Title: Shooting For Your Heart

Chapter 3: "That Was My Drink You Bastard."

Notes: No notes. Continue.

When Peter woke up again, he was in a room.

It was a room he didn't recognize. The windows were drawn with heavy curtains, making the only source of light a sliver of yellow-white that peeped between the dark fabric. The light didn't extend well to the rest of the room but as soon as his eyes adjusted, it was much easier to make out the night-stand next to the bed, the dresser propped against the wall, the desk in the corner, and the vanity mirror on the wall.

He sat up slowly, the mixture of dizziness and nausea making his body idly sway. He rubbed his pounding head with a groan that sounded too loud in the silence and the other hand clutched the quilt more tightly to an effort to keep himself grounded.

When he wasn't in danger of falling over the bedside and was roused enough to ignore the pain in his head - more or less – he finally addressed and rubbed at the sting in his arm, noticing for the first time that he was shirtless. Bandages mummified his arm and part of his torso, and past the thick strips of cloth, the wound beneath burned with every microscopic flex of his muscles. Still, whoever had treated him in his sleep didn't do a shabby job. His body still felt flush and sick, but it wasn't as bad as it'd been before. He could think coherently at least, so that was a good sign.

For an evanescent moment, he contemplated climbing out of bed and investigating his new environment, but instead he slumped back against the pillows, another groan bubbling up his throat. Even while motionless his limbs shook, muscles and tissues trembling on his bones like a wet cat. Chills prickled up his body, bringing with it a new flush to his skin and he shuddered, somehow shaking more than before.

Internally, he knew he needed to get up and do something; he wasn't in a familiar place and while his head felt like a child's drum - relentlessly pounding and causing too much racket - he was all too aware of who he'd been traveling with before any of this happened. Dead Rider and his posse were probably lurking somewhere, kidnapping other innocent deputies who were just trying to run from injustice.

He needed information, a new change of clothes, and preferably, a way to escape. But just the idea of getting up made him so sick, his stomach took it as a sign to empty itself and he had to breathe deeply in order to stop himself from hurling over the bed.

Fortunately, a creak from outside distracted his stomach and he looked up as the doorknob rattled and turned as someone entered the room. Peter sat up quickly, only to double over and groan as his stomach lurched and he performed more deep breathing to get his nausea back under control.

"Oh, good," a familiar voice said, "You're awake."

Terror strode across the room and set a cup of water on the stand next to the bed. "Wade'll probably want to see you now. Almighty knows he's been fretting like a mother hen ever since you pulled that little stunt."

Peter took a gulp from the glass but resurfaced to level a scowl at him when he realized what "stunt" Terror was referring to. "Right, pullin' a fever and falling off my horse. Whata stunt. Pardon my theatrics."

"Eh, don't get your badge in a twist," Terror grumbled, waving him off, "How's we to you know you were gonna come down like that?"

"Maybe you shouldn't tie people to trees," Peter said, taking another long drink.

"Maybe you shouldn't be stickin your nose where it don't belong," Terror snapped, and plowed on, ignoring it when Peter opened his mouth to retaliate, "Anyhow, I'll let Wade know you're up so he can stop gettin' on Bob's back. The guy can only take so much more before he's gonna break into hysterics. Stay there and don't try anything," he pointed a stern finger at Peter as his hands closed around the doorknob, "You're in outlaw country now, Deputy. Your kind don't make the rules here."

The door closed.

As soon as Terror's steps receded, Peter downed the rest of the water and swung the blankets off, deciding that he wasn't going to lie around in bed - fever be damned. He legs felt hollowed out and weak, but he used to bed stand and wall to guide him along the room, hopping from furniture to furniture. He didn't approach the door right away and opted toward the window instead.

He sidled slowly up against the wall and used his finger to probe the drapes to the side. It looked to be morning, if the shadows and sky were accurate. Had he slept an entire day away? Or more?

He couldn't recall much after he collapsed, but he remembered snippets: like Dead Rider's voice in his ear, murmuring nonsensical blather that Peter didn't have the mind to piece together. He remembered the feel of his arms lifting as someone took something off him. He remembered the shift and pitch of the horse's gait he'd been riding, and the hard body he'd been propped against. He remembered the feel of Dead Rider's arms as he carried him into a hazy building. He saw glimpses of another man's face, someone he didn't recognize. After that it was just snippets of waking up in that bed, sometimes with a figure sitting in the corner and other times when he was completely alone.

The streets looked full to bursting outside, bulging at the seams with horse-drawn wagons, lone riders, and crowds of people walking along storefronts, taverns, shops, and hotels. So much busier than his town back home.

The curtain fell back and Peter sighed, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. He should be at the old fishing shack by now. Mary Jane and Eugene were probably already there with news, wondering where the hell he was. Aunt May probably heard the rumor by now too. What was she thinking? She wouldn't believe it, would she?

