Title: Shooting For Your Heart

Chapter 4: "What Did We Get Ourselves Into, Deputy?"

Notes: Final chapter! Whoop whoop!

If the stares from last night were bad, they only got worse the next day. Peter made his way along the back wall, to the same table they had the night before. Fool Killer was already there, sipping on a cup of coffee. Slappy was next to him, looking dead on his feet, and Masacre across the table who was sitting quietly with his arms crossed. Peter slid next to Dead Rider, who looked as worse as Slappy and in a sorely bad mood.

Peter had woken that morning to Dead Rider folding up the blankets he used last night. He was already dressed and in full gear by the time Peter was blinking and sitting up in bed, but Peter had an inkling that Dead Rider was one who didn't enjoy getting up early in the way he grumbled and yawned throughout his morning routine. Although Peter figured he might've had a hand in the outlaw's bad mood to start.

Dead Rider had given him instructions to get dressed and meet everyone downstairs, and instead of dropping information bombs on Peter unexpectedly in public (like that fact that he and Wade were essentially "lovers" to the eyes of Costa Loca) Rider actually stopped to give Peter the crucial information before he re-entered society.

As good as that did him.

"My bandit name is Ricochet?" Peter had demanded. "You couldn't have come up with anything better?"

"Shut up we were on a time crunch," Dead Rider snipped back, offended in a way that had Peter guessing that he was the one who picked out the name.

"It makes me sounds like a fool shot," Peter continued, "Like I can't hit a target."

"Well, with that hurt arm, it's a plausible story, ain't it. Besides, Ricocheting bullets can be deadly. They became a target to anyone if they actually end up rebounding. I didn't have a lot of time to come up with it okay, do you want to hear the rest of your backstory or not?"

Peter had more or less agreed, though he was still hung up on his silly name. If he was going to pretend to be an outlaw, he at least wanted a cooler trademark other than an inability to aim straight.

"And remember, don't give anyone your actual name, we'll only refer to you as Ricochet. But in the circumstances that you do have to give a name, you need to come up with a fake one. So whatcha gonna use, so I don't end up calling you Tim-Joe or somethin'."

"Uh..." Peter scrambled for the first names that came to mind, "Ben...Reilly. I'll be Ben Reilly." It was his deceased Uncle's first name and Aunt May's maiden name.

"Ben Reilly," Dead Rider tried on his tongue, "Not bad. Reminds me of some epic, angsty twin brother or something. Now as for your backstory," Rider spun on his heels flamboyantly, hands gesturing in the air as if he was preparing to tell an epic romance, "We met 2 years ago, just after the dry season. I met you on one of my last jobs; you new to the bandit world, and me the generous teacher willing to show you the ropes. Over the course of training you as a bandit, we grew closer and closer and fell in love, and with your sweet-talking, you convinced me to take a few years off for just the two us. But now, we're back in our stirrups and taking jobs again."

Peter wrinkled his nose, "That's my story? Why couldn't I be the swash-buckling rogue from a different part of the West? Or a just menace? Why do I have to have the lame bandit name and backstory?"

Dead Rider planted his hands on his hips, "Because it's fucking romantic and I'm the leader of this group so I get to decide, " he looked more pouty than angry. "Now get dressed and meet us downstairs you sourpuss, unless that doesn't suit your fancy neither." He slammed the door shut after him.

Peter sighed, rolling his eyes, but set to the slow, strenuous work of swapping out the clothes left for him without reopening his wound, which led to him downstairs, ordering the blackest coffee they had and a plate of eggs.

"Did Rider tell you everything?" Fool Killer asked, smearing a healthy layer of honey butter on a biscuit.

"That I have the lamest bandit name ever? Yeah, he mentioned it."

"Told you he wouldn't like it," Stinger said and Dead Rider flipped him a rude gesture.

Fool Killer paused to take a long drink of his coffee, "Good then," he said when he resurfaced, "Now we shouldn't worry about slippin' information on accident."

"A silver dollar says that one of use will slip up by tonight," Terror bet through his chewed up eggs; he pointed a fork at Slappy, "And an' extra nickel that Slappy's the one to do it."

"Oh yeah?" Slappy demanded, "I'll take that bet! But my nickels on Dead Rider as the one who spills."

Dead Rider nearly spit out his bacon, "S'cuse you, bastard. I can keep a secret!"

"I'm with Slappy," Stinger said, "My nickels on Rider too."

"Your dead to me, Stinger. Pack up your stuff and hit the road."

Fool Killer looked across the table at Peter, "Well, I'm betting Ricochet slips up first."

Peter lowered his fork from his mouth to glare at him. He'd just been enjoying his breakfast and judging them all for their life choices; and hearing his newly christened outlaw name didn't help his irritation. "Hey, don't you bring me into this."

"Puedo estar detrás de eso," Masacre spoke up and Peter almost jumped. He forgot the man was there; he was so quiet he seemed to just melt in with the furniture. Peter was still working on his Spanish, so he only got snippets, but he was pretty sure Masacre was agreeing with Fool Killer.

Rude much.

Rider gestured quickly with his butter-knife, figuratively cutting the conversation off. "Alright, bets aside, we all have things to do today. Slappy, Terror, you guys know what you're doing?"

"Yeah, yeah," Terror flapped a hand at him.

"Fool Killer? Stinger?"

"Yes, we know."

"Masacre?"

"Si."

"Fantastic," Rider clapped his hands once, rubbing his palms together, as if sparking victory between his palms, "We'll meet up around noon to check-in. Try not to start any fights and almost get stabbed to death like last time, Terror."

"That happened once," Terror grumbled, pushing out of his chair.

"Try a couple dozen," Stinger clapped a hand on Terror's shoulders, "Admit it, the only thing attracted to your body are knives and bullets."

"If I had the choice to stab myself or save you, I'd pick my rustiest knife."

Their squabbling continued as they tromped out of the room and disappeared outside. As Slappy and Fool Killer made to follow, Peter stopped Wade from finishing off the last of his bacon with a gentle hand on his wrist. It would've looked sweet or domestic to those watching, but Peter knew better.

"What about me?" He asked, "What am I doing? And if you say I'm staying in my room, I'm throwing myself out the window."

"As amusing as that'd be," he bopped Peter's nose with the butter-knife, leaving a dot of honey butter, "no, you're not sentenced to bed rest, even though you still look pale and should probably sleep a day or two."

Peter gave him a hard look.

