Work Text:
Sundown Kid thinks he’s had enough traveling for now.
Never thought he’d see the day, really. Running was all he knew, dust trailing behind him from town to town. It was a fine way to live life, searching for that perfect patch of desert. Can’t say he knew when that’d happen, but for the first time in ages, it’s the furthest thing from Sundown’s mind.
Being displaced in time does that to a man. He’s never missed sand before. The dry air is welcoming, like a lover’s embrace. Helps to know his world—the world’s—at peace. Good to know he’s done another task worth something after all this time. It’s enough to shine off some of the rust on his heart.
He swirls warm whiskey in his glass. He takes a sip, the rim of his hat casting a greater shadow over his eyes. He’s missed the simple air, listening to people talk. It’s calming, even if there’s a certain drawl he hasn’t heard in some time. Feels like a century or two.
May as well have been, considering where he just was. Might feel longer if he doesn’t show up. Sundown’s a patient man. Always has been. Nerves don’t suit him, but they seem to be tickling at the back of his skull today. He’s got his limits, and if his glass empties before sundown, he’ll vanish right along with it.
Damn. Sundown thought he’d never see the day where he wanted that man’s company more than a dying man would water. It’d be embarrassing if he wasn’t sure Mad Dog felt the same. It took more than just a bounty and stubborn nature to play an endless game of cat and mouse. Five thousand dollars seemed mere pennies in light of the thrill of crossing paths once again.
Heh. Maybe he has gotten sentimental over the years.
As he waits, Sundown surveys the saloon he’s found himself in. It’s much like the rest—smell of cheap spirits, low rumbling voices that turn into laughter after a few rounds. Recipes only known to a few made in a small but loved kitchen. A torn wanted poster in the corner that no one’s bothered to replace.
Good. Means Mad Dog’s been here. Means he’ll come back, if lady luck’s feeling generous. If they’re bound to each other like he said, there's no reason that they won’t run into each other again one day.
It’s like some law of the land, him and Mad Dog. Can’t live without the other. The so-called story they’re writing binds them in ink. The words aren’t too pretty, long gaps in prose, some pages empty. But the story is theirs, and Sundown isn’t about to let someone else go and write it.
There’s a swig of whiskey left before the saloon doors bang open with a flourish. Sundown doesn’t need to turn around to know why. Mad Dog’s always had a flair for the dramatic, Lord knows why. It never shows on his face, but there’s an enjoyment he gets from it all. Sometimes, Kid found himself not responding on purpose just to hear the man talk and talk as if his lungs never ran out of air.
“You’d think I would’ve searched every damn saloon in the west,” he almost sounds out of breath, as though he’s sprinted here, “and here I find you sipping whiskey like you hadn’t disappeared off the goddamn face of the earth.”
On purpose, Kid raises the glass to his lips.
“You’re a real goddamn piece of work,” Mad Dog continues. “At least look at me when I’m talking to you, Kid.”
He does as asked, barely looking over the wide brim of his hat. Mag Dog looks unamused.
“The hell you’d been, anyway?” he scowls.
Sundown’s never been one to beat around the bush. “Middle Ages,” he replies, setting the empty glass down on the bar.
You could hear a pin drop between the two of them. There’s a contemplative look on Mad Dog’s face, like he’s searching for what swear to start with next.
“Are you fucking with me?” Mad Dog scoffs. He leans down to meet his eyes, hands on his hips. “I never took you for much of a funny man.”
“Ain’t lying,” he replies with a shrug.
Mad Dog tries to find something to say, mouth opening and closing with only ridiculous sputters leaving him. His jaw clamps shut, firm, sighing with what could be described as fond annoyance.
It’s a hell of a story to tell, but Sundown knows Mad Dog will believe every word. You don’t spend a good portion of your life hunting a man down without learning a thing or two about them. Mad Dog is the showman, silver tongue and smooth talker, and Sundown is no liar.
Even so, Mad Dog’s reply is: “How much you had to drink, partner?”