The thudding of steps brought Peter out of his thoughts as the door flung open and Dead Rider stepped in. His eyes landed on the empty bed first, and for a moment Peter thought a burst of panic twisted the lines between his eyes. Until he turned and spotted Peter leaning against the wall and exhaled deeply.

"So, you are awake."

"Yeah," Peter said unhelpfully, straightening up. He hoped the other man couldn't tell just how sick he felt. "What's it to you?"

He saw right through Peter, of course. "Shouldya be out of bed right now? Bob says you need bed rest and lots of fluids."

"I'm fine," Peter grumbled, but Dead Rider wagged a finger at him.

"Nuh-huh," he said, "Don't give me that shit. You look like you're about to pass out. Get back in bed before you fall on yer face and make a fool of yourself again."

"Where's my poncho?" Peter asked instead, pushing from the wall and walking past Wade to scrounge through the drawers of the dresser. "And my shirt, for that matter."

"Had to take your poncho," Rider answered candidly, "If the folks here saw you in it, they'd already have your hide, seein' how you've got yourself a reputation as a law-bider. It's hidden in my things, so ya don't have to worry bout' it getting' stolen"

Peter scoffed, "That's rich coming from bandits."

Rider closed the door as he leaned against its frame, arms crossing, "Believe it or not, not all of us want the junk you carry around with ya. Your poncho's safe, alright.

"An' what about my shirt?"

"Bob took that. Needed to bandage up that arm. Says you'll be lucky to shoot with it again without any hitches. Lost a lot of blood."

Peter shot him a dirty look, "And who's fault was that?"

At least Rider had the decency to look guilty, "In my defense, I didn't expect you to leave it unattended."

"I didn't expect to be run out of town and tied to a tree all night, and yet..."

Dead Rider went suddenly stiff and he cocked his head, "You...were run out of town?"

"As if you didn't know," Peter grumbled. When he looked up though, he had to do a double take. Dead Rider was looking at him like he was actively confused; as if he didn't have a clue of what Peter was talking about. "Almighty, you really don't know, do you?"

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Well," he snapped the drawer shut, "After that little fiasco by Two-Stone Canyon, Vulture decided to spread a little rumor that me and you were in cahoots. Somehow, the rumor got some ground and it's turned my whole town against me. I was run out before I could get a glass of water, much less a chance to defend my case. Whyda think I was out there the other night to begin with? I wasn't havin' an evening stroll."

"I was wondering about that," Rider admitted, rubbing his chin.

"Well, now ya know," Peter hobbled away from the dresser and back to the bed. He slowly crouched next to the nightstand to look through its drawers as well– not so much to look for his things but to keep his hands busy. It helped him ignore the sloshing in his stomach every time he turned too sharply. Besides, he didn't like this uneasy feeling of being in a place he didn't know, and moving at least made him feel like he was doing something.

Not that it helped because he was at the complete mercy of Dead Rider and his crew, who could easily blab his real status as quickly as they could pull a blade and steal your money. Terror had been right when he said Peter was in outlaw country. He was out of his element and out of the safe jurisdiction of the law. Here, he could be found dead in a steam house and no one would bat an eye. He could disappear off the face of the planet and no would care to look for him. Telling everyone that he was a deputy was an invitation to pull him in a back alley and shoot him up. Hell, it'd be considered a public service in these parts.

Knowing that he was in such a vulnerable position made him twitchy. He needed something to do to keep himself calm.

He quickly finished looking through the nightstand and stood back up, holding his injured arm with a grimace. He glanced at the desk as his next stop, but it was clear across the room and he felt this close to throwing up.

Dead Rider was watching him silently, arms crossed, and hat tipped down so it overshadowed most of his face. His silence didn't help Peter's anxiety. It made him wonder what kind of scheme the outlaw was cooking up.

"You're worried," Dead Rider stated after a moment. It wasn't a question, but a simple observation.

Peter wondered if he really was so obvious.

"No, I'm not," he mumbled anyway and turned, fingers fluttering against his thighs. "I want my guns."

"Look deputy, I know your feelin' itchy here. I don't blame you, it's how I feel when I'm stuck in a room of law-biders. But you're my leverage. My winning card, if you will. I'm not gonna let anything happen to ya."

Peter snorted sharply, "Nice to know you care for my well-being so much."

"You wanted me to stop my courtesies. 'Side's, I'm just telling it how it is. You're an investment, Slinger, and I ain't gonna let a bunch of back-water rats cap a bullet in ya. As Sheriff Rogers' deputy, you're much too valuable for that."

Peter rubbed his wounded arm roughly, wincing at the pain, but it did wonders to clear his head. "Least you're bein' honest," he said. "But I still want my guns. You can't expect me to stick around here without a way to protect myself."