"Chillax, you're coming with me. I've got to pick up some information from one of my contacts, and frankly, I don't trust you up in your room by yourself. I don't doubt that you'd throw yourself out the window in a dramatic attempt to free yourself. You law-biders, always with the drama."

"Right, we're the dramatic ones."

"If the boots fits," Rider smirked and stuffed the rest of a biscuit into his mouth. He said something around the mush filling his cheeks and gestured for Peter to get up as he rose from his chair.

Peter followed him across the room, ignoring the curious looks still shot his way. It was like school all over again. Almighty, he hated it when people stared. At least when he was Web-Slinger he had a bandanna to hide behind.

Dead Rider opened the door and for a moment, a burst of excitement lit Peter up. He hasn't been outside yet, and while Costa Loca was a rat-filled town, it still had its sights. He blinked the flood of light from his eyes and followed Dead Rider out into the dry heat.

The streets were full of life, running heavy and thick. The roads were slippery with mud and muck and bursting with carts, wagons, and riders, so most folks kept to the walkways along the buildings to keep from getting trampled. Most of the people around them seemed to have a grasp of who Dead Rider was and didn't hesitate to step out of his way when walked in their direction. Peter kept behind Rider, unsure of where they were going, and with the crowds as thick as they were, he didn't want to get pulled away or have to shove and muscle his way through. Or, given the advice Rider gave him last night, maybe he should.

He didn't have the slightest idea about what he should do to keep people off his back. He could throw a good punch when necessary and didn't standing down from a fight, but he'd been taught not to go out looking for one. Aunt May and Uncle Ben taught him to be decent and courtesy of those around him, and to only fight back if they threw the first punch (or if his family was in danger). To actively seek out and create a spectacle that would draw eyes and make people wary of him - he didn't know where to even start.

Thankfully, with how fast Dead Rider was walking, he didn't get the chance to think on it. A majority of Peter's aches and pains were still present, hidden deep in his joints and muscles, but it was a far cry better than it'd been last night. The remnants of his fever left him with nothing but a headache and a chill that tremored through his body now and again. Bob had instructed him to take it easy today, which meant his spectacle would have to be effective, easy, and effortless - which made things vastly harder in the long run.

They pulled away from the crowds rather quickly when Dead Rider sidestepped into a different building. This one wasn't as nice as the inn they'd spent the night in. It was a small, rather run-down store. Its items were few and the quality not great, but Dead Rider paid no attention to the merchandise as he approached the clerk behind the store desk.

"Anything I can get you, sir?" the girl asked blankly, unblinking at the heavy guns hanging off the man's waist.

"I'm here to pick up a stick of dynamite," Dead Rider responded, "Don't suppose you have any in stock in the back?" He waggled his eyebrows.

The girl's demeanor only changed slightly. Her movements were as bored as they'd been before, but there was a new attentiveness in her eyes - a look that's crept into her face, barely held back, the moment Dead Rider walked in, meaning this wouldn't be the first time he was asking for explosives.

Is that really what Dead Rider was here for?

She motioned Dead Rider to the door behind the desk and they followed her inside. As soon as it was closed, Dead Rider leaned toward the girl, "So, what'd you do to get clerk duty?"

The girl's lips pursed, and her bored countenance melted into one of faint annoyance. "Was tinkering with a stick of TNT and almost blew up a wagon," she shrugged, and Peter's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. This girl was just a kid, probably somewhere in her teens, what the hell was she doing with TNT?

"Ah, that'll do it," Dead Rider laughed and patted the girl on the head, of which she slapped away. "Good seeing you Warhead, but I think I hear someone in the storefront. Be a doll and make sure our dear friend doesn't get robbed."

"I hope Dom blows you up," the girl said over her shoulder as she made her way back to the front.

"Who was that?" Peter asked as Rider led him into another room and down a small hallway.

"I won't tell you her real name, but she goes by Teenage Warhead. A real firecracker," They stopped at a ratty old door on the end and Dead Rider rapped his knuckles against it, shouting, "Knock, knock Dom. I'm comin' in." Before grabbing the handle and going inside.

The room was dark aside from a single lit lantern. It was mostly bare, and sitting on a couch shoved near the corner was a woman. She had dark, short hair cut down to her jawline, and wore the same, thuggish looking clothes as everyone else in this town. A gun was slapped to her hip, her thigh, and her back, but Peter has a feeling so had more weapons stashed on her than that. A black mark was drawn cleanly over the left eye, in the shape of the diamond symbol from a pack of cards. It was a symbol he knew all too well.

Domino Dynamite, another one of the most dangerous outlaws in the west. Her expertise in explosive were challenged by few, and she's done plenty of damage when it came to blowing up another person's property or muddling in with an arrest. She's blown holes through enough jailhouses to leave any law enforcer weary - more the half of the successful jail-breaks in the county were her doing.

Dead Rider strode across the room, leaving Peter to hesitate in the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder for half a second, when her sharp voice cut across the room. "I wouldn't do that, deputy," she drawled. She didn't have her weapon drawn, but Peter was under the impression that that wouldn't stop her from killing him on the spot.

Peter glared at Dead Rider, "Did you tell her?"

"I had to," Dead Rider shrugged, "We're partners...ish. Sides' I tell her everything, and if I didn't tell her who you really were, she'd stick me with dynamite and blow me up outside a bridge or something."

"Don't be mad at him," Domino smirked, "I would've found out sooner or later anyway. Sit," her head tilted to the other chair pushed against the wall. "I explicitly told Wade not to bring you, but seeing how you're here," she leveled her own glare at Dead Rider.

"What? I couldn't just leave him," Rider defended himself, "You know they'd crowd him the moment I stepped away. He's not ready for that yet."

"And you coddling him will make it better? Why couldn't you leave him with Masacre? Or Terror?"

"Because they wouldn't have done jack-shit if he got cornered."

Peter took the seat, albeit hesitantly. They were probably referring to the spectacle he still needed to make of himself, which was eating away at him. "I would've handled myself," he said, scowling. "Besides, you heard Bob, if I don't want my fever comin' back, I need less exertion. You could've just let me stay up in the room."

"And let you try and escape? Yeah right, and didn't you complain about being stuck in the room. I distinctly remember you threatening to throw yourself out the window."

Domino sighed, rubbing her head. "Whatever, he's here now, I suppose. We can't talk about your other job, so why don't we discuss what exactly you plan on doing with him?" she nodded toward Peter again.

"Yes, do tell," Peter drawled, crossing his arms, "I've been wondering the exact same thing."

