Work Text:
Bill was a pitiful, cowardly, broken man. Always had been.
For eight long years, the outlaw had been running from the truth, dodging it the same way he dodged all those countless bullets shot his way. There were close calls, of course, but nothing he couldn’t outrun.
Until now.
Here, amidst the broken-down ruins of what used to be someone’s home, it had finally caught up to him, sinking its teeth in deep and dragging him under.
He sat slouched by the somber ashes of a fire pit, the revolver in his hand as cold and heavy as the ache in his chest. The words Lee had left him with earlier rang loud in his ears, mocking him.
"If you’ve got the strength to accept who you’re meant to be, then you’ve got a lot of time left in this life."
Bill chuckled, grim and bitter. The sound scraped out of his throat like rusted nails on stone. “Time,” he muttered, the word sour on his tongue.
Mine’s runnin’ thin.
His gaze drifted back to the gun, the barrel catching faint glints of moonlight. It felt heavier than any six-shooter had a right to, its weight pressing down on him like judgment—a reckoning for all the wrongs he’d done.
There was no way he could do it—no way he could keep going now that he’d been forced to stare down the truth of who he really was. A coward. A liar. A killer. A hypocrite. A sinner. A man who’d spent his whole damn life running, only to finally hit a wall too tall to climb.
He didn’t know how Lee managed to carry that kind of load on his shoulders for so long. The bounty hunter was a hell of a stronger man than Bill ever could be.
Lee.
The thought of the redhead slipped into Bill’s mind—those hands gripping his shoulders gently, with more steadiness than the outlaw ever deserved, that soft voice drawling out words that felt too kind, too forgiving. The gun fell from his hands—the memory somehow managed to stop him.
At least for now.
As if in a dream, Bill made his way up into the tumble-down farmhouse, his boots creaking on the warped wooden stairs. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint groan of the wind through the busted shutters. He stopped at the doorway of the room where Lee lay sprawled out against the bed. The bounty hunter lay on his back, one hand covering his sunken eyes. Lee looked worn down, even in his sleep.
Drawn by some invisible string, Bill stepped closer, his boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. He stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at Lee, who looked so damn vulnerable like this—his chest rising and falling with every steady breath, his lips parting for a moment, just enough to show the faintest glimmer of teeth before pressing tight again. The outlaw’s hand itched to reach out, to touch, to trace the curve of Lee’s jaw and see if his skin was as warm as it looked in the faint moonlight.
But Bill’s fingers stayed at his side, clenching and unclenching as if they were at war with his better judgment. He didn’t deserve to touch Lee—not like this. Not after all the Hell he’d put the man through.
Still, he got down on his knees and leaned in ever so slightly, close enough to catch the faint scent of sweat and leather lingering on Lee’s skin. It made his chest ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push down the storm of emotions threatening to tear him apart.
Bill thought about the gun he’d left behind downstairs. The weight of it had felt final, like a judgement waiting for him the moment he’d made up his mind. And he had made up his mind. There wasn’t any place in this world for a man like him—a sinner through and through, broken down and twisted in ways he couldn’t even begin to untangle. He could never make peace with what he was, what he wanted. A man who’d spent his whole life lying to himself, pretending those sinful urges were just passing shadows he could chase off with a little prayer. But the outlaw wasn’t fooling himself anymore—he was going to Hell for what he’s done. That much was certain.
And, well...
If he was damned anyway, then what difference did one more sin make? Just one moment. One chance to feel what it was like to give in, to stop fighting, to take what he wanted. He’d never had it with a man—never let himself even dream about it too long—but looking down at Lee now, his chest rising and falling like the rhythm of a song, Bill felt like he’d been starving his whole life and finally caught sight of a meal.
This would be it. One night, one last mistake, and then he’d go meet his Maker and take whatever punishment was waiting. At least he wouldn’t have to wonder anymore, wouldn’t have to carry the weight of those “what-ifs” into the grave.
But then the doubts crept in, slow and unrelenting. Would Lee even accept him? After all, the past between them, unspoken but always there, couldn’t be ignored.
Yet the thought wouldn’t let go. Even as the guilt gnawed at him, the darker part of his mind whispered that he could still have what he wanted, even if Lee said no.
But even as the ugly, twisted part of him screamed for action, another part hesitated. The selfishness of it all suddenly hit Bill. He’d killed the only person Lee ever loved, and now, what? He thought he could just take the redhead, touch him, claim something that wasn’t his to have? What kind of monster did that make him?
Not only had Bill taken Lee’s lover away from him, he’d also stolen eight long years of the bounty hunter’s life, and quite possibly the redhead’s one true shot at a quiet, peaceful future. Could he really look at the man lying there and expect him to want anything to do with the outlaw? What if Lee looked at him with disgust, what if the rejection broke Bill worse than anything he’d ever felt? Could he endure that, after everything? Or would he lash out again, just like he had with Keefer—when he thought he had nothing left to lose—proving just how far gone he really was?
The thought made the outlaw’s stomach churn, but the hunger didn’t fade. The need twisted inside him, raw and aching, demanding he take what he wanted no matter the cost. Bill wasn't a good man, and if he was already destined for Hell, what was yet another sin?
It felt wrong, though. Wrong to take a sleeping, vulnerable man, especially after the kindness Lee had shown him. After everything Bill had done—lying, killing, destroying—he didn’t deserve this. The bounty hunter had been nothing but an open wound, a man broken by grief and vengeance, and now he lay there, exposed and unaware, trusting Bill with doing the right thing when he had no reason to. No, it didn’t sit right.
Bill might be a bastard, but he wasn’t low enough to take a man without giving him the chance to say yes.
The bounty hunter deserved that much.
“Lee..?”
The redhead groaned lightly in his sleep, the sound rough and tired, like waking up took too much effort. His brows pinched together, lips twitching before pressing tight again. Bill felt the corners of his mouth twitch in something like a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. How he envied the younger man—able to slip into sleep after every goddamn thing that’d happened this night.
Bill watched him, caught in that moment where want and regret tangled together, pulling him in opposite directions. The quiet of the room pressed heavy on his chest, the faint creak of the shutters outside barely masking the sound of his own breathing.
The outlaw’s gaze lingered on the man’s face, tracing every line etched there by years of grief and rage, every shadow cast by the dim light filtering in through the broken shutters. Bill felt the weight of it all—every confrontation they’d had, every cruel word he’d thrown at the bounty hunter, every time he’d watched the man’s spirit bend but never quite break.
“Lee,” he murmured again, softer this time, as if afraid to wake him fully, afraid of what might come tumbling out of his own mouth if those sharp blue eyes snapped open.
The bounty hunter shifted, his brows furrowing, like he was fighting off a bad dream, but his breathing stayed steady, his body too far gone in exhaustion to rise to the call. The sight tugged at something deep in Bill’s chest, a feeling he didn’t have a name for—didn’t want a name for. It wasn’t the kind of thing he knew how to carry.
