls off her tongue like it belongs there, but the hostility burns. rifle held without any distance, directed between his eyes. leaving a mark upon his forehead. "reckon if that were true, you'd have pulled the trigger already" and the moment he says it she shoves the gun harder against him, knocking his smug head against the wall behind him. he wasn't going anywhere. not without her permission. still the old cowboy kept a grin on his lips, he prayed she didn't see the sweat trailing down the sides of his head. after-all he didn't want to appear afraid. he knew she couldn't pull the trigger, nothing about elizabeth "ashe" caledonia was capable of killing sentimentality. and he was a pivotal part of that history she developed. even if now it was all burnt to the ground. figuratively, and literally. her arm twitched, finger gravitating ever closer to pulling that trigger. imagine? the whole thing finall over. click, bang, dead. no more running, chasing, fighting the demons that chased her out of a good night's sleep. no more loose ends. maybe the gang would come back? no. they weren't coming back. they were watching out for themselves. ashe didn't want them. she didn't want anyone. "clock's ticking, ashe. why don't you put the gun down." he tried but "shut the fuck up! just shut up!" surrounding the two of them was the remains of the deadlock hideout, burned down. blackened. icy coals left, and that's how she'd gotten him here. an sos, a text. something tangible that made it seem like she'd die if he didn't jolt to her rescue. what was that he said about protecting her? she used it. she had to. how could he fess up like he was some kind of fuckin' martyr? "there's no clock, cassidy. there's nothing. i can stand here for a week with the target between those sorry lyin' eyes of yours. i could kill you any moment, you think i'm going to do it quick?" she spat these words like they mattered. she doesn't know he's quit trying to rationalize living a long time ago, and he would welcome a death where he knew she got some kinda' closure. that was just the kinda' man he was. and it irked her. no matter how hogtied and locked down they were.
he was right about one thing, the time was ticking. the longer she looked down the sights at him, the less chances she'd have to finally get that sweet revenge she thought she yearned for. so why couldn't she do it? why couldn't she pull the goddamned trigger? what was it that kept her from killing this man? didn't he start it all? drag her like an anchor down into a life of crime? lie to her? he's the one who made her realize she didn't have to stay with her folks. made her smile, made her laugh. made her feel like the reason to live was whatever you made it to be. it's all grains of sand now, memories. whether she pulled the trigger on cole now, later, or never. it didn't make a lick of difference. mascara running and there's sounds coming from ashe like a toddler, plus or minus the cussing that came after. she swears and bites her lip till it bleeds but that rifle lowers and he doesn't look shocked. but it wasn't like he saw her as weak, or pitied her. he just wanted it all to stop festering like an infection. something they shared, that the restless nights and the distant stares in broad daylight. it didn't need to be this way. he watches her kick things, smash whatever was left in this pit. he felt her pain. it was thunderous, thrilling. and when she slices that rope from 'round him he only stands and doesn't move for a long time. the duo staring each other down as the drizzle of sunlight begins to peek through. nothing but the sounds of the desert and an occasional breath passing between them. it goes on. it feels like hours. neither can say anything of meaning, until cole offers it up on a silver platter. "i'm sorry, ashe." but she doesn't respond and he doesn't wait around for her to change her mind and blow his head clean off. he leaves her with that apology and she could do with it what she wanted. he disappears and ashe sits with it, she sits with it on the floor.
crumbled life sat under her. she ached in every way a human being could. emotionally, physically. she held that gun upon him for hours. she cried for what felt like years. why can't she move on or forgive him? what's left for her? even when everything she ever worked for burned around her, he still came. he came and he apologized when she threatened to kill him. why couldn't he just fight back? why couldn't he kill her? ruin her? put her in the ground first. why couldn't he just fucking die or kill her? what was the point of it all? she's so tired of being angry and sad and full of rage. she wants to smile again, laugh. she wants to forget the horror of blood on her hands, the way it felt to be a monster. it's not his fault. it's not even fully her own, it's just the way the world placed this burden upon her shoulders like she was meant to be stronger, less vulnerable. like a weapon without emotional torment to hold her back. how did they do it? the people who did it without feeling it? why couldn't she be more like them? or less like the bleeding heart she was? it'd be easier she thinks. it'd be easier to hate so relentlessly that nothing ever phased her. or to be so passionate, so empathetic, so kind that the opposite would be achieved. but no. she's caught in the middle. morally grey. torn between love and hate, always fighting every damned day on who she was. there's no black and white answer. she has to keep going. she has to fight. she has to kill. there's no purging her bounty. there's no switching sides. she's left there in the neutrality of her own indecision. her own internal conflict. always torn between forgiveness, anger, sorrow, and chasing the goddamned gold. the pain was always going to sit there. no amount of regret could fix her.
neither could that apology. if anything it made it all worse. because next time she saw him she would accept it.