"I was going to take him back to Gunstand and have Weasel keep an eye on him till' my other job is done. I have an old place back there, and a friend I can cash in a favor with to keep him out of trouble."

Domino raised a single eyebrow, "You think it's a good idea to leave him there? Deputy Webslinger, the second-in-command to Sheriff Rogers? Do you know what they'd do to him if they found out? And is cashin' in this favor really worth it, if its to who I think it is? This seems awful risky, Wade, even for you."

Dead Rider lay back into the couch, hands behind his head, the picture of ease. "It'll be fine, Dom. Look at him, he wouldn't hurt a fly."

Both Peter and Dom fixed him with deadpanning looks.

Domino grumbled something low under her breath and gestured toward the door, "Up. We need to talk, now."

"What's wrong with talkin' in here?"

Domino glanced at Peter, her lips flattening into a thin line. Peter was under the distinct impression that he wasn't wanted. She looked back at Rider and jabbed a finger toward the door, "Now."

"Alright, I'm going. I'm going," Dead Rider sighed deeply and pulled himself up from the couch. He followed Domino out of the room and Peter watched the door shut behind them. Now that he was alone, he wasn't quite sure what he should do. He knocked his knees together a few times, looking around the room once, before getting up. There wasn't much. The couch, the chair, a little table, and a small bed shoved in the corner. It reminded him suddenly of a jail cell and he glanced back at the door, feeling a wrench in his gut.

They didn't lock him in there, did they?

Suddenly anxious, he strode toward the door. The doorknob twisted easily enough, and he peeped out of the room. Domino and Dead Rider, who were a decent distance away, but both snapped up to look at him from their whispered conversation when the door creaked.

"Get back in there," Domino snapped and Peter scowled, but did so.

He felt better knowing he wasn't locked in, at least.

He paced the room for a while, before going back to the door to push his ear against it. He couldn't hear anything but a small, harsh murmur between the two outside, but nothing loud enough to discern. After a few minutes of quiet murmuring he went back to pacing the room, cradling his arm to his chest. He checked the couch, the chair, the bed for anything useful, and when nothing turned up, he slouched back into his chair with a defeated puff of air.

After what felt like a whole fortnight, the door finally opened again. Peter sat up, but fell back when only Domino stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She took her time returning to the couch, and Peter kept glancing back at the door, waiting for Dead Rider to return, but so far that wasn't the case.

"Where'd Rider go?" he asked.

Domino didn't answer him till she was back on the couch, lounging in a casual position that suggested that they were nothing but old friends enjoying each other's company. "He's off doing a few things," she said easily, "In the meantime, we need to talk."

Peter forced himself to sit back into the chair, "'Bout what?"

"About you," she crossed her arms and legs, "You're gettin' too comfortable, Slinger."

"Comfortable? Here? The place I've been brought to after gettin' knabbed?"

"Yes, comfortable. I don't know what you've heard about Dead Rider and his crew, but I think you've gotten too accustomed to them. Almighty knows discretion isn't their strong suit, and they blab their plans as well as they can shoot. You're smarter than most would give you credit for, and don't expect me to underestimate that. But I think you've forgotten the situation you've gotten yourself into."

Peter didn't think he liked where this conversation was going, "And what, exactly, is the situation I've gotten myself into."

"We're not your friends, Slinger. We're not pals. We're not even acquaintances. You're the deputy of the toughest Sheriff in the West, and we're law-dubbed outlaws. Rider says he nabbed you for a ransom soon as this other job's done, and I can believe that at a length. His plan to keep you outta trouble tells me enough, but the fact that you're actually going along with it troubles me."

"Which plan? The one where I get stranded in Gunstand? Or the one where I pretend Rider and I are affiliated."

"Which one do you think?" Domino rolled her eyes, "Look, Slinger, as good of a shot that he is, sometimes Rider doesn't know where the bullet's gonna land, and sometime's his mark will do more harm than good. You, keep your distance. He's tough on the outside, but he's soft inside, and easily hurt."

Peter scoffed, crossing his arms, "You think I'm going to hurt the Dead Rider? Yet, I'm the one with a bad arm."

"I wouldn't give a damn if your whole arm was off," Domino stated, brutal and honest, "And as much as I want to blow a hole through his chest sometimes, Dead Rider is my friend, and I'll personally put a bullet in your head before I let you put him back in his. He's had it rough the past few years, and I'm not gonna watch him go through it again. You keep your distance from him. You're a law-bidder and he's killed more people than you can count, keep that in mind the next time you two hold hands in public."

With that, she got to her feet and didn't give Peter the opportunity to gather his own rebuttal as she opened the door, "Now get outta my building, I can smell the law on you and it's making me sick."

Peter got up and left the room, meeting her eyes briefly as they passed before he was back out into the hall. "Rider will be back in the front," Domino said, "My compadre here will escort you back. And remember what we discussed," the door closed behind her and that was that.

The compadre mentioned was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and expression grim. Peter wondered if they'd mistaken an ape for a man, or if he just looked that way, but the man was tall and looming, with a wide chest and biceps bigger than Peter's head. His skin was dark, but there was enough body hair to make several wigs, though most of it was covered by the large overalls he wore. His face was square and his nose squashed, as if someone had beaten it into his face and it never healed right.

He looked down at Peter like a beast looking over a bug and snorted. "Let's go," even his voice was a deep gusto that belonged at the bottom of a large lake.

Still, somehow, he looked unimpressive compared to the hard, steely edges he endured during his conversation with Domino. It was no mystery why she was running a rag-tag gang of her own.

Still, Peter followed the ape-man back to the front, where Teenage Warhead was boredly doodling inappropriate words and pictures on the clerk desk, and Dead Rider who was pacing near the stacks of flour bags, his arms crossed and fingers tapping against his biceps. The moment Peter entered the room, his arms dropped and he bee-lined for them, only to hesitate, and wait for ape-man to escort Peter the rest of the way.

"Thanks, Gorilla," he said, "I'll take it from here," and Peter refrained from chuckling. He'd been right about the ape-like comparison then.

Gorilla grunted down at Wade, having still a foot or so more height than him, which was saying something as Dead Rider was no small man either. Still. Gorilla stepped away and returned to the backroom to hide wherever he's been since they first arrived.

"Stay outta trouble, Wade," Gorilla rumbled over his shoulder, "I'll break your back over my knee if you drag us into another one of your shit-shows."