Before he could think better of it, Bill reached out, his hand moving slow like he might spook the man awake. His fingers brushed against the sharp ridge of Lee’s jaw, then trailed up to his cheekbone all the way down to the redhead’s lips, where he let his thumb linger. He couldn’t resist pressing in, just enough to part them. Lee’s teeth were clenched tight—too tight for a peaceful sleep. It stopped Bill’s thumb from going further in, despite the temptation gnawing at him.
He paused, just tracing the warmth of those lips, memorizing the curve, the soft tremor beneath his touch. It was reckless, stupid even, but he couldn’t help it—every nerve in his body screamed to close the gap, to steal a moment of closeness he knew he didn’t rightly deserve. His thumb shifted slightly, brushing the lower lip, and for the briefest second, Lee’s eyes fluttered in his sleep, lashes resting against the pale skin of his cheeks.
The outlaw’s breath hitched as he remembered the first time he kissed the bounty hunter—really kissed him. The taste of those lips, the tentative slide of Lee’s tongue against his own. It’d been stiff and hidden at first, but then, to Bill’s delight, the younger man had started to respond, slow and gingerly, like he was finally taking pity on the outlaw. He pulled his thumb back and put it in his mouth, licking slow and leisurely, recalling the faint salt of Lee’s lips, savoring the proof of a connection he hadn’t dared imagine before.
It was the first time Bill had ever been kissed back by another man.
The memory made his chest tighten and his breathing grow ragged, panting like some dog in heat. All the thoughts of doing things at least somewhat honorably have evaporated from his mind right then and there. Bill ain’t never been an honorable man—what would be the point of starting now?
Without much thought, he climbed atop the younger man—his body moving on instinct, like a hound catching a scent, drawn to the warmth beneath him. He no longer hesitated before leaning down to press his mouth against the redhead’s sleeping lips—a now familiar scent mixed of sweat and leather hit his nostrils.
Lee tasted just as good as Bill remembered—like smoked whiskey and salt. The redhead’s lips, while plum like a lady’s, were dry and chapped, and his stubble scraped against Bill’s jaw so unladylike, sending a shiver down his spine.
The outlaw groaned, his tongue sliding along Lee’s teeth, searching for more, for access. He licked into the younger man’s mouth, his urgency climbing with every second, until—
The redhead gasped, a soft, muted sound as he jerked awake, but Bill didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was too far gone, too lost in the heat of it, his tongue seeking out Lee’s like a man starving.
Then came the bite.
Bill let out a guttural yell as Lee’s teeth snapped down on his tongue like a bear trap, and he jerked back instinctively. Blood filled his mouth, the coppery tang enough to make him gag. He turned to spit it out on the dirty floorboards then swiped the back of his hand across his lips, feeling the blood smear.
“Mornin’, love,” Bill rasped, his voice dark and uneven, his lips curling into a smile that was more menace than charm.
Lee stared at him, wide-eyed and pale, his chest heaving like a man on the verge of panic. His lips were stained with Bill’s blood, and the sight sent a strange, sick jolt straight to the outlaw's groin.
“What the hell…?” Lee stared at him like he’d just seen a ghost, a mix of disbelief and horror painted across his face. The outlaw could feel the younger man’s heartbeat hammering beneath his palm, wild and frantic, like a trapped rat trying to claw its way free.
It was the first time Bill saw the bounty hunter openly showing his fear for him—a sight that the outlaw found oddly arousing.
The outlaw's smile widened, broken and bloody. He spat more blood to the side, his breath hitching as he leaned back slightly. “Reckon I was just enjoyin’ somethin’ I’ve been itchin’ to do for quite a spell.”
Lee’s hands trembled at his sides, and his voice grew louder, the panic quickly rising. “What is this, Bill?”
“I’m a dead man, Lee. We both know it,” the outlaw said, his voice low and raw, like the words themselves cut deep just letting them out. “Ain’t no turning over a new leaf for me. I’m poisoned. Hell, I’m already damned.”
Bill tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped even lower, like a secret he was only sharing with Lee. “And since I’m already bound to Hell, I figured I’d do the one thing I’ve dreamed of for a while now.”
A storm of emotions swept across the redhead’s face: shock, denial, realization, anger, fear. Bill didn’t have much time to savor the sight before Lee’s fist cracked straight against the outlaw’s nose with a sickening crunch.
The blow rang through his skull, bright and sharp, but the pain came dull, like it had to wade through mud to reach him. Bill’s hand flew to his face on reflex, and that was all the opening Lee needed. The bounty hunter bucked like a riled bull, boots scraping the canvas, shoulders twisting, trying to shove the older man off. Panic seemed to lit him up from the inside as he tried to shove the older man off.
“Get the hell off me—!”
Lee surged, all elbows and desperation, nearly rolling them sideways. Dust puffed up from the crumpled bedroll into the still air. For half a heartbeat, it looked like he might make it—might slip out from under Bill’s shadow and bolt for the dark.
But the outlaw moved with the blind desperation of a man on a death roll. His heavier frame came down hard, slamming Lee back into the bedroll with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the wind clean out of the younger man. The bounty hunter let out a strangled gasp, half-grunt, half-panic, as the outlaw's fingers dug into his shoulders and knees pinned his hips, trapping him like a fly under a boot heel.
Lee thrashed like his life depened on it, the fight in him refusing to die, nails raking across the worn fabric of Bill’s sleeves. His boots scraped useless circles, heels digging for purchase that weren’t there. He twisted and bucked, muscles burning, but Bill might as well have been a slab of iron. The outlaw pressed his foream into the redhead's throat and drove him back down, holding him flush to the rough canvas, forcing a choked wheeze out of the other man.
Blood trickled from Bill’s nose down to his mouth, threatening to stain the pale face below him and the outlaw felt his lips curling into a smile—the kind that might’ve looked cocky if it weren’t so damn hollow.
“It’s okay if you hate me,” he drawled, voice soft, patient, easing the pressure off of the other man's throat just enough for the dread to loosen its grip a bit. “Reckon you couldn’t despise me any worse than you already do.”
“Bill, s-stop this.” Lee’s voice cracked, breath hitching, terror riding every word as he felt his strength start to give out. “This— it ain’t gonna change nothing. I don’t want you, for Christ’s sake!”
“No one does.”
Lee flinched like he’d been struck clean across the face, his movements stalling out, eyes snapped back to the outlaw's face. That look, the sudden sadness in those blue eyes, would’ve brought Bill to his knees had he weren’t already kneeling. Even now, the bounty hunter couldn’t help but look at him with pity—that same soft, unbearable pity. Bill’s chest tightened as he dragged in a shaky breath, swallowing down the whimper clawing up his throat. Damn it, he was pathetic, wasn’t he? Under all that bravado and tough outlaw look he was just pathetic. And yet, Lee still couldn’t stop caring, couldn’t stop being so damn decent, even when he had every reason to walk away.
