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The heavy, stifling scent of cheap rosewater and stale tobacco clings to the velvet curtains of the Green River brothel, but neither man is breathing it in. Outside, the sharp, rhythmic clatter of iron horseshoes against packed dirt signals that their time has officially run out. The Wilcox train robbery was a spectacular success, but the aftermath is proving to be a logistical nightmare. Harry "Sundance" Longabaugh pulls his gun belt tight, his knuckles white against the leather. His gaze darts to the window, watching the dust clouds kick up in the distance. Next to him, Robert "Butch" Cassidy is already moving, a blur of restless, kinetic energy.
They have been married for eleven years—eleven years of shared dust, split loot, and whispered promises in the dark—and Harry can read the exact calculus of survival running through his husband’s mind just by the tilt of his jaw.
"They’re moving faster than regular law," Sundance mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "That’s a specialized posse."
"Then it's a good thing we're special," Butch says, flashing a quick, reckless grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He grabs Harry’s elbow, a grounding touch, and yanks him toward the back exit just as the floorboards downstairs begin to rattle with heavy bootsteps. They sprint through the brush, the harsh Wyoming sun beating down on their wool coats. The terrain rises sharply, treacherous and rocky, forcing them upward until the earth simply vanishes beneath their boots. They skadaddle right to the absolute edge of a massive sandstone precipice.
Below them, the Green River twists like a churning green ribbon, swollen with the furious runoff of the June thaw. Behind them, the shouts of the crack squad echo through the canyon. They are cornered. Butch inches toward the ledge, his boots kicking a few loose pebbles over the brink. He peers down, squinting against the glare of the water, his mind working at its usual frantic pace.
"Alright, it's not too bad," Butch says, turning back to Harry with a casual shrug that defies the sheer drop behind him. "Maybe 70 feet? I'll jump first."
Sundance stares at him, his face hardening into an expression of absolute, unyielding disbelief. "No."
Butch blinks, his blue eyes wide with faux-patience. "Then YOU jump first."
"No, I said!" Sundance barks, his boots planted firmly into the dirt as if he could root himself to the mountain.
"What's the matter with you today, babe?" Butch asks, stepping closer, his tone softening into that specific, intimate register meant only for Harry's ears. He reaches out, his thumb brushing against the rough fabric of Harry's sleeve. "This ain't the craziest situation we've gotten into. Remember the dynamite?"
Harry looks at the raging torrent below, then back at his husband, the stoic facade cracking just enough to let a lifetime of hidden terror slip through. "I can't swim!"
The confession hangs in the hot air between them. For a fraction of a second, Butch just stares at him, processing the absurdity of a legendary, cold-blooded outlaw being defeated by a body of water. Then, a bright, genuine sound of amusement bursts from Butch’s chest. He laughs, the sound rich and loud over the rushing of the river.
"You crazy?!" Butch gasps, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "The fall'll probably kill you."
An incredulous, breathless laugh escapes Harry’s throat at the dark humor of it. The irony isn't lost on him, but the encroaching reality of their situation cuts the moment short. From the tree line, the first silhouettes of the posse emerge, their rifles catching the harsh midday sun. The metallic *click-clack* of weapons cocking echoes across the rocks. They are out of options. Sundance looks from the lawmen back to the man who has shared his bed, his crimes, and his life for over a decade. He gives a single, sharp nod.
Butch doesn't hesitate. Ignoring the lawmen, ignoring the danger, he steps into Harry’s space and pulls him in by the lapels of his coat. It is a hard, grounding press of lips—a reassuring kiss meant to anchor Harry in the midst of the chaos. It tastes of sweat, dust, and a fierce, desperate devotion. It is a promise that whatever happens at the bottom of this cliff, they face it together.
Butch pulls back just an inch, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective light. "I'll meecha at the bottom."
Sundance nods, his jaw clenched, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The posse breaks into a sprint, shouting orders to surrender as they draw a bead on the two outlaws. Butch grabs Harry’s hand, locking their fingers together in a grip that promises never to let go. They take three explosive strides toward the edge and throw themselves into the empty air. As their boots lose contact with the solid earth, the world loses its axis.
Harry is screaming, a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of his lungs: "AAAAAAWWWWWW, SHIIIIIIIIIT!"
The free fall is a terrifying, chaotic nightmare. The wind roars in Harry's ears like a runaway locomotive, ripping the breath right out of his mouth. The air resistance tears at his clothes, flattening his hair back as gravity drags them down with sickening velocity. His stomach plummets into his throat. Next to him, Butch is a wild tangle of limbs, his mouth moving frantically as he yells something over the deafening roar of the wind. Butch is gesturing wildly, trying to tell him to dive for something—a deeper pool, a safer current—but the words are completely swallowed by the gale. Harry can't hear a damn thing.
All he knows is that the churning green surface of the river is rushing up to meet them far too quickly, transforming from a distant ribbon into a solid, unforgiving wall of emerald water. Panic threatens to paralyze him, but Harry forces his eyes open. He looks at Butch. Even in mid-air, Butch is fighting, molding his body into a streamlined arrow to break the surface. Desperate to survive, Harry forces his rigid limbs to mimic his husband's posture, straightening his legs, locking his arms, and taking one final, massive, chest-expanding breath just as the world goes violently dark.
The impact is an absolute shock to the system, knocking the remaining wind from Harry's lungs as the freezing water swallows him whole.
---
When Harry finally comes to, the roar of the river has faded to a rhythmic, rushing murmur. He is completely drenched, his clothes weighing a thousand pounds, lying flat on a rough bed of river gravel. The sky above is a blur of blue and canyon stone. There is a heavy, warm pressure on his chest, and then a sudden, firm seal of lips over his own. It isn't a kiss. It is a desperate, forceful breath. Air is artificially driven down into Harry's suffocating lungs, expanding his chest until his nerve endings fire back to life.
Harry arches his back, coughing violently as his body rejects the river. He turns on his side, retching and hacking up mouthfuls of cold, metallic-tasting water onto the stones. A pair of strong, steady hands immediately catch him, supporting his shoulders and rubbing his back with an aching, desperate tenderness. Butch is hovering over him, his own blond hair plastered to his forehead, his face pale with a terror he never, ever shows to the rest of the world.
When they're out in the wild, playing their parts for the gang and the law, Butch maintains the untouchable reputation of a sharp-witted, womanizing thief—a rogue who cares for nothing but the next score. But here, on this secluded, hidden bank, shielded by the high canyon walls where the rest of the world cannot see, that mask completely disintegrates. Here, he is just Harry's husband. He is gentle, his touch laced with a profound, quiet reverence that belongs solely to the man he married eleven years ago.
"Come on, Harry," Butch whispers, his voice trembling slightly as he wipes a wet strand of hair from Harry's eyes. "Breathe for me, babe. That's it. Gotcha."
Harry’s chest heaves as he takes in a clean, shuddering breath of air on his own. The coughing fit subsides, leaving him weak and shaking against the damp gravel. He looks up at Butch, his dark eyes filled with exhaustion, relief, and an unspoken, enduring love. Seeing that Harry is truly back, the tension leaves Butch’s shoulders all at once. He leans down, his movements slow and deliberate, and pulls Harry into a tender, lingering kiss. It is soft, sweet, and entirely devoid of the rush of their escape. It is the quiet confirmation that they survived; that the river didn't take them.