"Lovely people," Peter muttered as soon as Gorilla was out of ear-shot.

"You get used to them. Threats and maiming is how we say 'hello' and 'I love you'. Now come on, we've got to head back." Dead Rider shot a rude gesture at Warhead, who returned it without so much as glancing up from her artistic masterpieces, and they were back out in the streets within the blink of an eye.

Peter shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around these people. Was common decency just not a thing?

He followed Wade back to their hotel, not as enraptured with his surroundings as before, his mind too swollen from the threats Domino had dealt out. For a bunch of bandits, robbers, and thieves, their camaraderie was commendable - as threateningly veiled as they were. Peter could appreciate that, less so when the threats were aimed at him, but he figured given his status that was to be expected.

Domino didn't hold back and he believed every word that had been pulled from her teeth. Peter wondered what she'd said to Rider. With the glimpse he'd seen of their conversation, and the way Rider was now uncharacteristically silent, it must've been a serious one, and he couldn't help but feel he was part of the blame.

What did Domino mean by keeping a distance? Peter hadn't exactly been galivanting with Dead Rider and his posse since being kidnapped by them, and each interaction was because he was in a tight spot and there was nothing more he could do.

Had she expected him to fight and throw a fit when they'd given him the plan of pretending to be Dead Rider's lover? Yeah, and he'd wanted to. He wanted to yell and scream at them and make a big angry show out of it, but he couldn't. He was trapped between a gun and a knife, and he didn't want to be forced between either of them. He was doing what he needed to do to ensure that he survived, and that was that. She had it wrong.

They made it back to the inn unscathed aside from the ever-present stares, and Dead Rider only stopped to slap his hand on the bar-counter, toss some coins toward the bar-tender, and order a bottle of his strongest whiskey.

Bottle in hand, they went back up to the room, where Dead Rider crudely tore the cap off, tugged his bandanna down, and drank a gulp from the bottle. Peter closed the door behind them as Rider collapsed on the bed, his hat knocking from his head and tumbling onto the floor. Normally he was conservative, but whatever Domino had told him must've been more important as he didn't move to fix it.

Peter tried not to stare at the rough, red ridges of his bald head, the only hair being small tuft of blonde that grew in odd places. He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms, and observed the man before him.

Rider took another swig from the bottle, his scarred neck and chin bobbing slightly, before it went back down with a sharp sigh. The sudden recklessness of his behavior didn't sit right with Peter.

"So, what'd she tell you?" Rider asked gravely, staring up at the ceiling. "Did she threaten to shoot you in the head? She does that a lot."

"UH...yeah, she did," Peter mumbled, "Real nice, lady."

"Yeah, she's a real stick of dynamite. But she'll do it, so I wouldn't cross her. She may be one of the meanest grouches you'll ever meet, but she always has my back. Even if she shouldn't," the last part was muttered quietly, softly, and Riders eyes trailed across the ceiling as if following some imaginary trail Peter couldn't see.

After a long, awkward moment he thrust out the bottle, "Drink?"

Normally, Peter would've refused, but he surprised himself when he strode forward and took the bottle, taking a long gulp. Did sharing the same bottle of whiskey count as a couples' thing? He just felt so burned out and the tingle of whiskey might make the ache in his arm go away. He handed it back to Rider and sat at the end of the bed, both arms pressed to his chest.

"What did we get ourselves into, Deputy?" Rider asked, slinging an arm over his eyes.

Peter wanted to argue that he hadn't wanted to go along with any of this, but Rider looked so exhausted and so put out that he didn't have the heart to really argue. Which was a conundrum in itself because he really shouldn't care. Rider was his kidnapper and an outlaw, he should be looking for a chance to escape, not sympathizing with him,

"Yeah," he says instead, "What did we do."

"Be ready to head out. We leave for Gunstand in two days, so rest up and sing to some birds or whatever the fuck you law-biders do to recover. We're gonna be riding long and fast with minimal breaks, so you need to be ready." Peter waited for the joke that was likely to follow, and when there was no follow up, he looked over at Rider with pursed lips.

Nothing.

"Were you gonna make the joke, or was I supposed to?"

Rider chuckled, the barest hint of a smile tugging on his face, "Glad to know they come across."

"What did she tell you?" Peter asked and Dead Rider looked up.

"Huh?"

"Domino, she talked to you before me. What'd she tell you."

Dead Rider took another drink of the liquor, facing scrunching from the burn and he shook once to get rid of it. "Just...some new information. And the same talk she did you, apparently. Not that any of that matters to you. I know Dom thinks I'm a dunderhead, but I ain't an idiot - not all the time. I think she's just got her holster on a bit too tight, especially if she thinks either of us are serious about our charade."

Peter snorted, rubbing his fingers into his arm. "We're just pretending. Nothing about it is real. It wasn't even my idea, so I don't know why she's gettin' all worked for."

Dead Rider hummed, staring up at the ceiling. A tension hung in the air, not quite broken with their words. It settled heavy between them and Peter tried not to squirm and disrupt the stillness that had invaded the room. The bottle sat heavy in Dead Rider's hand now, but he didn't put it to his lips again. For half a second, Peter wanted to take it from him and to take a good swig just to burn the edge off, but he kept his arm planted firmly at his side.

The atmosphere only broke when a particularly loud shout rose from outside and they both glanced towards the window. Dead Rider sat back up, took a final drink from the bottle and set it on the nightstand. He got to his feet, readjusted the holsters on his hips and fit the bandanna back over his face.

Now that he'd calmed down, he looked almost sheepish about his actions. He picked up his hat, refit it, and tipped it lightly toward Peter, "I...better go check up on the rest of the idiots. You stay here and rest up that arm. I've got people watching every exit of this building, so don't try anything. And now that Dom's gettin' herself involved, I don't think you'd want to anyway. She's a lot less forgivin' than me, Slinger. You'd do well to keep that in mind."

Peter, for the life of him, couldn't tell if he was being truthful, or bluffing. Peter didn't doubt the Domino would get herself involved, and she'd do it well. But Dead Rider's duped Peter before, back in the camp when he'd tried to steal away the other man's horse and escape. This could very well be a trick to keep him in line. But the matter of the situation was whether Peter was confident enough on his deduction to call his bluff.

Trying could very well put his body in the ground.

With a final look, Dead Rider closed the door. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, and stared down at his moveable hand. Maybe everything from the last few days was finally catching up to him, or maybe Domino's words had stuck with him more than he thought, but a heavy dread settled over his body, weighing down his heart.