"Not like you have a choice," snorted Rider, "But I don't think you'll pull anything stupid. You're supposed to be smart, last I knew, but you ain't getting a gun till you're back in that bed and restin' up."

"Yes, mother," Peter said snidely but sat on the edge of the bed. He remained there for a minute or two, as if to make a point, before slowly lying back down. He tugged the blanket halfway up his chest and sagged down in the pillow. His feet cheered to have his weight off them and the nausea was much more tolerable lying down.

He sighed quietly and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He was so blasted tired. The sheer fact that everything in his body could ache at the same time never failed to astound him.

Dead Rider pushed off the door frame when a few minutes of silence passed and approached Peter.

Peter glanced at him through squinted eyes, and although the guns at Rider's hips made Peter anxious, he forced himself to remain still.

But the outlaw only grabbed the empty cup on the nightstand. "I'll have Slappy come up with more water," he mumbled and was walking out of the room a few quick strides later.

It took a few minutes before Peter was relaxed enough to pull the blanket over his body and sink into the pillows. Or, well, relax as much as one could in the situation. Despite exhaustion weighing him down, the knowledge of where he was being held was a good deterrent for sleep.

What if someone snuck into his room and killed him? Or worse? He's heard plenty of stories of people getting ravaged in their sleep, and a lot of them happened in places like Costa Loca.

He took a deep breath that turned into a cough halfway through. He was going to drive himself even more sick thinking about it. He supposed whatever happened would be a divine moment of fate and his life was in the hands of the Almighty now. Still, he'd feel a lot better with a gun tucked under his pillow.

There was a pencil laying on the desk, and after a moment or two of thought, Peter got up to retrieve it before sliding back under the blankets. It wasn't a gun, but it was better than nothing.

Given his less than ideal situation, he expected to be gripped by anxiety all throughout the day, unable to find a moment of peace to rest his sickened body. Yet, somewhere amid the tussle of his mind, his body slipped into sleep. He was unaware of this until he was dreaming of canyons, gunfights, and a lone outlaw adorned in red.

<><><><><><>

"Why am I wearin' this?" Peter demanded.

"So you fit in, Deputy," Stinger snorted, his back turned as he rummaged through the drawers of the dresser. "Do you know how suspicious you look in that git up?"

Peter looked down at his bare bandaged chest and arm, and down at the pair of riding pants he's worn for the last few days now. They were muddy and gross. He looked back up at the new shirt he was holding up, and the pair of pants laid out on the bed.

"I'd say I look like trouble without your criminal clothes."

Stinger turned, one arm on the dresser and the other on his hip. "Dead Rider aside, we don't all dress up in kooky outfits to get attention. Besides, your shirt was cut away so Bob could clean ya up and your pants belong in a pig-pen. Believe it or not, Deputy, but we can dress nicely too."

Rather than comment on the validity of that statement, Peter said, "If ya'll want me to keep a low profile, perhaps you'd better stop callin' me deputy. It's a bit on the nose."

Stinger shrugged, "Sorry, can't say we know your name other than Web-Slinger, and I reckon every cutthroat will be climbing through your window with a loaded gun if we called you that."

"Regardless," Peter said, putting the shirt down, "don't you think we should be more careful given our situation?"

Stinger shrugged again and tossed a pair of leather holsters on the bed too, followed by two guns Peter was all too familiar with. Peter swept his firearms in his hands earnestly, holding them close to his chest in case Stinger would try taking them away again.

Stinger didn't do anything but chuckle and backed off with his hands up. "I'll leave ya to get dressed. But I'm telling you now, I'm watching the door out here and Masacre's waiting just under the window. You try anything, deputy, and we'll fire on ya. Dead Rider wants you alive, but we won't hesitate killing you if it means keeping you from spillin' our plans. Understood?"

Peter glowered, "Understood."

Stinger nodded and with the tip of his hat he closed the door on his way out. Peter stared down at his new clothes for a few moments, dragging a hand down the back of his neck, before sighing and shirking off his pants.

His arm was stiff and it hurt to move; he didn't dare move it quickly or jerk fast, for fear that it would reopen the wound and then where would he be? The chance that his shooting arm wouldn't heal right was already so high, he didn't want to screw it up even more.

It took some time, and a lot of frustrated tugging, but he managed to strip off his old clothes and pull on the new ones. By the time he was tucking his guns into their holsters, Stinger was knocking on the door, inquiring if he was done.

Peter looked at himself in the vanity mirror. Both the shirt and pants were dark colors, and the hat he'd been given was a brown cowhide-type leather. He could only see his middle on up, but it'd have to do. He kept his hurt arm pinned close to the stomach, took a breath, and opened the door.

Stinger looked him over and nodded, "Pretty good I guess. Let's go."

