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The gold sits heavy in the dust between them.
They’re a day’s ride out from town, the now cold bodies of Punk’s men piled in a shadowed heap away from the fire. Piper and River cut dark, flickering shapes against the blue-black of the sky, the remaining firelight catching in the puffs of steam from their noses.
Adam can’t sleep.
He’s a confident man, cocky in his worse moments he admits, but he’s unnerved, replaying the scene from two days previous over in his mind.
Max bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his face a red mask, a grin cut from the Devil. The gun barrel aimed and unshaking in Adam’s direction. The whistle of a bullet making impact in the outlaw who had an arm around Adam’s throat. The click of the chamber and the crease in Max’s brows as if considering. The look that had held heavy in the air between them in the seconds after.
It would have been so easy.
It could be so easy now.
Adam looks over to the curled form on the other side of the smouldering braches. The slow rise and fall of his chest, the dispersing vapour where he’s faced away from Adam. Max is still, but Adam’s long learnt that still doesn’t necessarily mean sleeping. There’s a tenseness to the line of the other man’s shoulders, one that he only recognises through familiarity that confirms his suspicions.
Adam swallows spit, lips pressed tight. It’s a weird feeling, to be Familiar with one of the most notorious outlaws. To know how soft his eyes get when brushing down Piper, how his smile looks when he’s trying to be sincere. Adam wonders if Wardlow, Jericho, anyone, has seen Max when he’s trying his hand at being kind.
However.
However.
The dread curls itself around Adam’s neck like a hangman’s rope.
Maxwell Jacob Friedman is one of the most prolific outlaws in the West. Train robberies with The Pinnacle Gang, tens of lawmen murdered, Sheriff Rhodes with a foot in an early grave; all coordinated by Friedman. Putting down bad guys is what Adam does, the grim satisfaction of dropping a body, either cold or wriggling and hot, on the porch of the county jail is what he’s acquired a taste for. The West would be safer with one less devil running around in it.
Adam watches the line of Friedman’s spine as the younger man curls a bit more tightly in on himself. It’s a cold night, Adam’s own skin tingling where it’s not covered by leather and denim and wool. Friedman shifts, the quiet rasp of fabric indicating him pulling his ridiculous scarf closer, holding onto the heat. The metal of the colt, tucked into the holster at Adam’s waist, is freezing to the touch.
Do it. The voice in his head sounds like Roddy, the memory of his friend’s suspicion and furious certainty pushes to the forefront. Do it Adam.
And so, Adam does.
Max hears Adam coming.
He doesn’t sleep well at the best of times, especially around others. The prickling of the hair on the back of his neck at every noise. He only sleeps decently alone, in bars under a false name, or pressed up in a cave, with only the sounds of Piper and wind. So, for now, Max breathes on his hands, silently cursing the autumn chill and the pulsing ache in his shoulder. He is far from sleep when Cole moves.
The scrape of dirt against leather as the man gets his legs under him. The muffled steps, the breathing just above the crackling of cinders.
The first few seconds, Max hopes, almost believes it could be something else.
And then he hears the click of metal and his blood goes cold like it has so many times before.
Except this time it’s different. He’s made a point to himself of not getting on this end of a gun barrel. Max’s heart beats rabbit-fast in his chest.
He’s stupid.
So fucking stupid.
Cole doesn’t even get the chance to press the barrel against Max’s head.
He rolls, catching Cole around the ankle and pulling. The gun skitters in the dirt as it leaves Cole’s hand. Max can feel the smug look on his own face before he’s even thought it. There’s a pained exhale as Cole checks his nose instinctively. Max glances at the dust, grinding into the fine seams of his lined denim jacket. He runs his tongue over his canines and looks back to Cole.
“Come on Cole, let’s go.” The taunt is easy. Cole bares his teeth, blood dripping off his lip.
They grapple. Max, for once, doesn’t think to go for his gun. He can’t think it, even when Adam pulls him upright by his hair, a powerful kick connecting with Max’s ribs. The air leaves him, but he twists out, hissing in pain. Max wrenches Cole’s neckerchief, bringing his knee up the same time. Finds he doesn’t relish the crack of bone as he has before. Shaking his head, he pokes at Cole’s eyes and pulls away. The bags of gold sit, unmoved, between the two mats.
The plan is simple; grab the gold, and get out. Leave Adam Cole is the dust, preferably ignoring the burn in his chest.