He really wasn't in a good situation. He was run out of his home, accused of working with a known murderer, kidnapped, injured, forced into a town where every second ticked down an inevitable death by gun or blade. He didn't even have the full functioning capacity of both his arms.

As much as Dead Rider and his posse could joke and laugh, they weren't his friends. He couldn't even call them associates or acquaintances. They were his kidnappers, planning on using him as leverage or a ransom. They were orchestrating an attack on Norman Osborn, one of the people Peter hated most, but the father of one of the few friends he's had since childhood. And what could he do about it? About any of it?

If he uttered one word about who he truly was, not even Dead Rider could stop the hounds from coming after him. Costa Loca was not meant for his kind. It was like a fish in the desert - he was out of place and he didn't belong. It was only a matter of time before they noticed his gasping and flopping and realized it too.

All of a sudden, he could feel the walls of a trap closing in on him. He was snagged by a line and he had nowhere to go; caught in the steel teeth of a cage, waiting for it to bite down and put his squirming to rest.

Stumbling to his feet, Peter reached for the door, only to hesitate just inches from the smooth brass. Even if he wanted to get away, there was no where he could go. Whether or not Dead Rider was bluffing, he wouldn't make it far - as injured as he already was - without a horse, money, or even supplies. He could try to steal some, but the most he's ever stolen was a slice of pie from Aunt May - and it didn't take her long to find the culprit.

His trembling hand ran through his hair instead, tugging lightly at the roots in an effort to bring his thoughts back to the ground. He just needed to stay calm. That's the first step. He stepped away from the door and paced a meaningless trail into the hardwood, stopping a few times to peak out of the window.

When he didn't feel in danger of chewing his own heart out, he made it back to the bed and gingerly retook his seat on the edge. So far, the biggest hindrance he had right now was his injured arm. If he wasn't banged up, escaping would be astronomically easier. Still hard, but easier.

So, his first priority would be to heal up as quickly as his body would allow. Nodding to himself, Peter carefully lay back on the bed, putting a hand behind his head. The curtains were dark and did a good job blocking most of the light, so that wasn't much of a bother. It was pretty hot, so he didn't pull the blankets up.

Despite the way his head warred against itself, he sifted and waded through the murk, looking for sleep. At least there, it wasn't so bad.

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

Something was going on and Peter wasn't sure he liked it.

Slappy was the one who woke up him a few hours later, not by splashing him with water or throwing something on him (thankfully) and told Peter to meet the rest of them downstairs at the bar. Peter hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but as he walked down the stairs, after fixing his clothes, and arranging his hat and newly acquired bandanna (Stinger had finally coughed when up when Peter nagged him about it again), the sudden stiffness of Rider and his posse when they saw him made him suspicious. They weren't at their usual table either.

He didn't act on his unease right away and slid easily against the bar, leaning on it in a similar fashion to Rider, and ordered a drink. Domino's warning was a distant echo in his ear, but he still closed his fingers around Rider's hand. Regardless of her words, they couldn't just drop the facade now. It'd be too suspicious after all the flirting they've done and the work the group had done to spread the rumor.

Rider squeezed his hand back but there was something in the way his other fingers tapped against the bar-top, the way he kept adjusting his hat, or touching his guns - just a skim of the fingertips before he was fidgeting with something else.

It wasn't just him either. Terror seemed determined to keep his nose stuffed in his glass, and Stinger and Fool Killer kept themselves in a cycling conversation about guns and kill-counts. Slappy kept glancing at Peter as if expecting his arms to fall off; Masacre was silent in the corner, drawing mindless doodles on the wood, and for once didn't seem intent on following Peter's every move.

Peter took a slow sip of the drink the bartender set in front of him, taking his time in examining each and every single one of them as he savored the cool, crisp taste. He may not have been with them for very long, but Steve always said he had an eye for detail. Mannerisms and body language were just another way to read someone and translating the hidden meanings behind gestures was another means of communication. Sometimes the meaning was lost, and he couldn't quite decipher a person right, but he could say that he's gotten better it.

Peter wondered if Domino had given them a talking to as well. They had the deportment of a person who's been accused, judged, and facing execution.

Out of nowhere, Fool Killer stood up proclaiming, "I better go check on the stables and make sure our horses will be ready by the time we leave," and promptly left the room.

"I better go help him," Stinger said, following him, "He can be an idiot sometimes."

"Me too," Slappy said, hopping off his stool.

Stinger turned a glare at him, "What do we need your help for?"

"I like horses," was Slappy's defense as he pushed Stinger toward the door, "Let's go."

A few more minutes passed before Terror got up, "I need to clean my guns tonight. I'm callin' it early."

Peter pursed his lips and watched him go. When the bartender came back around, Peter stopped him to order a small plate of chicken and potatoes, if just to do something other than chew on the sudden anxiety sitting on his tongue.

By the time the plate was stopping in front of him though, Dead Rider went still and cursed, spine straightening like someone yanked it up by a rope. "Dammit, told Terror I wanted him to grab us some ammo before we left. There ain't no way I'm letting him off the hook. I'll be back," what surprised Peter more was when he bent down and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

Peter, on his part, barely managed to keep his potatoes on his fork as his brain went blank and he was forced to watch in stunned paralysis as Wade left to find Terror. Masacre got up and followed him without a word.

When Peter shook himself out of his stupor, he took a bite of his potatoes (which suddenly tasted drier than before), chewed, swallowed, took a drink, and realized that the room had gone uncharacteristically silent.

It was in that silence that he realized for the first time that he was also 100% completely alone. No Rider. No Stinger, Masacre, Fool Killer or Terror. Hell, Peter would've felt better if Slappy was with him. But he couldn't be because they were all gone and Peter has been abandoned.

With a drop in his stomach, he heard chairs scooting across the floor followed by several pairs of feet approaching him from behind.

This is what Dead Rider had been warning him about. The moment he stepped away, the coyotes would be inching forward; he could feel the weight of their presence on his back and the curiosity of their nature nipping at his heels. They were hungry.

This was his moment to establish ground and keep them off his back.

He took a silent breath to still the hammering of his heart and let the fork fall back onto the plate with a clatter that pierced the air like its own arrow. Peter turned, his good hand falling on his gun hilt and his bad arm pressing more tightly to his chest, as he came face to face with three other people.

Damn, he was already outnumbered.

