Chapter Text
Digital banner for a fanfiction titled "Fields of Gold." The artwork shows a sunset over blue-gray mountains and dark pine trees, with the silhouettes of ox-drawn covered wagons crossing the foreground. Gold dust drifts through the air, giving the image a glittering effect. The title “Fields of Gold” appears in large, elegant white script with the word “OF” in a bold serif font. In a decorative label at the bottom left, text reads: “An OFMD Big Bang 2025 – Oregon Trail/Gold Rush AU. Written by: Megofmd. Art by: Fish.”
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Western-style banner reading “Ed’s POV.” A bronze oval plaque with a rope border holds the text in cursive and bold serif fonts. The background fades from purple to gold with scattered gold flecks. On the left are sketchy cacti; on the right, a cow skull overlaps faint playing cards showing a royal flush. The style is rustic and artistic, with an outlaw theme.
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Ed pulls his pocket watch from the front pocket of his trousers, flicking it open with a practiced thumb. The ticking is steady and unbothered, unlike him. A quarter past eleven. Izzy’s late.
Izzy is never late.
The thought grates at him as he scans the dusty street, where wagons creak over dry-packed earth and the late-morning sun bakes everything in its path. Heat shimmers off the clapboard buildings, the kind that look like they were hammered together just last week. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith’s hammer rings out like a warning bell.
They were meant to meet here, in Independence, Missouri, after splitting up post-robbery to avoid drawing too much heat. Ed leans back against the hitching post, boots planted in the dirt, jaw tight. Izzy had wanted to hit another stagecoach right away, but Ed’s done. For good this time. He needs to tell him, but he has to actually arrive first. Until then, Ed’s left worrying whether Izzy’s already been caught.
Or maybe he got shot? Run off with the money?
If he had managed to get himself caught, Ed’s going to kill him.
Fang breaks through the sound of wagon wheels and horseshoes. “D’you think something happened to him, boss?” he asks, wiping sweat from his brow as he joins Ed.
He and Ivan had gone ahead to check into the hotel. Ed supposes Ivan must’ve decided to stay behind, since Fang’s the only one who came back.
“I dunno,” Ed mutters, snapping the watch shut again with a sharp click. “But he’s never late.”
He scans the street again, and that’s when he sees him. A lone rider, slumped in the saddle, clutching his leg. The horse moves at a strained trot, foam at its mouth and dust kicking up with each uneven step. Izzy’s hunched over, his face drawn and pale, and there’s blood darkening the denim above his boot.
Shit.
“What the fuck happened?” Ed says, pushing off the post as Izzy reaches them, looking like death himself.
“Got shot,” Izzy grits out, his voice thin and rasping. Fang rushes forward as Ed grabs the reins, and together they help Izzy slide down, his body folding with a grunt of pain. His leg barely holds him.
“Bounty hunters. Spotted me outside St. Louis. I lost ’em, but one of ’em got a shot off. Hit my leg. Think it’s done for.” He sucks in a shaky breath. “Need a doctor.”
Ed glances down at the wound, blood still flowing, thick and dark, soaking into the worn leather of his boots. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know someone.”
He thinks of Mary Read. If she’s still in town, she’s their best shot. Years ago, she’d run with him—quick hands, quicker wit—until she’d made enough coin lifting from the upper crust to pay her way into medical school. Bribed her way into it, more like. After that, she’d moved out west with her partner, Anne, who ran an antique shop catering to the wealthy and the hopeful, all those folks chasing a new life in the west.
He hasn’t seen them in years, not since he left the game the first time. But last he heard, business was booming for the two of them. If they’re still here, he knows they’ll help. Anne and Mary always had a soft spot for Ed.
Ed and Fang get Izzy up to the hotel room, supporting him between them as he limps, barely conscious. They lay him out on the narrow bed, boots off, leg elevated, and Ed doesn’t waste time. He heads straight back out into the heat and dust.
It doesn’t take long to find Anne’s antique shop. The bell over the door jingles softly when he steps inside, and the scent of old wood and lavender drifts through the still air. Shelves brim with porcelain teacups and tarnished silver, delicate things practically begging to be looked at. But Ed isn’t here to browse.
“Eddie motherfuckin’ Teach!” Anne exclaims, darting around the counter to throw herself into his arms before pulling away to do their old secret handshake, just like always. It's like no time’s passed at all. She’s still as sharp, still as gorgeous as ever.
“Fuckin’ good to see you, mate,” Ed grins when they’re done. “Mary still around? It’s a bit of an emergency,” he adds, the smile fading.
Anne doesn’t ask questions. She just nods and parts the curtain, leading him into the back. The air changes as they pass through, sharper now. Alcohol. Dried herbs. A faint, metallic tang. The space is tight, orderly. Medical. Mary’s there, sleeves already rolled, her dark hair twisted up in the same no-nonsense bun he remembers.
They exchange a hug, quick but sincere, and catch up in a handful of clipped sentences before Ed’s leading her back to the hotel as fast as they can.
Inside the room, Mary crouches beside the bed, her brow furrowed as she peels back the blood-soaked fabric around Izzy’s leg.
“Shit, Eddie,” she mutters, voice low and raspy, heavy with concern. “This leg is cooked.”