He was everything the outlaw had ever wanted and everything he could never truly have.
The sick part of Bill wanted Lee to curse him. To spit in his face. To swing on him again and call him every filthy name he’d earned. He wanted proof he still mattered enough to be hated proper. Instead, he got mercy, soft and ruinous as rain on dry rot. Isn't that that what had left the bounty hunter sleeping so sound before, with the outlaw looming just a few feet away? Mercy had a way of making men careless. Made them lay their heads down in places they ought to have know better than to trust.
Maybe Bill could twist this mercy.
“Please, Lee,” the older man whispered, his voice trembling. He didn’t even notice the tears streaking his face until they splattered, warm and heavy, onto the redhead’s cheeks. The outlaw wiped the droplets off tenderly, like it was Lee doing the crying. “Let me have this. Just once.”
The bounty hunter froze under him, his whole body locking up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, and that was all the permission Bill figured he was ever going to get.
So he leaned in slowly, hesitating only a moment before pressing his lips against Lee’s.
The bounty hunter clenched his jaw tight, staying still as Bill kissed him again—the taste of his own blood overwhelmingly strong. He couldn’t taste Lee same as before and the outlaw felt frustration bubbling. Bill groaned low in his throat, his tongue sweeping desperately against the younger man's teeth, pleading, begging for him to open up, to let him taste more.
And he did.
Lee’s eyes fluttered shut as his mouth parted ever so slightly, slowly granting entry like a creaking barn door on rusty hinges.
Bill nearly laughed, his heart hammering from the rush. So damn charitable this one, even in a mess like this.
Lee’s tongue moved tentative, slow and careful, tracing the line of Bill’s teeth before slipping deeper, brushing against the torn wound on the outlaw’s tongue. The sting only made the heat in Bill’s gut coil tighter, threatening to undo him right then and there.
They kissed and kissed, and kissed.
It felt like an undeserved victory—a prize Bill snatched up in his greedy hands.
Lost in the fever of the moment, the outlaw barely registered the sharp pain of Lee’s nails digging into his cheeks, pulling him back. The sound of their parting kiss was wet and obscene, and Bill felt like a starving dog being ripped from his supper.
Then he looked at the redhead and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Lee was a vision straight out of Bill’s wildest dreams—copper hair plastered to his sweat-dampened forehead, cheeks flushed as red as a sunset, lips swollen and glistening from the abuse. He was panting hard, each greedy breath tugging at Bill’s heartstrings.
“I need… to goddamn… breathe…” The younger man heaved, his tongue darting out to lick the blood off of his lips absent-mindedly before gulping down more air.
It was only then Bill noticed how winded he himself was. His chest was heaving just the same, and his lungs felt too small, like they couldn’t keep up with the fire burning him alive from the inside out.
The older man swallowed hard, his gaze raking over Lee’s face like he was committing it to memory. He’d never seen something so goddamn beautiful, so achingly untouchable. His hand hovered above the bounty hunter’s cheek, trembling like a drunk reaching for his last bottle, but he didn’t dare close the distance.
“You look like sin itself,” Bill murmured, his voice hoarse and reverent. “If I had half a lick of sense left, I’d say you were the Devil come to finish me off.”
Lee let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling like a spooked horse trying to settle. His lips parted again, but no words came—just more panting, more soft, desperate sounds that were dragging Bill down into some kind of Hell he didn’t care to claw his way out of.
They stayed like that, breathing hard, eyeing each other like two wounded animals. The older man sure was starting to feel more and more feral with each liberty Lee let him claim.
“I love you,” Bill breathed out suddenly. He wasn’t sure where the words had come from—hell, he didn’t even know if they were true. All the blood in his body was currently heading south, leaving precious little for thinking straight. But he knew one thing for certain: he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted the man sprawled beneath him.
Lee didn’t say a damn word, just kept panting loudly. His eyes flicked over the older man’s face, searching for something, though the outlaw couldn’t rightly guess what.
Suddenly, Bill froze still.
To be quite honest, he never thought he’d get this far, and now that he had, he wasn’t sure what to do next.
He’d heard whispers, sure—drunken folks trading crude stories in saloons when they thought no one was listening in that he was… curious enough to overhear. Sex between men was different than it was with a woman, that much was clear. But knowing the words and actually doing the deed were two entirely different beasts.
A cold dread started crawling down Bill’s spine as it hit him just how far out of his depth he was.
What if he was just gonna made a damn fool of himself?
The redhead must’ve seen some of that doubt flicker across Bill’s face, because the next thing he did was reach up, his fingers brushing the edge of the older man’s jaw. It was a soft, deliberate touch, grounding the outlaw in a way the he hadn’t expected.
Lee’s fingers lingered there, light and soft, like he was testing the waters. The touch sent a jolt through the older man, his chest tightening as if a fist had clenched around his heart. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the younger man’s fingertips. The outlaw had been expecting resistance—hell, maybe even another punch—but instead, Lee was steadying him in a way that made the older man feel like he might fall apart if he moved too fast.
Bill let out a shaky breath, his body coiled tight. His fingers twitched against Lee’s ribs, brushing the fabric of his shirt that was damp with sweat. He could feel the hard rise and fall of the redhead’s chest beneath his palm, and it hit him all over again just how fragile this moment was. One wrong move, one misstep, and the whole damn thing could fall apart.
Lee didn’t pull away. His hand shifted, his thumb tracing along the curve of Bill’s jaw, the touch featherlight but enough to make the outlaw’s skin prickle with heat. There was something cautious about the way the redhead touched him, something hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but couldn’t stop himself.
Bill's breathing hitched, and his eyes dipped to the hollow of Lee’s throat, where his pulse was thrumming fast. The outlaw’s gaze traced every inch of the man beneath him, from the curling strands of hair clinging to his flushed skin to the way his lips parted slightly, soft and inviting—his breaths still coming quick and shallow.
The weight of it all was crushing, the air between them thick as molasses. Bill felt like he was drowning, the room shrinking until it was just the two of them, their bodies pressed so close there wasn’t an inch of space left to hide.
He leaned down, slow and unsure, like a man approaching a wild horse. His lips hovered above Lee’s, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them, hot and uneven. Bill could feel the younger man’s chest rising against his, the heat of his body seeping through the thin layer of clothes between them.
When their lips met, it wasn’t like before—it wasn’t desperate or wild. It was slow, tentative, like Bill was afraid to take too much. His lips moved against Lee’s with an almost reverence, the salty tang of tears and the bright metallic taste of blood mixing on his tongue.
The redhead’s mouth softened under him, and the bounty hunter let out a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan, his fingers sliding up to tangle in Bill’s hair. The touch was hesitant at first, but as the older man deepened the kiss, Lee’s grip tightened, pulling him closer, until there wasn’t a breath of space between them.
The outlaw’s hands roamed lower, shaking slightly as they slid down Lee’s sides. He could feel the heat radiating off the man, the way his muscles tensed and flexed beneath his touch. His fingers fumbled at the hem of the bounty hunter’s shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to brush against the bare skin.