The one in front was an unimpressive looking man, but he was looking at Peter like he was a fragile necklace he fancied for thieving, but couldn't quite figure out how to get his hands on it. The hand spoken of was laying on his gun in a calm and leisure kind of way, mirrored by the two others he enlisted for backup. So, while they were trying to intimidate, they weren't outright threatening Peter. Not yet.

"So, you're the one they're saying the Dead Rider's grown a fancy to," the man said, and gave Peter the look over, "Don't look like much if you was askin' me."

Peter quirked an eyebrow and took off the wall-flower mask he was using to go unnoticed and pulled on the tougher persona of Webslinger - or Ricochet, he had to correct himself - he wasn't a deputy in this case. He was just another outlaw.

"Well, it's a mighty good thing no one was asking," he said, leaning his back against the bar, "Besides," he gestured to the bartender for another drink before he continued, "What's it to you, stranger? If you were hopin' for a bit of warmth yerself tonight, you can move along little doggie," Peter gave him the look over, "You're not my type."

There was a quiet murmur of chuckles around the room from those who were unabashedly watching the exchange, and the man lips pursed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowing so far you'd think they were digging for gold. "No," he said gruffly, "I don't spend my coin on those who spend time on their knees."

A sharp bout of laughter followed his slander and he grinned, his arrogance visibly inflating with the derisive approval of his insult.

Peter's stomach churned on the implications of that statement. He'd seen enough prostitutes along the streets and he couldn't say he envied their position. Not just because the thought of servicing people that way made him uncomfortable, but because it was scum like this very man and his treatment toward them that made the job seem so unbearable. Peter couldn't find fault in a person who was just trying to make a living for themselves, but even the thought of sharing a bed with a man like this grossed him out on several levels.

Still, he forced himself to keep leaning into the bar and ignored the building desire to clock this man in his stupidly cocky grin, and shrugged, "Wouldn't matter anyway. You couldn't afford me."

"So it's true then," the man sneered, "Dead Rider's just payin' you to sleep with him. Or pretend to be his lover at least," Peter's mind briefly fled to panic, suddenly turning to a flying mantra of 'he knows. he knows. he knows. he know' before the man added, "we all know a corpse can't sleep with no one. He's just tryin' to pass himself off as one of the living."

Oh.

Okay.

Peter distracted his settling panic by popping a piece of chicken into his mouth, "Corpse. Dead. Alive. Doesn't matter. I'd still bet he's a better lay than you," He wiped his hands together to get rid of the lingering grease on his fingers, "'Side's, it'd be unfair if he got all the credit. Aren't we all a little dead inside?"

The woman behind the man snorted, "A little cocksucker like you," she jeered, "You're just hidin' behind him, aren't ya. We all know no one would be with the likes of him if they wasn't getting something good out of it, and no amount of coin would be enough to bed that," she cocked her head to the side, grin sharp, "So what's a pretty thing like you hidin' from then? You got a bounty on ya? Hiding under the Dead Rider's dick so you won't get caught?"

Peter scowled, narrowing his eyes, when the man laughed loudly with her and stepped closer into Peter's space. "What's a name like Ricochet anyway? What? Can't shoot right? Does Rider help you with that too?"

Peter flushed. Dammit. He never should've let Rider pick his name. Besides, this guys laugh was just so fucking irritating. Like listening to a braying donkey.

The man opened his mouth again, but Peter was quicker and the bark of his gun went off before any sound could come out. A loud ping was followed by a scream as the men collapsed, clutching his bleeding leg. His two backup's made for their guns.

"I wouldn't," Peter warned, his gun trained on them now. They slowly withdrew their hands. "Ya'll go on and take a seat then," he said, "This doesn't concern you. Though, I might change my mind," he leveled a dark look at the woman, who clicked her mouth shut.

They slowly walked backward and fell into their seats. Once he was sure they weren't going try anything, Peter turned to the whimpering man.

"Bu - but you wasn't even pointin' it at me," he was groaning, sounding thoroughly confused and in pain, "You wasn't even -" Peter stepped on his bleeding leg and he screamed again.

"Now you listen up you horse-shit eating bastard," Peter growled, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, now really aiming his gun at the man's chest, "And you listen good. I'm Ricochet cause I don't need to be aiming at you to shoot you, that's the first thing you'll do well to remember. Second is that I don't take it kindly when second-rate coin-snatching rattlers like you think you can just up and talk to me whenever you like. If I wanted to hear one filthy word outta your mouth, I'd have told ya."

He applied more pressure and the man yowled - Peter normally didn't like inflicting pain purposefully, but this man happened to be all kinds of bastard and he probably needed to be knocked down a peg or two anyway. "Third," he continued through his teeth, "you'd be right to leave the likes of me and my affiliations to our own business, and if you go stickin' your nose where it don't belong, you might just lose it. And if you, or any of your wannabe's, ever approach me again, it won't be your leg that I shoot next time. Do you understand?"

The man whimpered and Peter applied enough pressure that he screamed, "Yes! Yes, I understand."

Peter smiled warmly, "Good then," he got back up and straightened his shirt, stepping off the man's leg so he could curl in on himself.

Peter turned back to the bar where his drink had been set, waiting for him. He threw his head back and tossed the liquid in, then slammed the cup back down on the bar. "It's on his tab," he told the bartender as he slid his gun back into its holster and walked to the staircase. He passed the hard, metal disk near the door that led to the kitchen, where a dent had been imbedded into its surface.

He was lucky the rebound had hit the man he wanted instead of hitting some other poor schmuck.

The room was as silent as a cemetery, the only noise being the scuffle of his boots as every eye trailed after him. Only when he was turning up the stairs did he hear the two other bandits surge forward to help their friend and a fierce rumble of conversation sprouted in the wake of the broken silence.

As soon as Peter was out of sight, he sagged against the wall, holding his chest with his good arm. His heart beat so fast, it was like a hare caught in a trap. Oh Almighty on a bucking bronco that was close.

If any of them had the sense to call him out on his bullshit he didn't know what he would've done. Maybe throw his drink their face and try to make it up the stairs before they dragged him back by his ears?

Peter didn't realize he wasn't alone until a pair of bouncing arms were wrapping around him and pulling him into an excited hug. "You did it! You did it!" Dead Rider was squealing, schooling his tone just enough that it was safe, but it still left Peter's head ringing. He hugged the very breath out of Peter's lungs, caging in his hurt arm until Peter hissed when the pressure got too much.

Rider quickly let go and put a distance between them, but he was beaming so widely Peter could see the curve of his lips carved into the bandanna. Terror and Masacre were standing nearby, the former who was nodding his head in appreciation.