Kid lifts the empty glass. “Not much.”
“Riiight,” he drawls, though there’s not too much disbelief in his tone. “Alright then, Kid, tell me this little tale of yours. I could use a good laugh or two before we get back to business.”
Mad Dog takes a seat, orders two glasses of whiskey, legs crossed as he flashes his trademark grin towards Sundown. He places an elbow on the wooden counter, chin pressed into his hand. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, now.”
And so, with as much detail as a weary cowboy’s capable of, tells Mad Dog of what he saw, what he fought, who he fought with. People from the past. A future they’ll never see. Facing monsters that looked like they jumped out of stories only told around the campfire. Evil from another world, and the man who fell for all of its sweet little lies.
It’s said with such a blasé nature, like Kid’s talking about the weather. All the while, Mad Dog stares him down with incredulity, as if he’s offended he can’t be bothered to give a damn for his sake.
“You telling me you fought the goddamn devil with some kids and a scrap of metal, and that’s all you gotta say to me?” It’s said with an exasperated sigh.
“Yeah,” Sundown answers.
He takes a deep breath before sliding a hand down his face. “How in the hell do you expect me to believe that?”
“Ain’t no point in lying,” he shrugs. “Not to you.”
Sundown can’t define the noise that leaves Mad Dog’s mouth. It does amuse him, which serves no purpose other than to frustrate the man more.
Finally, their eyes meet. “You know me better than that, Mad Dog.” There’s a fondness to his tone. Like one would give their lover, something Sundown didn’t think himself capable of.
Mad Dog only holds his gaze for so long, finding his glass of whiskey terribly interesting, given the way he’s staring at it. “Getting sentimental on me again, huh? You plan on making this a habit of yours?”
If it’s for Mad Dog, Sundown thinks he could make it a habit.
“Guess I can’t expect much else from the man who fled from our last duel, tail between his legs and everything.” Mad Dog swirls his whiskey before taking a sip as if he didn’t let the man go. “For the best arm in the west, you sure do have the shittiest aim sometimes.”
“Good enough to scare your horse.” God help him, he chuckles. The way this man makes him feel is something else.
An exasperated noise leaves Mad Dog as he sets his glass back down. “Lord help me if I don’t draw right now, Kid.” He doesn’t reach for his gun. “Unless you came back here to finally play out that ending of ours.” The words are a tease. A game.
“Something like that.” He’s added a few more chapters. Maybe an epilogue, too. “Got something I’d like to talk about first.” He pauses, then adds, “...about us.”
Sundown never imagined himself one to talk—not this much, not even when he had a place to call home. It’s easier with Mad Dog. Feels more natural, like it’s a conversation they were always meant to have. Maybe Mad Dog knows this too, the way his expression loses any edge. His grip on the glass of whiskey lessens, fingers dusting across the top of the bar.
“Alright,” he says slowly.
He didn’t go and plan any of this ahead, but Sundown thinks it wouldn’t do him any good regardless. There’s something about the way Mad Dog’s eyes reflect the dim lights of the bar that fuzz over his mind like he’s drained a barrel’s worth of whiskey. He’s always been handsome, sometimes frustratingly so that Kid’s chased after him before. Just to see a hint of those eyes, that cocky smile, graying hair that’s probably soft under his fingers.
Words have never been his strong suit, but Mad Dog knows him well enough anyway.
“Thought about some things after we helped Success Town,” he starts, voice low enough for only the other man to hear. “How it felt to do something good and decent for once. How it wouldn’t feel bad doing that again.” He looks up at Mad Dog. “Not alone, either.”
Mad Dog’s silent. No fancy quips or words that erred on the side of flirting. Nothing but an expression, a dawning realization of what this all might mean.
“We could put an end to this game of ours, Mad Dog.” Sundown looks at him as if he’s the only man in this saloon—only man in the entirety of the sandswept mesas they’ve called home. “Stop chasing each other. Travel together. Be decent men.” The next phrase slips out as if he should have uttered it years ago, “find somewhere to hang our hats after.”