The redhead arched slightly, his body instinctively moving toward the touch, and Bill felt his chest tighten even more. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Lee to let him get this far, let alone respond the way he did. Every little gasp, every twitch of the younger man’s body under his hands, was feeding the fire building in Bill’s chest, making it near impossible to think straight.
“You can keep going,” the redhead whispered breathlessly against the older man’s lips, his voice barely more than a rasp.
Keep going?
Bill’s breath hitched at the words, and before he could stop himself, his lips left Lee’s mouth, trailing down to the sharp line of his jaw, then lower to the tender curve of his neck. The outlaw’s stubble scraped against the redhead’s skin, earning a sharp intake of breath from the bounty hunter. Bill pressed a kiss to the hollow of the younger man's throat, his lips lingering there as he felt the frantic beat of his pulse against his mouth.
Lee let out a low, breathy sound, his hands tightening in Bill’s hair as his head tilted back, giving him more access. The older man couldn’t hold back a groan of his own, his lips pressing harder against the soft skin of the bounty hunter’s neck, tasting the salt of his sweat.
The outlaw’s hands slid lower, gripping Lee’s hips as he pressed their bodies together. His mind was a haze, every thought drowned out by the heat and the weight of the man beneath him. He wanted more—needed more—but for the first time in a long time, Bill forced himself to hold back, to move slow and careful.
This wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before, and damn if it didn’t scare the hell out of him.
Bill's hands roamed across Lee’s body with the kind of reverence a preacher might have for a holy relic, his fingers trembling as they traced the curve of the redhead’s waist, his ribs, every rise and fall of his chest. The outlaw’s breath hitched when Lee arched beneath him again, pressing up against him with a heat that seared straight through his clothes. It was intoxicating, but it wasn’t just the physical pull that left the older man trembling. It was the way Lee’s body seemed to yield to him, hands grasping the other man’s sides, fingers gingerly slipping under the outlaw's shirt to caress the skin underneath.
If this was what led him to Hell, Bill figured he’d been a damned fool to spend thirty years of his life praying. What good had it done him? No amount of scripture-reading or piety could’ve brought him here, to this moment, with the bounty hunter trembling beneath his touch. Bill didn’t even feel like he was fighting to take something anymore. Lee wasn’t just letting him take, wasn’t just tolerating his touch—he was giving back, willingly. The realization made Bill lightheaded.
As much as the outlaw wanted to draw out this moment for as long as he could, he hardly had any lick of control left.
His fingers fumbled with Lee’s belt, the leather creaking under his grip as he tugged it free in one rough motion. There was no time for finesse, no room for anything but the all-consuming need that had taken hold of him. Lee made a faint, breathy sound as Bill tugged his britches down, the sound alone enough to make the older man’s cock throb painfully against the confines of his own pants. But that didn’t matter none—he’ll get his fill later.
When the younger man was finally bare, Bill froze in awe, as he stared, hungrily, at Lee’s cock. The outlaw’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he took in the sight—it was better than he remembered, now that it was hard and pulsing with heat.
Bill dared a glance at Lee’s face, only to find him looking to the side, his brows furrowed, as if the shame had crept in to settle alongside the pleasure. That sight made something ache deep in the outlaw’s chest.
Bill lowered himself, pressing his lips to the sharp edge of Lee’s hipbone, letting them linger there like a prayer. His rough hands smoothed over the redhead’s thighs, coaxing them apart gently. The muscles under his palms quivered, a shiver rippling through the younger man’s frame, and Bill couldn’t help the low groan that rumbled from his chest.
The outlaw didn’t wait long before dipping lower, his breath hot against the younger man’s skin as he settled between his legs. The scent hit him first—musk and sweat and something that was purely Lee. It was heady, damn near intoxicating, and Bill found himself leaning closer, his nose brushing against the base of the redhead’s cock as he let the scent overwhelm him. He traced his tongue all the way up, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the leaking tip, groaning at the taste of sweat, skin and slick on his tongue.
Without any more heitation, the outlaw stretched his jaw as far as he could, wrapping his lips around the head of Lee’s cock. The taste was sharper here—musky, salty, almost bitter—but Bill couldn’t get enough. He groaned around it, the vibration making the redhead’s thighs twitch against his shoulders. Bill’s hands gripped those thighs, holding them steady as he took more of Lee into his mouth, his tongue swirling along the sensitive underside.
The younger man’s breathing turned ragged, chest heaving as his hands flew to Bill’s hair, fingers tangling in the messy strands. He wasn’t pulling or pushing, just holding on like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. The redhead’s hips jerked, and Bill tightened his grip on him, pinning him down as he worked his mouth over him with a hunger that bordered on desperation.
Every sound that spilled from Lee’s lips—every gasp, every shaky moan—sent a bolt of pleasure straight through Bill. He groaned again, letting his teeth graze lightly against the sensitive flesh before smoothing it over with his tongue. The weight of the bounty hunter on his tongue, the way he pulsed with every beat of his racing heart, had the outlaw damn near losing his mind.
Bill pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips shiny and swollen as he licked his way back up Lee’s length, savoring every inch. The younger man shuddered beneath him, his body trembling, and the older man groaned hungrily.
If this was what damnation felt like, he’d take it gladly, over and over again. Hellfire and brimstone were a small price to pay for this—Lee laid bare before him, breathing hard, skin flushed—the red blotches blooming all over his neck and chest. The sight before him made the outlaw feel like a man stuck in a desert for days, finally getting a taste of water.
Bill went back to work, taking Lee deeper this time, his tongue curling around the hot, rigid flesh like he was trying to commit the taste of him to memory. The outlaw’s hands gripped the other man’s thighs tighter, holding him steady as he worked his mouth with purpose. Lee’s body arched, his thighs couldn't stop quivering under the older man’s touch, and the noises spilling from his lips were enough to drive Bill halfway insane. Each gasp, each choked-out whimper felt like it was branding itself into Bill’s very soul.
The room around them faded away, the creak of the old bedframe and the low whistle of the wind through the cracks in the walls becoming background noise to the symphony of Lee’s ragged breathing and Bill’s muffled groans. He wanted to drown in it, to lose himself completely in the younger man’s taste and heat.
Then, just as Bill thought he was unraveling the last of Lee’s defenses, he almost missed it—the soft, broken way the bounty hunter breathed out, “Jimmy—,” the name cutting off with a sharp hiss, as Bill’s teeth scraped just a little too roughly against him.
Almost.
The sound hit Bill like a fist to the gut. He froze, his lips still wrapped around Lee, his mind reeling. For a second, he told himself he hadn’t heard it right, that maybe it was just a trick of his ears. But when he lifted his face, the look on Lee’s face told him everything he needed to know.
The redhead’s expression was a mixture of guilt and sadness, his flushed skin paling just a little as his eyes darted away from Bill’s.