Peter grabber his sleeve before the man turned, "Wait. Do...do you have anything for my face? I'm not comfortable looking so," he let go of the bandit's sleeve to gesture to his naked face, "bare."

Stinger squinted but nodded. "Yeah, I think I can find something. Now come on, Dead Rider's waitin' for us downstairs."

Peter's been wondering where Dead Rider had gone off to. He hadn't seen him since he first woke up, a day or so ago.

After falling asleep, he's been visited by Stinger, Slappy, Night Terror, Fool Killer, and even Masacre, but never Dead Rider. It was as if the bandit had completely forgotten Peter existed.

Peter tried not to be offended.

He straightened the wrinkles from his shirt again, tipped the hat forward so it did a better job of covering his eyes, and followed Stinger down the polished wood steps. The stairwell was squared and straight, turning sharp bends down its 3 flights of stairs. The farther they went down, the more Peter could hear.

The light music of a piano - with violin and harmonica thrown into the mix - as the velvety overhang to a buzzing murmur of conversation. Stiff from his night next to a tree and still achy from a ride on a horse he couldn't even control, Peter's gait was limp and rigid, the tendons of his legs and arms too strained to accommodate the necessary movements that came with walking downstairs.

The main room was like any other tavern Peter's been in, complete with a bar, tables strewn for conversation and cards, and musical entertainment in the corner. It was just nicer than most tavern/inn's Peter's been to. Hell, back home, the tavern and inn were two separate businesses.

Rather than old wood chairs and chipping tables, the furniture here was polished dark wood. Peter couldn't say what kind it was, as wood types had never really interested him, but it looked expensive. That, combined with the soft golden glow of the lights, made the room seem both dark and luminescent. The glasses were all clear surfaces and sharp edges, polished to shine bright, and the tables sanded and smooth.

The people occupying the chairs didn't quite fit the fancy ambiance of the room, though. Several wore dirty scuffed riding clothes that suggested they'd been in a recent fight, others were sporting their own wounds, from a bandaged eye and crutches, to cut lips and wrapped knuckles; but they all shared a particular glint in their eyes. An expression made up of hard edges and cold calculation that snagged onto Peter's stiff walk as he made it to the bottom of the stairs. It reminded of how predators might hunt – looking for the weakest of the herd, finding it's every imperfection, and pouncing when it strayed too far from the rest.

Stinger walked along the edge of the wall, avoiding table clusters and inquisitive eyes, and Peter eagerly followed him to the back of the room. The rest of Dead Rider's gang were already there, situated in a darkened corner and nursing drinks in their hands. Dead Rider was there too. Peter had felt Rider's eyes on him ever since he stepped onto the cool wood floors.

Stinger gestured swiftly to the open seat next to Dead Rider, but in a way that was hidden from the craning necks looking their way.

Peter took the seat, which happened to be the last open one at their table, but Stinger didn't seem to think that was much of an issue. He turned to the table closest to them and jerked the chair out from under the man that had been occupying it and swung it over to their table.

The man swore loudly as he surged to his feet, his hand already going for his gun as he sought out his offender. His eyes found Stinger first, then he looked past him to the rest of the gang; all who already had their guns pointed at him. If that wasn't enough to get him to keep his calm, his eyes flickered briefly at Dead Rider and something different passed through him. His hand pulled away from his gun in favor of holding them up into a mollifying gesture.

"Problem?" Dead Rider asked.

The man shook his head, "S'all good here. S'all good," he said though his voice was hoarse and his skin a tad paler in the light. "You lot have a good evenin'," and without another word, he turned and grabbed the other open chair by his table and hurriedly returned to the game with his colleagues.

Peter didn't understand why Stinger hadn't grabbed that one instead.

Rider took a sip from his glass and leaned toward Peter to whisper, "Stop lookin' so confused, or people'll start to notice."

Peter quickly schooled his expression and focused his attention on sipping the drink Dead Rider slid over to him as he reevaluated his situation.

More onlookers peered suspiciously at their tables, but given the way their eyes lingered on Peter, he had the looming sense that they weren't watching because of Stinger's interaction with the other table.

"Why are they looking at me?" Peter whispered back, hiding his mouth behind his cup.

"Everyone's been mighty curious ever since we carried you in here the other day," was his answer, "Haven't heard anythin' from Bob, me, or my crew, and most of these folks like knowing all the gritty gossip 'round these parts."

"Well, tell them to stop."

Dead Rider snorted, "I can scare the piss off them, but I can't stop them from wondering."

"Well, they're going to be wondering a lot more if you two won't stop whispering," Terror muttered, downing the rest of his drink. "They'll think you two are gettin' hitched if you get any closer."

Peter leaned away from Dead Rider.