"Un trabajo bien hecho," Masacre said and Peter smiled awkwardly.

Terror gave a grunt and a nod. "Good job, Slinger."

Peter looked between them in bewilderment, trying to sort out what the fuck they were doing up there, "Thanks, but..." he paused, squinting, "Wait...did...did you guys plan this?"

"Uh..."

Peter glared at Dead Rider, who had his hands behind his back like a child trying to hide a cookie, "You left me down there on purpose? What the hell?" He refrained from grabbing Rider by the neck and wringing it for all he was worth. "Why would you do that?!"

"You needed to show them you meant business and it didn't seem like you were gonna do it on your own."

"Well, why didn't you warn me?"

"Because you'd only have thought yourself to pieces before you did anything. Besides it's always so much more convincing when it happens out of nowhere."

Peter glared at him and Rider pulled his hands up into a palliating gesture, "Hey, it all worked out, and we'd have been down there at your side if things went sideways. It's all good."

"You're just lucky I've got a bad arm, else I'd be beating the shit outta you," Peter griped and stomped to the room, trying not to feel like a tantruming child. Yet, somewhere in the petulant anger he was feeling, a cool sense of relief was there too.

Yeah, throwing him into the mess pissed him off, but through the frustration tangling in his lungs, there was something so freeing to finally having this weight off his shoulders. The hardest part was over, now it was just a matter of keeping up the facade in the eyes of the public.

Shouldn't be too hard, seeing how he's done the same thing as Webslinger for years now. Just a tweak to his usual performance and no one was the wiser. Ricochet was a terrible name, but it was his name now, and he needed to make it a good one.

Inside his room, he massaged the tender muscles of his arm to loosen it up and debated calling it a night. It was still pretty early, so maybe he'd just sit up there for a few more hours and...stare at the wall? He couldn't exactly go walking along the street and parlors in this blasted town, he just got through one confrontation, and while the word would spread fast, he didn't want to endure another one like it so soon. Not yet, at least.

Maybe he could ask Dead Rider to go buy him a book or newspaper; anything to keep his brain occupied on something other than the ceiling furnishings.

A noise came from outside and Peter patiently closed his eyes as Stinger, Fool Killer, and Slapper burst into the room, already expressing their congratulations on his outlaw debut in the loudest way possible. They dramatically described his own actions to him in glee, explaining how they'd been watching the entire exchange through the window outside. When asked, Peter explained how he'd calculated the shot to rebound and hit the man (although he'd been aiming for his hand, not his leg - but that was just a minor detail, right?). By this time, Dead Rider, Masacre, and Terror had joined them in the room and Peter was forced to explain his shot over again.

The way Dead Rider buzzed with so much uncontained delight made Peter's crafted image of him do a double take. The rumors and stories always said Rider had a thirst for blood and an uncontrollable, almost hysterical persona that doubled as insane. So it was strange to see that same blood-lusting monsters giggling on the floor, hands pressed eagerly to his face, as Peter explained how he ricocheted the bullet off the metal disk.

His story sparked their own tales, and somewhere in the clamoring of their stories of trick-shots and hits, a bottle of liquor appeared, along with a glass for each of them. With each new sip Peter treated himself, his anger ebbed, and a smile grew. Suddenly, their little trick seemed a lot more hilarious now that the danger had passed.

If he were a little more sober, he would've realized that this was his first time truly getting along with them. If his head wasn't as light and hazy, he'd remember that these were outlaws he was laughing with. Bandits on the run that he would've been hunting down if they'd crossed paths only a few days ago.

But that night he raised a glass with them, and they're laughter, singing, and stories carried on through the night.

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Peter hated his life.

Honestly, what was the point anymore? Why did he need to continue living like this? The only thing he knew now was pain and migraines, and both of them could throw themselves off a cliff. He groaned into something fluffy and soft, and burrowed himself into it lest the world outside find him and realize he was awake. Or maybe he should let them put him out of his misery.

Someone must've brought him to the bed last night, cause he couldn't remember anything past Slappy pulling out a pack of cards and starting a strange game Peter's never played that involved a whole lot of liquor. Something about every time something of the so-and-so and you had to drink? Peter didn't know, he could hardly remember his own name, much less the rules of the game.

A rumble of groans answered him from around the room, and the bed dipped and shifted, and Peter felt an arm wrap around his torso as a chest pressed against his back. The rhythmic breathing of his guest led him to believe that they were sleeping, as he had been a few minutes ago, and Peter groaned again (softer this time so he didn't wake them) and sank into the warmth of the bed and body.

Only for his eyes to snap open and he jerked up, flailing in the sheets and promptly falling out of the blankets and onto the floor, pulling his guest from slumber in the process.

"Oh...fuck," he hissed under his breath, "Oh damn," his aching arm glued itself to his chest, and his opposite rubbed his temple deeply, trying to push away the ticking-bomb in his brain.

The other person who'd been on the bed jumped up, holding their hand as if they had a gun and fingers twitching as if they were shooting, when he realized there was no threat, and he had no gun, he blinked and collapsed back on the bed, groaning deeply. "Damn," he rumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What a night."

Peter glanced up at Dead Rider and connected the arm flopped over the bed as the one that had been cuddling him just seconds before, and he flushed a deep red. Just what the hell had happened last night?

The prospect that they'd shared a bed and Peter had no memory of what may or may not have occurred was a terrifying one, but at the same time his hangover was far too powerful to allow him to dwell on such matters, and his face was already so red he didn't want to outshine the sun anytime soon. Besides, by the look of it, they were both fully dressed in the clothes they were wearing the day before, so he doubted anything really went down between them.

Hopefully...

Maybe...

Around the room, the rest of the group were sprinkled at random. Masacre was propped up in the corner of the room, head bowed, and breathing deeply, his long rifle laying loosely in his hands. Terror was sprawled face down on the floor, eagle-wide, and Slappy was draped over his back, an arm over his face as he snored loudly. Fool Killer was laying on his back on the floor, one foot propped up on the bed and bare-chested due to the fact that he was using his own shirt as a pillow.

The door opened and Stinger slowly walked inside, nursing a cup of in his hands, and face pinched so tightly you would've thought he was sucking on a lemon. A pitcher was clutched in his other arm and swished dangerously with each heavy step.

He placed the pitcher on the nightstand, along with the cup, and poured himself a generous amount.