“I’m sorry,” Lee whispered, his voice barely audible over the hammering of the outlaw’s pulse in his ears.
Blue eyes met his then, and Bill swore he saw pity swimming in their depths. That same goddamn pity that twisted the knife every time it reared its head.
The outlaw’s lips stretched into a grimace—a sad, broken thing that wasn’t even pretending to be a smile. He pulled back entirely, sitting up and dragging a hand over his face as he tried to steady himself. The taste of Lee still lingered on his tongue, but it might as well have turned to ash.
Lee didn’t want him. Not really.
He was a fool to think otherwise, a fool to let himself believe, even for a second, that he could be more than a stand-in for the man he’d taken from the bounty hunter.
The realization cut deep, but Bill swallowed the sting, burying it down where it couldn’t claw its way to the surface. He couldn’t afford to stop now. If this was all he’d ever get, he’d take it, even if it left him hollow and aching in the end.
Bill didn’t say a word, his jaw tight as he pressed his lips back to Lee’s cock, determined to drown in the taste of him, to lose himself in the sounds the younger man made. His hands gripped the redhead’s hips firmly, holding him in place as his mouth worked with a desperate sort of fervor. Each movement was purposeful, every flick of his tongue and pull of his lips meant to undo Lee, to make him forget everything—Jim, the past, the resentment—until there was nothing left but this moment between them.
The outlaw moved with a hunger that bordered on frantic, his mouth hot and wet as it dragged along the other man’s length. He wanted to burn himself into the bounty hunter's memory, to make sure that for this moment, at least, there was no room for anything or anyone else.
Lee let out a strangled moan, as his hands tangled in Bill’s hair, thighs trembling under the older man’s touch. The sound was enough to spur the outlaw on, his groans vibrating against the redhead's skin as he took him deeper, his throat straining as he pushed himself to the edge of his limits.
The younger man’s body arched off the bed, his breath hitching in a way that made Bill’s chest tighten. The outlaw could feel the tension coiling in the younger man's muscles, the telltale signs that he was close.
Bill didn’t stop until Lee’s whole body tensed, his breath catching before he shuddered violently, his release spilling into the other man’s waiting mouth. The outlaw swallowed without hesitation, his hands gentling on Lee’s hips as he worked him through the aftershocks, his tongue soothing and soft now, his earlier desperation giving way to something more tender.
When he finally pulled back, Bill pressed his forehead against the redhead’s hip, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The outlaw’s fingers lingered on Lee’s thighs, stroking the heated skin absentmindedly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the bed, unable to meet the other man’s eyes.
With a soft grunt, Bill crawled up Lee’s body, settling his weight in the crook of the redhead’s neck. The scent of sweat filled his senses, grounding him and driving him crazy all at once. He buried his face there, breathing it in deep, like a man starved for air.
As his trembling hands moved to discard his own britches, Bill worked them down awkwardly, his thighs brushing against Lee’s. The cool night air hit his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating off the younger man. He didn’t dare look up, couldn’t risk seeing the look in Lee’s eyes—whether it was pity, disgust, or worse, indifference. It’d break him clean in two.
Bill pressed himself against the redhead, the heat of their bodies connecting in a way that made him feel both alive and raw as hell. His calloused hand wrapped around himself, moving in rough, urgent strokes. Each tug sent a jolt through him, and every sound he made—those guttural groans and ragged breaths—seemed to echo louder in the stillness of the room.
Lee lay still beneath him, his breath uneven, chest rising and falling against Bill’s. The outlaw shut his eyes tight, letting the sensation of the moment overwhelm him. The scent of Lee, the taste of him, the dampness of his skin, the memory of his gasps—all fueled the fire burning low in Bill’s belly.
It didn’t take long. With a shuddering breath and a low, drawn-out moan he couldn’t bite back, the outlaw found his release, his body going taut before he spilled between them. He didn’t stop moving his hand, wringing out every last wave of pleasure, his face buried in the crook of Lee’s neck—so tight he could hardly breathe—like he was afraid to let go.
When it was over, Bill stilled, afraid to move, not ready for it to end. His weight rested heavy against Lee, but not crushing, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
When the outlaw finally opened his eyes, his gaze fell to the mess between them. A sudden realization struck him hard—this wasn’t enough. He needed more. If this was his last night in this godforsaken world, he deserved more. He was going to take every last bit of Lee he could get.
“Lee...” Bill’s voice came out rough, his need plain as day. He finally dared to look the younger man in the eye, hoping to communicate what he wanted without having to say it outright.
The bounty hunter stared back at the outlaw, chewing on his lip in contemplation, his expression unreadable for a beat too long. Then, with a small sigh, the bounty hunter pushed gently against the older man’s chest, urging the older man to roll off of him.
Bill obeyed, lying back and propping himself up on his elbows as Lee slid out from under him. The redhead leaned over the side of the bed, hair temptingly sticking to his sweat-slicked neck, as he rummaged through his bag. When the bounty hunter sat back up, he held a small vial between his fingers.
Gun oil, Bill realized with a start. His breath hitched as his brain caught up to what Lee was offering. The outlaw didn’t move a muscle, just watched as the redhead’s eyes flicked to his, then back down to the vial. Bill swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as anticipation coiled tight in his gut.
They shifted positions without a word. Bill found himself flat on his back, sprawled out across the bed, while Lee climbed over him, his knees bracketing the older man's hips. The sight of the redhead straddling him made Bill’s pulse thrum like a stampede through his veins.
Lee poured the oil over his fingers, the slick substance glistening in the low light as he reached behind himself. Bill’s breath caught as he watched the other man’s hand—the bounty hunter beginning to work himself open with slow, deliberate motions.
The younger man’s features twisted, his brows drawing together as his lips parted in a faint grimace. The sight sent a pang through Bill’s chest—half concern, half something darker and possessive.
“Does it hurt?” Bill asked breathlessly. He realized, he’s grown hard again.
Lee groaned softly, his hips shifting as he worked another finger inside. “It always does at first,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact, though there was a raw edge to it.
Of course it hurt, Bill thought bitterly. And of course this wasn’t Lee’s first time—he wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise. Keefer had surely had his turn, and maybe some other bastard after him too.
That ugly thought twisted like a knife in Bill’s gut. Lee was his. If only for this one night, but dammit, he was his.
Before Lee could protest, the outlaw snatched up the vial and poured more of the oil onto his own fingers. His hands were bigger, rougher, and maybe not as practiced, but he felt like he had to be the one doing this.
Bill’s fingers replaced Lee’s, the outlaw’s touch firm yet careful as he eased them inside. The sound the redhead made—a low, throaty groan—left Bill shivering. The younger man braced himself against the outlaw's shoulders, his head falling forward as his breath came in shallow pants.
“Easy, darlin’,” Bill murmured, his free hand sliding up to stroke the redhead’s thigh.
Lee’s body relaxed little by little under Bill’s touch, his movements losing some of their tension as he let the outlaw take over. The sight of Lee like this—open, vulnerable, and trusting—made the outlaw's chest ache something fierce.
He added another finger, scissoring them gently, and Lee gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. Bill’s lips curled into a smug grin, realizing that he’d hit the spot he’d heard so much about in whispered saloon tales.
The redhead’s reaction spurred him on, each gasp and shudder like fuel to the fire building in the older man's gut. He adjusted the angle slightly, his fingers working deeper, dragging over that spot again. Lee’s head fell back, his breath escaping in short, stuttering moans that made Bill’s chest swell with something primal.
For a fleeting moment, Bill let himself forget how this night would end. Right now, with Lee trembling and perfect above him, the rest of the world could go to Hell for all he cared.
“E-enough,” the bounty hunter stammered suddenly, his voice unsteady, as he grasped Bill’s wrist. His body trembled as he pulled the other man’s hand away, breathing like he’d just run ten miles.
But when Lee started to move to shift into a different position, perhaps more suitable to their needs, Bill’s fingers dug into the younger man’s thighs like a vulture sinking its claws into its prey.
“No,” Bill said, his voice low and pleading. “Like this.”
Lee’s eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked like he might protest. But then the redhead sighed again, surrendering to the older man’s whim.
Like a mother giving in to a child’s tantrum.
Bill adjusted himself beneath Lee, his hands roaming over the bounty hunter’s hips as he guided him into position. The slick heat of the other man’s body against his own sent a shiver down Bill’s spine, and he groaned low in his throat, his fingers pressing harder into the redhead’s skin.
“Take what you need, sweetheart,” the Bill murmured, his voice rough with need as he looked up at Lee. “Ain’t no rush.”
The bounty hunter didn’t respond, but his lips parted, and a shaky exhale passed through them as he slowly sank down, taking the outlaw inch by inch. The stretch stole the air out of both their lungs—Bill’s gasp one of pure, unfiltered delight, while Lee’s carried the sharp edge of pain, his jaw tightening as he adjusted.
The outlaw’s head thunked back against the bedframe, dark hair sticking to his damp face. His grip on Lee’s hips tightened, just enough to steady the redhead as he hovered, caught somewhere between agony and pleasure.
Lee stayed there, still as the night air, his breathing uneven. Bill swore under his breath, the heat and tightness driving him damn near crazy. It took all the self-control he had not to grab hold of the redhead's hips and drive into that sweet heat, taking what he so badly wanted.
“Take your time,” Bill rasped, his voice strung tight, like a rope on the verge of snapping. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles into the other man’s skin, though his own body betrayed him, trembling with restraint.
Lee let out a broken moan, his hands bracing against Bill’s chest. The redhead's fingers curled slightly, clutching the outlaw’s shirt as he moved experimentally. The small shift sent shockwaves through both of them. Bill swore again, his hips bucking slightly as he fought the urge to take control. This wasn’t just about him—not this time.
Lee kept moving, his rhythm unsteady but growing surer with each roll of his hips. Every soft, breathless sound he made only spurred Bill further into the depths of something he couldn’t put words to—something that clawed at his chest and left him raw. For once, the outlaw wasn’t just taking—he was giving, too. And as he watched Lee move, his head tilted back and his lips parted with a quiet, trembling gasp, Bill knew in his bones he’d give this man everything, even if it left him hollow.
The redhead’s movements grew faster, more desperate, his head thrown back and his eyes shut tight, biting his lips so hard he drew blood, as his hand trailed down to rub his cock. The outlaw was so enthralled with Lee’s face he didn’t even notice when the redhead got hard again.
Bill didn’t think—he just acted, slapping Lee’s hand away and replacing it with his own. His rough fingers wrapped around the younger man’s length, stroking him slowly at first, then quicker, though still not quite matching the pace of the other man's hips.
The redhead let out a small groan in frustration, his whole body shuddering with need. His right hand gripped Bill’s thighs, nails digging into the outlaw’s skin, while the left one tugged on the older man's shirt so hard it nearly tore at the seams. Then, without any hint of shame or demure, Lee used the leverage to start riding—really riding—the outlaw.
Somewhere deep down Bill always knew this man was going to be the death of him.
As the outlaw could only stare in awe, the bounty hunter's head tilted back further, his neck exposed, a beautiful flush creeping up the sides of his face as the man no longer fought to maintain control over the flood of sensations rushing through him. Lee’s breathing was ragged, the sound of his desperation thick in the air, filling the space between them with an intimacy that was suffocating in its intensity.
The sight of Lee coming undone like this—above him, around him—was enough to make Bill’s heart pound so hard he thought it might give out altogether. His chest ached something fierce, like it couldn’t contain all the emotion pouring out of it.
The redhead's writhing body, the sounds spilling from him, it was almost too much to bear. Bill could feel his own restraint snapping, but he held back, wanting to savor every second of this. The sheer vulnerability Lee was offering, the way his body was laid bare before him—it was more than just physical. It was a silent surrender, and the outlaw wanted to feel it in every fiber of his being.
Bill’s fingers tightened around Lee’s cock, moving with more purpose now, matching the frantic pace of the bounty hunter's hips. The sound of skin on skin, the gasps and moans spilling from Lee’s throat, stirred something within Bill. He could feel the tension in the redhead’s body, the coil of anticipation winding tighter with each movement, until finally—
Lee cried out, his body going rigid as he spilled over Bill’s hand, his release hot and sticky between them. His head dropped forward, as he leaned onto the outlaw, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that filled the space between them.
Bill couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, constricted, as if the air around him had turned too thick to draw in. His fingers, still wrapped around Lee’s cock, refused to still as the redhead’s body trembled through the aftershocks of his release.
For a brief moment, all Bill could do was hold the younger man, his own pulse erratic, his mind spinning with a thousand thoughts he couldn’t focus on. The world felt too small in that moment, too quiet, save for the sound of their breathing.
And then, as Lee had given the last of himself to Bill, his body slumped against the outlaw's—a comforting weight. His breath, still ragged, tickled the older man's skin, and in that fragile silence, Bill felt something twist inside him. The emotions flooding him were as powerful as the desire that had driven them both to this point. Something raw, something aching in his chest that he couldn’t name, even though he could feel it tearing him apart.
Bill hesitated, his hand stilling on Lee, his own breath caught in his chest. The tears came hot and unchecked, sliding down his cheeks before he even knew they were there. And to think he hadn’t cried in years before this night.
God help him, Bill didn’t want this moment to end—didn’t want to let go of Lee, didn’t…
Didn’t want to die.
The realization made the older man want to wail.
With a trembling breath, Bill shifted until they were both fully seated, his arms wrapping around the redhead’s slender frame like a lifeline. He held Lee close, burying his face in the curve of the younger man’s shoulder. The outlaw sobbed harder, his body trembling as if he might fall apart at the seams.