But there was something about that phrasing. He eyed Terror suspiciously and set his cup down, fingers rubbing against its cool side. The words were innocent enough, and they had been leaning in rather close, but it was the way Fool Killer and Stinger suddenly found more interest in the bottom of their glasses - and the suddenly pointed smirk on Slappy's face - that told Peter that there was something a bit more to that statement than light teasing. He glanced at Dead Rider, who too was suddenly transfixed with the smooth surface of the table.

Peter's gaze jumped between them all, one by one, but each refused to look him in the eye. All except Terror who was rolling the drink in his glass in amusement, lips quirking as if he knew some hilarious joke that Peter didn't.

Peter scowled, "Alright, what'd you do?"

"I think I need another drink," Stinger sighed and pulled himself from the table to visit the bar for a refill, uncaring for the barmaid standing nearby who could have easily taken care of that for him. Fool Killer quickly downed the rest of his too and followed.

"Me too."

Slappy, on the other hand, leaned forward with his head in his hands, eyes bright as if expecting a show. Terror leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink in relish, savoring every drop. "Wade," he said, "I think you better answer this one."

Wade - or Dead Rider - Peter didn't have much time to dwell on the name. He's heard them say it before, back in the camp, but it was hard to substitute it for Dead Rider when that was all Peter knew the bandit as. Besides, he didn't know if he wanted to refer to him as Wade. Made it seem like they were friends or something.

Peter turned to Dead Rider, who exchanged the tabletop for the ceiling. "My, the foundations lookin' a little weak," he muttered and Peter's eyes narrowed.

"Dead Rider," he growled, barely checking himself so the people undoubtedly trying to eavesdrop couldn't hear, "What did you do?"

"I think they got new flooring too. Very nice."

"Rider."

"This whiskey is good."

"Wade."

This time Dead Rider tensed and slowly looked at him. Peter's hands clenched and unclenched around his glass, and he glanced briefly at the neighboring tables, before inching closer to the bandit, eyes narrowed and voice sharp. "What. Did. You. Do."

"It's less of what I did and more of what we all said."

Peter took a deep breath through his nose, "Then what, pray tell, did you say?"

He hesitated again, clicking his tongue against his cheek a few times as if brewing up the words. Out of the good, kind, graciousness of Peter's heart, he gave him a few seconds to figure out a final plea before he inevitably gutted him.

"I...may have told some people, a few really, that you and me are rather...close," he said.

Peter's grip on his glass tightened, "Close? How close?"

Dead Rider leaned in toward him and one arm snuck around Peter's waist, pulling him closer. He whispered into Peter's ear, in a way that Peter figured would look sultry to those who were watching, "What do you think?"

And for a moment Peter couldn't say anything. It wasn't for a lack of words, and more because there were so many things preparing to spill out of his mouth - the majority being several unflattering things would make Aunt May wash his mouth out with soup - that he couldn't stitch them together fast enough to make a coherent threat. Dead Rider's hand was still on his waist and Peter unstuck his fingers from the glass to shove him away.

It was less of a shove and more of an insistent push. His injured arm was in the way, having been pressed to Dead Rider's chest, so it really took away from the force Peter was trying to use. Vaguely, he was aware that his face was flushed, and to some it might've looked like he was blushing.

But he was pissed and Dead Rider could see that too.

He was wearing his bandanna, even indoors, but Peter could've sworn he was smirking.

"What. the. Hell." Peter hissed.

"It was for your own safety," Rider said quietly, and Peter is envious of the way he gets to hide his face. "Nobodies gonna be messin' with you if they think you and I are involved, and with your little secret, deputy," he said this so quiet, Peter almost didn't hear, "I'd think you wanted to take as many precautions as possible."

"Shove it up your ass," Peter bit back and it infuriated him when Dead Rider laughed.

"Exactly, you're catchin' on quick."

"That's not what I was sayin'!"

"Look," Terror interrupted, though he looked like a child in the front row seat of a circus, "it was our best bet, alright. These folks know that Wade doesn't keep much company, nor does he make many friends. But with all the rumors about him, any of these suckers would believe he's been harboring a secret lover, especially because of the time he took off. Nobodies gonna be givin' you trouble if they think the Dead Rider's fucking you every night."

Maybe it was Peter's pride, or maybe he was just frustrated with the circumstances he was in, but he didn't even try to stop himself when he snapped, "Well, who says he's doin' the fucking?"

At that Wade threw his head back with a laugh loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. It didn't seem to bother him as he slapped his knee and swung his arm around Peter's shoulder. "Gotta say, I like where this conversation is headin',"

Peter was about to shrug his arm off, but only managed to stop himself just barely. Dead Rider and his posse were right about one thing: his grand spectacle of showing up in this town, knocked on his ass with an infection, with the likes of Dead Rider and his gang of bandits keeping everyone else in the dark about it, had put them in a precarious situation. Everyone in this very tavern was probably chomping at the bit to know more, Peter could see in their eyes. It was the same look old Jameson got every time he thought there was something juicier in the mix.