Peter sat up and managed to climb up the bedside and plop on the edge of the bed, waiting his turn for the cup. Aunt May was always unsympathetic when she found him, MJ, or Flash hung-over after a night of victory drinking, which was few and far between because Peter normally didn't drink that much. The idea of not being in control of himself wasn't appealing, and someone needed to help MJ and Flash home after they were too drunk to help themselves. Still, the few times Aunt May did find him, it was with a sniff and a look that said, "serves you right."

"That's what you get for drinking that stuff," she'd say, but she wasn't without mercy and normally brought a pitcher of water for him to drink and a bran muffin to settle his stomach.

Her scolding's echoed in his ears and he smiled despite himself, pouring himself a glass when Stinger finished and collapsed on the chair near the window.

The water was absolute bliss to his parched throat, but he drank between sip's so he didn't end up puking it all back up. He handed the glass off to Dead Rider who was sitting up and blearily looking around the room.

"What you smilin' about?" Rider asked as he took a large swallow.

"Hm? Oh, nothing," Peter got up from the bed, "Just...thinking of some stuff..."

"Would it have anything to do with a hangover cure?" Rider hissed, rubbing his head.

Peter smiled, but it felt more like a grimace, and his head seemed to tighten as if to remind him that he had a hangover too. "Nope," he said, "Sorry."

"I hate everything," Slappy moaned from the floor, which pulled Terror out of his sleep and he grunted before roughly tossing the smaller man off of him.

"We need to get up," Rider said as he sank back into the blankets, covering his head with a pillow. Peter nudged his dirty boots off the bed, having already slept a night with them and that was just gross.

Somewhere in the back of his head a voice whispered, this is the perfect time to escape.

Peter had to pause and think, escape from what? Before he remembered.

It would be an ideal time to escape, what with Rider and his entire posse out of commission. The only problem was that he happened to be out of commission too, and if he tried to make a break for it, he'd end up doubled over on the stairs, puking his insides out.

Instead, he groaned miserably again and shuffled toward the bathroom and locked the door from the inside. His bandages were a bit skewamper, and they probably needed to be rebandaged, but if didn't feel like anything was torn or stretched.

He bent over the sink, running the cool water from the tap and soaking his face in it. He looked up at his disgruntled expression in the mirror, where a nauseated man with rumpled bed hair and lidded eyes stared back. He was a mess. When was the last time he bathed? He'd need to do that before they left Costa Loca, he'd have lice by the time they arrived at their next destination otherwise.

For now, he scrubbed his face as quickly as he dared, relieved himself, and returned to the room after washing his hands. By then the rest of the posse were rousing themselves, looking exceptionally unhappy with each passing minute.

They all took turns hydrating themselves in attempts to flush the alcohol and its symptoms from their body.

"I'll never drink again," Terror vowed, downing another cup.

"You said that last time," Stinger muttered as he walked by him, searching for his boots.

"I mean it this time,"

"You said that last time too," Slappy glumly commented, and Terror flipped them both off.

Masacre took the bathroom as soon as Peter stepped out, much to Fool Killers chagrin as he banged his fist on the door; albeit soft and loosely. Dead Rider was up now and leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He took a deep breath through his nose before standing and striding across the room.

Out of all of them, he looked the least affected by the symptoms of a hangover, which led Peter to wonder just often he drank to build a tolerance like that. "I'll order us some breakfast," he said as he closed the door.

By the time he was coming back, the rest of them had more or less pulled themselves together. Bob followed Rider back in the room, and when faced with Peter's perplexion he said, "I was informed that you needed a change of bandages."

Rider shrugged when Peter looked at him, "It doesn't take a genius to know those bandages need to be switched out."

So, Peter shrugged off his shirt and sat back on the bed as Bob bandaged him up again. Soon enough, Bob was hastening out of the door and the rest of the posse roused up, preparing to head downstairs.

Terror was the first one to make it out the door, "Was gonna check the Bounty Wall for any upcoming jobs," was his only explanation as he left the room.

"What's the Bounty Wall?" Peter asked, "Some kind of bounty exchange or something?"

"It's where all the wanted posters get hung up," Rider answered, sliding his guns into their holsters. "When new ones come in, that's where you wanna look if you're looking for some cash to hunt down. Soon as the bounty's been cashed, they take the poster down so everyone knows it's no longer good."

Well, out of all the chaos and disorder of this town, at this they had some system in place, even if it was for bounty hunters.

"Anyway," Rider continued, "we're heading back out tomorrow, so let's get going. I have things to see to today."

He led them out of the room, down the stairs where breakfast was waiting on their usual table. They climbed in, still woozy, but much more stable on their feet. Hopefully, with something in their bellies, and something to flush out the alcohol, their hangover hell would pass.

Everything seemed the same as yesterday, but the stares were gone. Oh bless the stares were gone. No one was tracking his movements or peering over their shoulders for a look. For once, Peter felt like a normal person and not a walking spectacle.

But in exchange for peace, there was something else. Something in the air that Peter couldn't determine. A steady crackle, like electricity, that tingled down his neck. Maybe he should've been relieved that his scene from the night before worked, but there was something in his gut; a certain press in his mind, that told him he wasn't out of the muck just yet, but he couldn't tell for the life of him what that was.

He nibbled on a biscuit, still trying to find his appetite, and working through this new feeling. Dead Rider seemed to have picked up on the tension too and watched the room with narrowed cautious eyes, one hand feeding him eggs and the other hovering over his guns.

Briefly, they caught each other's eyes and Rider nodded slightly - an indication that he felt it too and for Peter to keep his eyes open. Suddenly, Peter's migraine seemed unimportant and his attention much more focused.

The door to the building flew open and Peter's hand closed over his gun, pulling it out halfway out before he realized it was only Terror. His relief sputtered out when he noticed the look on Terror's face and the blood staining the front of his clothes.

Dead Rider was out of his chair by the time Terror was slamming something down on the table. Peter's blood ran cold. The paper was new and the ink fresh, the words stood boldly out of the two parchments, each bearing the thick, bolded words on the front: WANTED.

Down below, two sketches greeted him. One, a dark figure bearing a significant resemblance to the man next to him, and the other of one of Sheriff Rogers deputies.

One read Dead Rider and the other Webslinger.

Peter and Wade only had time to catch each other's eyes again, then all hell broke loose.

In a flash, the table was kicked down and turned on its sides for cover and Peter had his gun in hand; just in time for the barrage of bullets that followed. By the time they were ducking behind the table, