Work Text:
Butch Cavendish doesn't care one way or the other.
It appeared that Butch Cavendish didn't care if you were bleeding to death either.
His brother's – his dead brother's – words kept ringing in his hears, more and more taunting as time went by, but John was still grateful for them 'cos they drowned out the distant laughing, the panting behind him and his own ragged breaths.
-
He'd made more noises in the beginning, pained grunts mostly. He'd even managed half a scream when his wrist had been snapped in response to his last, feeble attempt at resisting. He'd been nearly silent ever since, just sputtering every now and then when too much blood and dirt ended up in his mouth and his stupid body rebelled against the insufficient air.
He wouldn't have minded if his body stopped struggling. After all, it was just a matter of time.
-
The bets on how long he would last had started right away.
After Cavendish had finished... After he'd finished with his brother, Cavendish had looked at him and saw him blinking sluggishly. He'd shouted orders John's brain hadn't bothered comprehending and soon he'd been gracelessly hefted onto the back of a horse.
“Say goodbye to brother dear, but don't worry, you won't be apart for long.”
-
He'd drifted in and out of consciousness as they rode, catching snippets of conversations half sniggered and half murmured (not because of him, obviously).
“I bet Butch gets bored of him before he dies, and then eats him!”
“What part? Do you thi-”
...
“-the heart, so he can, ya know, have the pair in the same day...”
…
“Bet he dies while Butch's still going, he looks half dead already!”
It hadn't made much sense when he'd heard it, jostled nearly upside down on the horse, leaving a thin trail of blood behind him.
Now it made sense.
-
He didn't know how much time had passed.
He'd thought he'd die when the pain had first shot up from his backside, face shoved in the ground and dirt rubbing against the wound in his chest.
He still hadn't.
But he could tell it will be soon. He'd been blacking out more and more, and his body was now more numb than anything, pain everywhere but dull.
He really didn't care if he died with Cavendish still pounding away in him or cutting him open and eating pieces of him in his face.
He just wanted it over.
One way or the other.