And if any of these people were like Jameson, they'd do just about anything to learn more. Peter could honestly believe that Dead Rider's reputation was the only thing keeping the hounds at bay. Unless he wanted to become target practice, he needed to play his cards right, and right now, his best bet was using Dead Rider's reputation to his advantage, however unpleasant he went about it.

So, he gritted his teeth, steeled his nerves, and leaned into Dead Rider's body, intertwining his fingers with the hand dangling over his shoulder.

That wasn't what Dead Rider was expecting, and because Peter was so close, he got a front row seat to the way the outlaw sputtered on his own tongue and looked down at Peter with comically wide eyes.

"Well then," Peter whispered to him, pulling on, what he hoped, was a coy smirk, "We best give them a show, don't you think."

Even Terror stared, stunned, as if he'd been expecting Peter to make a spectacle rather than live with the hand he'd been dealt. Slappy's jaw was on the table.

Dead Rider was the first to snap out of it and he leaned back in his chair, all easy going and leisure like. He grabbed Peter's glass of whiskey and drank the rest of it. Peter played an unproblematic smile, as if sharing their alcohol was a normal thing, but tilted his head up to whispered into Rider's ear, "That was my drink you bastard."

"What, I thought you were just holding it for me."

"Well, how 'bout I hold my gun to your head?"

"Over a drink?"

"Well, these past few days haven't exactly been fun. Told you I liked a bit of whiskey to go along with my prey."

Two rough-looking gunslingers walked to the nearby table, pretending to be talking to the people occupying it, but their heads were angled a little too far their way to be natural.

Dead Rider took notice and said a touch louder than normal, "Don't suppose I can expect some company tonight then. I know how restless you can get," and waggled his nearly hairless eyebrows, as if to say: checkmate.

Peter curled his hand into the collar of Dead Rider's shirt, and pulled him closer "Definitely," he said, loud enough that he knew their eavesdroppers could hear, "Not," he added under his breath.

He let him go and sat forward in his chair. Stinger and Fool Killer were back now, and probably noticing that Dead Rider had drunk his glass empty, Stinger slid another drink over to him. But Peter grabbed it before his "lover" could and stared Rider, dead in the eye, as he downed it in one gulp. He set the empty glass in the man's hand and got up, "Now we're even."

Checkmate.

He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room as he walked back along the perimeter, toward the staircase. He still felt stiff and achy, walking on plywood for legs instead of flesh and bone, but he kept that to himself. With one hand on the stair banisters, he started back up to his room, only glancing back at Dead Rider and his posse briefly.

Fool Killer, Terror, Stinger, and Slappy were divulged in heavy conversation, heads dipped low, but Dead Rider was still watching him, eyes now hidden by the shadows of his hat and the distance between them. Peter gave him a quick smirk and brief salute but didn't wait long enough for Dead Rider to return the gesture, whether he was going to or not.

If he wanted to play this game, then fine, they would. As long as he understood the rules applied to him as well.

<><><><><><><><>

An hour or two passed before Dead Rider crept back into Peter's room. He was wobbly on his feet in a way that suggested he's had a little more than a few extra drinks, but a smaller, knobby-looking man was following his sashaying hips into the room, clutching a large carpet-bag in his wiry hands.

"Rooms taken," Peter said from the bed, where he'd been involved in a long boring staring contest with the ceiling. He's already worried over his circumstances more than enough to look at it from every angle and his mind had wandered into a state of numbness. A part of him still couldn't believe that just a few days ago he'd been in his own bed, rereading one of the few books their library provided as he snacked on a plate of Aunt May's home-made scones.

"Not here to fool 'round," Dead Rider said, his voice slurring only a little, so Peter figured he hadn't drunk himself into a mindless stupor, just enough to feel a little light-headed with a satisfying tingle in the fingertips. "He's here to look ya over again," he gestured back at the man with a flitting gesture.

The smaller man leaned forward, and Peter was worried he was going to fall right on the floor if his legs hadn't moved in time to catch up. He scurried over to Peter's bed, pushing the large round glasses back up his thin, gaunt face.

"I - I'm Bob," he introduced himself, "One of Dead Rider's associates."

"You're his friend?"

"More of a personal doctor," he admitted, putting his bag on the bed, "Now lay back please, just like that, there we go. Oh, uh, wa-wait, we should probably take your shirt off before - unless you'd rather I cut it off again."

His stammering and stuttering was punctuated by his fingers nervously wrangling each other, and Peter would've pegged him as the worst doctor he's ever encountered if not for the small, agitated glances he snuck at Dead Rider, who'd leaned himself against the dresser.

It didn't take much to put two and two together.

"Do you need to be in here?" Peter demanded, looking toward Rider.

Bob made a small, strangled noise in the back of his throat, throwing Dead Rider an anxious glance.

"What, someone's gotta make sure you don't hogtie him and leave him for the rats."

"As far as I'm concerned, the only rat in here is you. Can't you see you're making him nervous? Just go wait out in the hall or something, I don't need him to accidentally slip and reopen the wound you gave me."

Dead Rider scowled, his eyes darting between Peter and Bob, the latter who was staring loyally down into the blanket, his fingers curled into the bag handles with white knuckles. Rider huffed and grumbled something sour under his breath and tromped to the other door in the room – leading to the bathroom - and slammed the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Bob let out a breath and visibly relaxed. "Now then," he said, still tremorous and shaky, but he opened the bag with a bit more confidence, "Get off that shirt and let's take a look at that wound."

Peter did as he was told and slowly, carefully, unbuttoned and tugged the shirt off, discarding it on the nightstand nearby. With further instruction, he lay back against the bed as Bob scooted forward and began unwrapping the layers of bandages. He put it to the side and leaned forward, dabbing an alcohol-infused cloth around the gross, purple-blue area of the wound.

"You really shouldn't push him," Bob muttered, between whispered apologies when Peter winced from the sting, "He can have a temper."

"Well, so can I," Peter grit.

"He's not the one with only one functioning arm."

Peter huffed but could credit him that. "You were pretty nervous with him around. Why? Has he..." he trailed that off, suddenly uncomfortable. He's gotten in trouble more than enough times when he asked prying questions, especially ones so sensitive. But Bob merely shook his head with a short, somewhat tight laugh.

"No - well, nothing he's ever followed through with. He makes a lot of empty threats, mostly to scare people. He'll follow through with them if you push, but, no, he hasn't hurt me. I'm much too valuable for that," Bob looked up through his glasses with the beginnings of a smirk, "It's tough to find reliable doctors around these parts. Even if he can get a bit...pushy, he wouldn't harm me."

"So, he threatens you to stay with him? As a personal doctor?"

At that Bob scratched his chin, mulling the accusation over. "In the beginning, I'll admit that was more the case," he said slowly, "He saved me from a hostile robber a while back and I repaid him by fixing up the scrapes he got out of it. The more him, or his posse got hurt, the more they came to me, and people notice things like that. He protects his assets, which is what I, well, we," he corrected, staring Peter in the eyes, "That's what we are. His assets. You don't need to worry about him hurting you, either."

Peter scoffed and pulled his eyes from Bob's knowing gaze. "So, he won't hurt me, but I shouldn't tell him to get outta here if he's just in the way?"

"Like I said, he pulls through on his promises, or threats, when he's pushed. You twist his arm too much and he'll twist yours back."

"Thanks for the tip," Peter muttered and winced again as Bob looked over the stitches he'd given Peter in his sleep. The doctor hummed to himself, seemingly satisfied with how the thread was holding up, and produced a new set of clean bandages from his bag.

He pressed a cloth against Peter's wound and began rewrapping him.

"You know," he said as he worked, "He was really worried about you when he brought you in."

"Well, like you said, I'm an asset, aren't I? Sure he'd hate to lose his leverage."

Bob hummed again, but there was something in the slight curve of his lips, and the look in his eyes that suggested a different thought that he didn't seem fit to share with Peter. All he said was a soft, "Perhaps," as he finished wrapping the bandage and carefully set his tools back in the bag.

As he got up, tugging his medical supplies with him toward the door, Peter looked past him, imagining where Dead Rider was. Leaning against the bathroom wall, arms crossed? Standing straight, hands on his hips as he waited for Bob to finish? Had he been trying to listen to their conversation?

He lay back against the pillows, imagining what it must've been like to see one of the deadliest outlaws in the West carrying a flushed, sick stranger into a hotel; a fellow no one around these parts knew at all. He wouldn't be recognizable to them without his signature poncho. Just a regular man with a mysterious connection to the infamous Dead Rider. That probably stirred a hornet's nest in the town, and it was no wonder everybody had stared at him downstairs; he was a hidden nugget of gold to them. A strange piece to a machine that made up the man who couldn't die.

But the ploy was on them, because Peter didn't know him at all. He was just a poor sap who'd gotten mixed up in something he hadn't meant to. Sticking his nose into a situation when he was already running from a noose. How long before they realized Peter was just a piece of fool's gold, tricking them into thinking he was something special.

Dead Rider opened the door when Bob approached and exchanged a quick, whispered conversation with him, before closing the door behind the doctor and locking it. Peter raised an eyebrow.

"In case you've forgotten, we're in Costa Loca," Rider said, "Only the dead keep their doors unlocked."