Ed’s glad Izzy’s passed out cold. It’s one thing to brace for the worst, another to have it confirmed, no way to sidestep the weight of it.
“I’m gonna give him some ether to sedate him,” Mary says, pulling a small dark bottle and a clean cloth from her bag. “Make sure he doesn’t wake up.”
“That’s a thing?” Ed asks, brows drawn together.
Where the hell was that when he got stabbed in the back-alley of a saloon in Philadelphia? Knife fight. Fifteen years ago. He’d been stitched up wide awake, cussing through every goddamn tug of the needle.
“It’s new,” Mary replies with a half-smile, already soaking the cloth. “You willing to help with this surgery, Teach? I could use you, if you think you can stomach it.”
Ed hesitates. Then shrugs. “Reckon Iz’d want me to help.”
He’s not exactly eager to watch his friend lose a limb, but Izzy’s stood by him through hell and worse. Least he can do now is return the favor.
The surgery goes quickly, thankfully, and Izzy never wakes. Ed’s grateful for that, at least. He’s grateful he won’t remember the sound of the saw, or the way Mary’s brow had knit with quiet determination, hands steady even when the blood came fast. But the relief is short-lived. He knows it’s going to hit Izzy hard when he wakes to find part of himself gone.
Disposing of the leg turns out to be more trouble than expected. Ed’s not entirely sure what Mary’s usual method is, and he hadn’t asked, but Fang and Ivan volunteer without hesitation, saying it’s only fair since Ed helped with the cutting. Ed doesn’t argue.
By the time they return, Mary’s already gone, having slipped out quietly, probably needing rest herself. The hotel room is dim and close, the scent of alcohol and blood still clinging to the air. Izzy stirs on the bed, shifting with a low sound in his throat.
Ed pulls a chair close and sits, hands braced on his knees, ready to jump up and hold him down if it comes to that. Izzy had been pretty far gone when they sedated him, and might not remember how bad it was. Might panic when he notices the absence.
But when Izzy blinks up at him, eyes still glassy with the edge of sleep, there’s no fight. Just quiet.
“It’s gone, isn’t it?” he rasps, voice even more like dry gravel than it normally is.
“Your leg?” Ed blurts, speaking before his brain catches up, dark humor something he’s unfortunately gifted at when under pressure. “Yeah, it’s gone. Up in leg heaven.”
“Shit,” Izzy mutters, letting out a low, wry laugh. “Guess that’s that, then. Can’t say I didn’t see it coming. I tried to stop the bleeding best I could between St. Louis and Independence, but it just kept coming. Couldn’t keep it clean.”
Ed shifts in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “We need to stop,” he says, knowing this probably isn’t the best time to bring it up, but maybe it’s the only time. The kind of moment that strips everything bare. “I’m thinkin’ of heading out west. And maybe you lot should come with me. Start over out there.”
Izzy raises an eyebrow, eyes still a little glassy but sharp beneath it all. “You know we’ve got more than enough to just retire outright, yeah? We’ve robbed enough rich fuckers for three lifetimes.”
Ed shrugs, eyes flicking to the cracked ceiling. “I’m thinking more for fun. Try something different.”
Silence hangs between them for a beat, heavy but not uncomfortable. Ed watches Izzy’s face, sees the gears turning behind his pale, drawn features.
“Maybe you’re right,” Izzy says at last, voice quiet.
Ed blinks. “Wait, what was that?” he says, completely blindsided. “Can you say that again, please?”
“Fuck off,” Izzy replies with a rough laugh, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
He’s still white as a ghost, sweat clinging to his skin, and Ed doesn’t forget what Mary said, that he’s not entirely out of the woods yet. Despite the humor, Ed’s nerves haven’t settled. Izzy may be a grumpy asshole, but he’s family.
“I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you say I’m right,” Ed says with a smirk. “And I doubt I’ll hear it again.”
“Well, I guess when you almost die, you gain a little perspective,” Izzy says.
Ed has to chew on that for a moment. He knows it’s true, knows it in his bones, but it hadn’t really sunk in until now just how close Izzy had come. He’d been too deep in fight mode to feel it. Now it nearly overwhelms him.
“I’m glad you’re still with us,” he says once he trusts his voice not to break. Then, softer, “You should probably get some rest.”
He’s grateful they’d already moved Izzy to a clean bed, stripped the blood-soaked sheets from the one they’d used for the surgery. The mess is gone, but the echo of it still lingers.
Ed is fucking beat. The day has wrung him out, and even though it’s not all that late, all he wants is to lie down and shut his eyes. By the time he finishes cleaning up, Izzy’s already dozing, his breathing slow but steady.
Ed climbs into the other bed and pulls the thin blanket up to his chest. But when he closes his eyes, it’s all still there, flashes of the surgery, Mary’s voice, the sound of the saw, the weight of Izzy’s blood on his hands.
He forces his mind away from it.
Thinks of California.
A slow, peaceful life.
Maybe even love.
The thought steadies him: something soft, something warm. He’s never had time for romance, always running, always watching his back. But maybe this time could be different. Maybe this time he could build something lasting. With someone who sees past the rough edges and wants him anyway.
It’s probably just wishful thinking.
Still, he falls asleep to thoughts of kind eyes and soft smiles.
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