“Say my name,” Bill rasped, his voice thick with desperation that he could no longer keep hidden. He felt Lee stiffen slightly in his hold, the other man’s jaw clenching tight. “Please, Lee.”
There was a moment—a heartbeat where the outlaw thought he might’ve asked too much, crossed some line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Then, finally, a soft, warm murmur brushed against his ear, barely louder than a whisper.
“Bill…”
The sound was like a bolt of lightning through his chest, a spark that lit him up from the inside out. He couldn’t stop the moan that tore from his throat, trailing off into a high-pitched whine that left him breathless. His hands clutched at Lee’s hips, holding him tighter, as if the world might rip the redhead away from him at any moment. The older man started moving again—fast and frantic.
If there was a heaven out there in the stars, Bill figured it couldn’t hold a candle to this. Right here, with Lee’s voice still lingering in the air and his body pressed against his own, this was his version of paradise.
Bill’s lips found the younger man’s neck, pressing wet kisses to the already damp skin as he whispered, “You keep sayin’ it, darlin’. Let me hear it again.”
Lee shuddered in his arms, overstimulated, his breath hitching, yet he didn’t pull back, didn’t ask the older man to stop, but merely obliged. “Bill..!”
Each time the name left Lee’s lips, rising in volume, it felt like salvation, like a rope pulling the outlaw out of the darkness that had wrapped around his soul for longer than he cared to admit. If he were to die right here and now—sweat-soaked, trembling, and tangled up with Lee—then, dammit, he’d die a happy man.
With that final thought he came.
They stayed seated, intertwined, as the room fell silent save for the quiet rasp of their breathing. Bill’s arms remained locked around Lee, his face buried in the younger man’s hair, breathing him in like it might tether him to this fleeting moment. He didn’t want to move—didn’t want to let go.
Bill slowly raised his head up, his breath warm against Lee’s temple, pressing the faintest kiss there before pulling back just enough to see his face. Something in the redhead’s expression made him pause. He cupped Lee’s jaw and leaned in for a kiss, but this time, there was no response from the other man.
The outlaw pulled back with a frown and noticed something else—Lee’s fingers, which had been gripping his shirt moments ago, had gone slack, his face looking... distant. The man had gone completely still, his gaze clouded, like he was already somewhere else.
A smile flickered—rueful and knowing—on Bill's lips.
It was clear the outlaw was overstaying his welcome.
A stray thought snuck into the older man's mind, unbidden and unwelcome. What if he kept the bounty hunter here? Bound and locked, trapped where no one else could touch him, could claim him? It was the only way to make sure Lee stayed his. The idea was dark and shameful, but the worst part? It didn’t feel all that crazy to him.
Bill tightened his grip for just a second, squeezing his eyes shut as he wrestled the thought away. No. Lee wasn’t his—not really. Not in the way he wanted him to be.
When the moment finally shattered, and they began to disentangle themselves, it was slow and reluctant, like tearing apart a piece of fabric that had been stitched too tight. The weight of what had just happened hung heavy in the air between them, thick enough to choke on.
They dressed in silence, their movements awkward and stilted. Bill’s hands fumbled with his belt as if they’d forgotten how to work altogether, his chest aching like someone had jammed a knife in and twisted it clean around. Every time he snuck a glance at Lee, the redhead’s expression was unreadable—a blank slate where there should’ve been something. Anything.
Once they were clothed again, there was an awkward pause when neither of them moved or said anything. Lee sat on the bed, brows furrowed, an already bruised lip caught between his teeth, his gaze fixed on a wide crack in a floorboard. And Bill—Bill just stared at the younger man like a sinner before a holy icon, desperate for absolution he knew he’d never get.
Just when the outlaw was ready to turn around, Lee finally broke the silence—his voice was tentative, soft, like he was talking to a scared animal.
“Bill, you know, it doesn’t have to end like this, right? What you felt just now—you can feel it again...”
Bill’s heart jumped, like a half-broke stallion hearing the rustle of reins, a flicker of hope sparking to life in the ashes of his soul. For a second, just a second, he thought the bounty hunter might be throwing him a lifeline.
But before he could latch onto it, Lee stomped it out like a man squishing a pesky bug.
“…With someone else.”
It was like a punch to the gut, the kind that leaves a man breathless and crumbling. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating, like the outlaw was drowning and there wasn’t no way up. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles going white as he fought the urge to holler, to grab hold of Lee and beg him to take it back.
“What if I don’t want no one else?” Bill’s voice split down the middle, raw and fraying at the edges, the sound of a man staring down the edge of nothing.
The outlaw’s chest hitched hard, breath snagging like barbed wire in his lungs. He couldn't bare the look on Lee’s face right now. That look—hell, it was worse than hatred. Hate, he could stomach. Hate was honest. Hate meant the bounty hunter still saw him as a man worth damnation. But that look? That was the look folks gave to a mangy dog by the side of the road.
Broken.
Hopeless.
Not worth saving.
Lee shook his head once and closed his eyes, brows furrowing deeper, like he was trying to shake the thought clean outta his skull.
“That’s not—”
That expression—it twisted something mean and rotten in Bill’s gut, like a knife turning slow. Made him want to bare his teeth, made him want to shake the bounty hunter till that pity cracked and turned into something uglier, something he could recognize.
“Well, would you stay with me then? Would you hold me, kiss me, hell, lay with me outta pity every time I asked?”
Lee looked away, jaw tight, shoulders slumping, defeated. There was profound sadness in his blue eyes, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to soothe the fire raging in Bill’s chest, wasn’t enough to patch up the gaping wound left behind.
The now familiar grimace settled on the outlaw’s face like a mask, cold and hard as a gunslinger facing down his fate. He swallowed thickly, bitterness twisting in his gut. This was it. This was all the charity Lee had to offer, wasn’t it? A little scrap tossed his way, just enough to keep him hoping, but not enough to save him from damnation.
He should’ve been grateful he got that much, really.
“Bill…” Lee trailed off softly, his voice uncertain, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
There was nothing left to say.
The older man turned, his movements stiff and jerky, his boots scuffing against the floorboards as he tried to hold himself together. His vision blurred, tears burning hot trails down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point?
“Thank you, Lee. For everything.”
The words felt hollow, but Bill did mean them, even if they left a sour taste in his mouth. He started walking his boots pounding against the wooden floor like the drumbeat of his final moments.
Bill didn’t dare look back. Because if he did—if he caught even one more glimpse of Lee sitting there, somber and just out of reach—he might not have the strength to leave. He might come to do something that he’ll regret.
The morning came slow, light creeping through the broken shutters in pale, dusty beams. The faint creak of the wind against the loose boards was the only sound, a quiet lament to the events of the night.
Lee lay sprawled on the sagging mattress, his body as still as death, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Despite everything that happened, exhaustion had dug its claws deep into him, dragging him into a restless sleep.
His dreams, as they often were, were plagued by Bill. The outlaw’s voice—rough and drawling—pulled him toward something, a feeling that lingered just out of reach. Those dark, piercing eyes bore into him, looking at him like the redhead was the only man on this Earth. The man's hot breath against his own, moaning softly into the younger man's mouth—which didn't leave Lee feeling as disgusted as it should've.
And then came the silhouette—Bill’s frame etched sharp against the fiery horizon, the colors of sunrise casting him in shades of gold and shadow. Lee tried to reach out, to say something, but the figure only grew smaller and smaller, drifting further into the distance until all that was left was the empty sky.
Lee woke with a start, gasping for breath as if he’d really been chasing after the outlaw in his sleep, his heart pounding hard against the ribs. The memories of the night before came rushing back, flooding his mind with bittersweet clarity.
The room was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that crept into his bones and made his skin crawl.
“Bill?” He called out, his voice hoarse and cracking under the weight of it, though deep down, some part of him already knew there’d be no answer.
Panic hit him fast and hard, blooming in his chest like a wildfire. Without a second thought, Lee scrambled to his feet, yanking his boots on with trembling hands and snatching his hat off the floor. The echo of his spurs cut sharply through the silence as he rushed down the rickety stairs, every creak and groan of the wood like the ticking of a clock. He pushed through the splintered door, out into the morning air.
The sight before him was as haunting as it was inevitable.
But it still hurt.
The closer Lee got, the clearer the scene became. Bill’s face was tilted slightly to the side, his expression eerily calm, as if he’d made his peace with whatever Devil was waiting for him on the other side.
The redhead dropped to his knees beside him, hand hovering over Bill’s shoulder, hesitating before finally settling there. The warmth was already gone, replaced by the unnerving chill of death.
His other hand drifted to the brim of Bill’s hat lying nearby, fingers brushing the worn fabric. He hesitated, then picked it up, unsure of what to do with it. Somehow, it didn’t feel right, leaving it here—not like this, not when Bill was already gone. Lee let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb over the frayed edges as if memorizing the feel of it, then took off his hat, replacing it with the outlaw's dark one. It sat heavier on his head, smelling of smokes, iron, and something unmistakably Bill. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but maybe that was the point.
The bounty hunter's gaze drifted back to the man's body.
“I wish things were different,” Lee murmured, his voice laced with sorrow. “But I hope you’ve found peace, Bill. I really do.”
His throat burned, his chest tightening as he finally pulled his hand away and let it drop to the side, his legs unsteady beneath him. The bounty hunter cast one last glance down at Bill before turning toward the barn.
The old shovel leaned against a rotting beam, its handle splintered and worn smooth from years of use. Lee grabbed it, the weight of the wood and steel grounding him, giving him a task to focus on.
He chose a spot near the broken-down fence, where the desert stretched endlessly, meeting the pale horizon in a blur of shimmering heat and sand. The ground here was dry and cracked, a parched expanse of earth that seemed just as lifeless as the man he was burying. Lee figured it was as good a spot as any—a quiet place where the wind could carry Bill’s sins far away and leave him in peace.
The desert soil was hard as stone, the sun-baked crust refusing to yield without a fight. Every thrust of the shovel jarred Lee’s hands, splinters digging into his palms as he worked. The heat pressed down on him, even in the cool of the morning, and the air was heavy with the scent of dust and the faint tang of old sagebrush.
By the time the grave was finished, the sun had climbed higher, its rays cutting sharp and relentless. Lee’s shirt clung to his back with sweat, his muscles trembling as he wiped at his brow. His legs ached from bracing against the stubborn ground, but he didn’t let himself stop.
He walked back to where Bill lay, the outlaw’s body stretched out on the dry earth. His face was still, almost serene, but the sight of him—so lifeless—knotted Lee’s stomach. For years, Bill had been a force of nature: rough, loud, reckless, and untouchable. Now, all of that had burned out, leaving only silence.
Lee knelt beside him, his breath hitching as he slipped his arms under Bill’s body. The outlaw felt even heavier than he looked, and Lee had to fight the urge to collapse under the weight. He carried him slowly to the grave, his boots crunching against the sand and rocks with every step.
He lowered Bill into the earth as gently as he could, his hands shaking as he arranged him—the outlaw's revolver placed neatly beside him, the bounty hunter's hat covering the head wound. It wasn’t much, but it was all Lee could do.
Yet, he wished he could’ve done more, could’ve said something, could’ve made the outlaw see that there were other ways to carry the weight he’d been shouldering alone.
“You could’ve had you been willin’ to.”
The thought slithered into his mind unbidden, cruel and biting, and the voice sounded too much like Bill’s, vicious and snide, always ready to cut deep where it hurt most.
Lee took a sharp inhale, chasing the evil thought away. Bill wasn’t his load to carry, hell, the bounty hunter had enough of burdens on his shoulders. But even as the redhead told it to himself, the ache in his chest told a different story. He’d carried the weight of the outlaw in one way or another for years, and now that it was over, he wasn’t sure how to let go.
Grabbing the shovel, Lee began to fill the grave. Each shovelful of dirt felt heavier than the last, each clump landing with a hollow thud that seemed to echo in the still air. The sound was a stark reminder—final and unrelenting—that the man he had spent the last eight years chasing was truly gone.
Bill had always been the kind of man to cling to God, looking for salvation. Muttering prayers under his breath, even if they didn’t quite fit the man he was—full of violence, lies, and sins he couldn’t take back. Lee didn’t share that faith. Hell, he didn’t share much of anything with Bill other than a tangled history and sexual deviancy, but this felt like something he owed him. Maybe it wouldn’t do a damned thing, but it was the only thing left.
Lee dropped to his knees beside the grave, and clasped his hands together, his elbows digging into his knees. The words came slow, a foreign rhythm on his tongue. He couldn’t remember the last time he prayed, couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked for anything but vengeance.
But here, now, with the weight of a man’s death pressing on him, he said the words.
When he was done, Lee stood up and threw one last look at the unmarked grave. The redhead tipped his new hat, his voice hoarse as he muttered, “Rest easy, Bill. Can’t say you earned it, but I reckon you deserve it anyway.”
The grave didn’t answer back. It never did.
Lee turned, his boots dragging through the sand. The sun climbed higher, baking the earth and making the horizon shimmer like a cruel mirage. He couldn’t bring himself to look back; he didn’t want to see the lonely grave shrinking behind him—another ghost he’d have to carry.
The vast emptiness of the desert stretched out before him—horizon seemed endless, mocking him with its open space and silent indifference. His chest ached, not from the physical strain of digging, but from the hollow space left behind.
Lee swallowed hard and pulled the hat low, shadowing his eyes from the unforgiving sun. He’d survived before, and he would survive again. That’s what he told himself, anyway.
But as the desert swallowed him up, one foot dragging in front of the other, the truth clawed at the edges of his mind: he wasn’t sure who he was anymore without Bill to chase, to fight, to resent.
Lee was alone again.