We. Together. Our. Sundown strings these words together as if he’s known them from the moment they first laid eyes on each other. He’s far from the fancy authors of those fancy Greek tragedies Mad Dog once compared them to. Somehow, Sundown doesn’t think he’ll mind.
There’s a curious hue forming on Mad Dog’s cheeks, a brilliant mix of pink and red. There’s a part in his lips as he continues to stare at Sundown. Knocking him speechless is one feat, but making the man forget how to talk may be a new skill entirely.
“You don’t gotta accept,” he adds after.
“You—” Mad Dog gives a sputter. “What kinda goddamn game are you playing at, Kid?” His brows furrow, “I come and follow this trail you left me after thinking you were dead , having you tell me we should work together—and then tell me I don’t gotta accept? Like I’m some kind of fool? After all these years we’ve spent with each other—!”
Alright. He can still talk.
“I’ve chased you over too many deserts to reject this generous offer of yours,” he continues, face still flush, “I almost lost you, dammit! You were gone for months , leaving me to think there was someone faster than you! Tellin’ me I don’t gotta accept—” He exhales through his nose. “I ain’t letting you go anywhere. Not this time. You ain’t leaving me in the goddamn dirt again.”
Months. He hadn’t been aware. Hard to keep track of time when you’re in a different age entirely. Feels like it goes on longer when you’re missing someone, too. Too short, too long—it’s a tangled, hazy web when there’s somewhere else you should be.
For Sundown Kid and Mad Dog, that place happens to be together. Bullet casings, prints in the sand, tracks that inexorably lead them on the same path. They were always meant to find each other. Home will follow them, wherever they settle down, if they ever do. It’ll always be waiting.
“Ain’t going nowhere.” Sundown extends his hand. “Promise.”
Mad Dog looks at him cautiously, as if he’s still judging if the man before him happens to be a mirage. When he takes Sundown’s hand, Kid observes how perfectly they seem to fit together. Kid’s hands, warm and rugged, encasing Mad Dog’s in his own. Mad Dog’s, smooth despite his rough edges, curled into a touch he’s craved far longer than he’s cared to admit.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t find you again, cowboy.” There’s a smile on his lips, teasing and familiar that causes the corners of his eyes to crinkle. Sundown’s always found the lines under them captivating. “Be a damn shame to find a reason to ask you to draw after you went and sweet talked me like that.”
Sundown could grace him with words, but action might suit them here better. There’s time to find what else there is to say. Months of frustration and lost feelings, years of admittances and skirting around missed bullets and being left in the dirt. Sundown knows they’re far from perfect at this kind of thing, but is that really so bad?
Not at all, he thinks, as he draws Mad Dog closer.
It’s a swift motion: Sundown sets his hat to the side, tips up Mad Dog’s with his finger similar to the motion with his gun, and kisses him like it’s his god-given mission to do so.
There’s wolf whistles and hoots and hollers, a stray voice in a slur telling them to get a room. Mad Dog’s hands curl deep in his poncho, Kid’s hands at his waist, damning the fact there’s suddenly too much space between the stools they’re sitting on. They’ve been separated by miles and days and centuries and a few damn feet is enough to make Kid think that spare room in the inn isn’t too bad an idea.
“You sure do know how to keep a man waiting, Kid.” Mad Dog doesn’t grant him a second breath.
Their lips meet again, tasting of whiskey and unsaid confessions. Maybe the words will come later, alone under the stars or stationed in a bed that neither man plans leaving. Kid could think of hundreds of possibilities, where they could end up. Places to live, to watch every sunset and see every star. Appreciate what mother nature’s given them, what they can give each other.
Maybe it’s how they were always meant to be. Leaving the same tracks in the desert, shared flasks of whiskey by a dwindling campfire under the stars. Sleeping under Sundown’s poncho until the first hints of dawn. Finding small towns dotted across the west who could use a helping hand. Searching and searching, but not for death, but to live.
Whatever it is, Sundown knows it’s a better ending for them both.