Max considers diving for the bags. Cole clearly has the same thought, because another kick hits him in the back of the neck and he stumbles.
Cole is in front of him now, face hard under the shadow of that long, dark hair. Pale eyes like steel under the moonlight.
Max blinks.
Piper whinnies, the sound echoing across the plains.
They go blow for blow. Elbows to the jaw, fists to the neck. Blossoming points of pain that are ignored. Max throws Cole over his shoulder and sprints forward. He gets a hand around one of the bags, and spins, the weight pulling at his shoulder. Max almost drops it, but snarls, and slams it across Cole’s face.
It’s easy.
Cole gasps as he topples. His hand goes out, grabbing roughly at Max.
His eyes are wide, mouth open in disbelief.
Adam’s fingers sink into Max’s shoulder.
The scream punches out of Max before he has a chance to push it down. The pain rolls over him like a wave, adrenaline no longer cutting it. His vision greys. He feels himself go down to one knee.
His breathing is shallow, too fast.
By the time Max can think again, all he sees is Cole’s boot coming at his face.
He doesn’t feel himself hit the ground.
Max sways on his knees, head fuzzy. There’s a rasp of rope nearby, too close. Max groans, trying to find his feet, wobbling. A hand on his shoulder, long-fingered, firm, presses him back down. He feels his brows crease, and blinks. The breaths in his chest stutter.
“Max?”
Adam’s voice makes the frown deepen, Max blinks again.
Deputy Adam Cole’s face swims into view, poorly lit by their re-stoked fire. He actually looks… concerned. Max shakes his head. He shoulder screeches at him.
“Hey, Max? I need to take your shirt off, you’re bleeding.”
The groan escapes Max’s lips without much fight. He closes his eyes again, an ache building up at his temple.
The shirt sticks when its gets pulled, snapping slickly at his shoulder. The cold air makes him shiver, and he sways again. Quickly, thick wool is wrapped around him, leaving his shoulder exposed. The shirt stays around his wrists for a reason Max can’t quite fathom at this moment, damp with sweat and blood. It was a nice shirt, expensive, Max remembers.
He can feel the old bandage, a scrap of a dead man’s shirt from three days previous, get peeled away. He keens, low in his throat.
Adam makes a sympathetic noise.
When Max opens his eyes again, his gaze fixes on the colt, tucked back in Adam’s belt. There’s a new scuff on the grip.
He tugs at his wrists, feels the rough scrape of rope on his skin. His heart jumps before he swallows it down again.
“Get it over with.”
Adam makes a questioning grunt out of Max’s eye line.
“The posters say Wanted Dead, bud.”
Adam’s hands pause in their motions for a moment, and then something pulls tight over Max’s shoulder. He hisses low his through his teeth. He knows more than sees Adam’s brows rise and fall.
“Really? That’s what you’re going with?” Adam sounds irritated, “What is this Max?”
A small, delirious chuckle works its way out of Max, “A bullet wound. Are you blind as well as skinny?”
There’s a half-amused half of breath close to Max’s ear for that.
“When did it happen?”
“What would telling you change?”
Adam hums, leans back, tugs on the rope on Max’s wrists with a finger. There’s dried blood on Adam’s top lip.
Adam just wants confirmation, truly.
Not all that blood on Max three days ago could have all been from others. As much as the cornered predator in his guts hates everything this week has become, there’s a light in Max’s wide brown eyes that Adam’s grown to appreciate.
He really wants Max to have… not changed, he’s a piece of shit, but there’s something in Max. Adam feels like a goldpanner finding the first glitter in a streambed. Uncertain with fierce joy running relentlessly underneath. It’s all muddied by the fight.
Max sighs, looks at Adam out of the corner of his eye.
“Dax Harwood.”
Adam remembers.
He’d thought something had been off at the time. But, well, less time to think in a firefight. Three days spent hyperaware of your ally’s track record.
Cash Wheeler had knocked Adam down, both of them scrambling in the dirt. Adam’s boot connecting with Wheeler’s chest, panting hard. The smell of gun smoke and blood hanging in the air, thick as fog.
The gunshot had broken the two men apart.
Adam looking up to see Harwood and Max locked, arms straining over the smoking gun. Max’s face pale, marked with grim determination. A second later, Harwood managed to rip away, diving to drag Wheeler onto his feet, the two half-running half-staggering to make some distance.