Peter's lips twisted and he fixed Dead Rider with a firm look, "Noted, but what are you doing in here?" Peter stiffened and sat up in the bed, hand curling under the blanket for his gun, " Just because we're...we're pretending to be fucking, doesn't mean I'm actually going to do it,"

"At ease," Dead Rider said flippantly, flapping a hand at Peter as he started unbuttoning his shirt – was it Peter or did Rider suddenly look a lot less...bigger than he normally did? "I'm not gonna ravage you. People expect us to share a room, bein' lovers, besides' someone's gotta keep an eye on you and make sure you don't try to sneak out on your own. What a disappointment to Sheriff Rogers when he finds out his deputy was robbed and shanked behind the tavern."

Peter scoffed but fell back against the pillows. He kept his hand curled around the gun anyway, not quite ready to give up its protection yet. "How'd ya expect to watch me when you're asleep? You sleep with your eyes open."

"Nah, but I wish I could."

"Good, cause I couldn't sleep knowing you were watching me."

Dead Rider finished unbuttoning his shirt, but before taking it off he twirled his finger in the air; a common gesture to turn around and Peter almost laughed at the ludicrously of it. The Wests deadliest outlaw was modest. But he turned his head anyway. Dead Rider's shirt hit the floor, and judging by the click and clink following, his pants joined them a moment later.

Peter stemmed the unease in his belly. For however long Peter knew him, he didn't think Dead Rider would "ravage" him, but now that the thought was planted in his mind, and with his back to the other man, suddenly he wasn't feeling so sure. "You done yet," he demanded when the seconds ticked on.

"Hold your horses, Slinger, I'm just making my bed." One of the blankets was yanked off of Peter's legs and he jerked slightly, and doubled over, grabbing his shoulder with a hiss. "You really need to relax."

"S'cuse me for being a little paranoid," Peter snapped, glaring at him over his shoulder, "I'm not usually held against my will."

Rider was kneeling on the floor, arranging the blanket and pillow he'd stolen, before slipping under his makeshift bed. His lay with his back was to Peter, covered from shoulders to his feet, and his head blocked from view with the wide-brimmed hat he had yet to take off, but Peter couldn't unsee what he'd seen.

He noticed the rough ridges making up Dead Rider's skin the other night, under the glow of the campfire, and the few times when he got close enough to Peter for him to distinguish any details. But before slipping under the blankets, Peter couldn't dismiss the harsh red skin that had peered back at him, broken up with healed over tissues, smooth, hairless patches of skin, and scars that littered his body the way flies littered a cows hide. He only saw a glimpse before Dead Rider hid them again, and judging by his modesty within the blankets too, Peter suspected that he wasn't meant to see them at all.

He turned away again, feeling something like guilt flushing his skin. As quickly as he could, he lay back into the bed and tugged the extra blanket up to his chin, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't have any pajama's, so he'd have to spend another night in his clothes.

The image of red, scarred skin painted the fixtures above.

"You've got to be careful, deputy," Dead Rider murmured from the floor, "Tomorrow's gonna be tough. You've got to make a name for yourself before people get too daring."

"Whatdya mean? I thought your reputation was my protection."

"It is...and it isn't. There's only so far you can go on someone else's fear. You've got to get them to respect you for you, else they'll eat you alive the moment I step away."

"I...I don't know if I can do that..."

Dead Rider was silent for a spell. Then, "You remember what Stinger did tonight? How he took that man's chair instead of getting his own?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I'm talking about. That wasn't for no reason, Slinger. That was a reminder not to fuck with us. Reputation, respect, and fear is what'll keep you alive here. He took that man's chair to let everyone know that he could, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. It was a power move. There are no courtesies here. Just enough paranoia and fear to keep everyone at an arm's length."

"So...what? you want me to take someone's chair?"

"I'd suggest doing something else. Your own thing. Get their attention, demand their respect. Get them afraid to mess with you."

Peter glanced sideways at the darkened wall that Dead Rider was probably staring at too, "My arm's messed up, Rider. How do you expect me to make them afraid like this?"

"Figure it out. You still got one good shootin' hand. Besides, most people are more bark than bite. As long as you sound impressive enough not to fuck with, they'll keep a distance till we leave again."

Peter let the silence linger. He didn't know how to respond. This place was so different than when he and Sheriff Rogers visited. The rules were contradictory to everything Peter knew. He wasn't staring at the town through a film, he was living in it now. Moving with it, abiding by its laws and order. He couldn't use the reputation he's grown as Webslinger, he had to start from scratch, and he had to do it quickly.

The thoughts of escaping and making it back to Steve, and Mary, and Aunt May and everyone back home was still a steady beat in his heart, but he couldn't see when that would happen. Not yet at least. He was stuck here with no other options than to listen to Dead Rider's advice.

Instead of assuring the other man that he'd figure something out, Peter turned over on the bed, staring at the opposite wall. The silence followed them long into the night, but Peter had a feeling that neither of them fell asleep for some time.

End Notes:

The last picture will be posted in the last chapter!

See you there