In the moment between then and the next blow, Max had smiled, eyes shining, “Fucker missed!”
“You took a bullet for me.”
Max snorts, “Fuck you.”
“I ain’t handing in a man who takes a bullet for me.”
Adam places a hand on Max’s good shoulder, squeezes the muscle there under the blanket. He tucks thumb under Max’s jaw, forcing his eyes up. They’re so deep, Adam thinks, like those of a deer. His expression isn’t guarded like it was, all those weeks ago. There’s confusion, hope in the slackness of Max’s mouth, the slope of his eyebrows.
Under the thick, calcified layer of pretentious scumbag, there’s something soft. Scared.
“And you’re my friend.”
Max searches his face, then huffs in disbelief, breaking eye contact to stare at the rope around his wrists. His voice breaks a little, “You’re not gonna do it.”
And then Max buries his face in Adam’s shoulder. Adam wraps his arms around Max’s shuddering form, mindful of the fresh bandage.
They stay like that what feels like hours. Max pressing his cold nose into the warm skin under Adam’s loosened neckerchief. Adam’s hand fisted in the blanket over Max’s spine.
Adam’s knees are beginning to complain when Max shifts, eyes still a little glassy.
“As much as I love this, are these still necessary?” He lifts his wrists to present the rope.
Adam cocks his head, then tugs Max forward by the rope. The younger man topples “forward with a gasp. His breath is hot even through Adam’s jacket and shirt. “Depends.”
“At the very least, we’re laying down.” There’s an edge of demand to Max’s voice. Adam runs a hand over his chin, before letting out a yelp as Max grabs his arm and tugs him the few feet to the mats.
Only when they lay down, Max facing the fire that Adam had refuelled, Adam pressed against Max’s spine, does Adam notice how much Max is shivering. Max’s face is twisted with irritation as his hands clench hard on Adam’s wrist to cease the trembling.
There’s a whine of complaint when Adam shifts, removing his jacket and rearranging the blanket, draping them over both of them. Max, even when he himself is freezing, is apparently a furnace. Adam can feel the blood returning to Max’s fingers, steadily as Max’s warmth permeates Adam’s chest.
Adam curls his arm, and Max wiggles, further closing the gap between them.
It’s not really a surprise when Max presses his lips to Adam’s knuckles. Adam finds himself stilling though, before he returns the favour, kissing the back of Max’s neck. Max hums and turns over. They’re face to face now, Max throwing a leg over Adam’s, head a living weight on his chest. The vapour from their breathing mixes in the chill air.
The outlaw tilts his head up, leaves a line of kisses on the underside of Adam’s stubbled jaw. It’s… nice. Little plumes of heat. Max’s curls drag across Adam’s cheek. All Adam can do is pull Max closer by the rope, savouring the whine it produces. He ducks his head down, capturing it with his mouth.
His fingers run over the braiding of the twine, where it meets Max’s skin.
“I have an idea another thing we could do to keep warm.”
Max groans, suddenly aware of the shirt still stuck around his wrists. His nose wrinkles.
“I’d rather not get dust in my ass, not over an up-jumped rancher.”
Adam laughs and loosens the knot, expelling the ruined shirt from their little cavern of warmth. Rubs Max’s wrists, although the binding wasn’t nearly tight enough for any damage. Max takes to opportunity to pull Adam’s hair, manoeuvring his face down into another kiss, harder this time. Adam can feel Max’s teeth, and the smallest amount of tongue where it traces the inside of Adam’s bottom lip for a scarce moment.
Adam’s voice sticks in his throat and Max places his now free arm around Adam’s waist. His face pressed into Adam’s chest, with a muffled “Not tonight at least.”
Without Max shifting around, Adam’s mind turns again. Roddy is going to be so, so pissed off. Adam’s made himself vulnerable, Friedman could kill him, leave the West down another lawman. Adam can’t find it in himself to care. Max is in the same position, even now the outlaw’s spine a touch too tense, his fingers curled. His jaw tight as he exhales hot against Adam’s chest. The trust is fragile, but stronger on each reforming.
Adam grimly promises himself to deal with Roddy when they get back.
Slowly, surely, Adam’s eyes slip shut and Max’s breathing evens out.
It’s not long before the sky starts turning yellow and pink, the sun stretching its misty fingers into the West. Both the men remain sleeping, curled around each other.
Warm.
Easy.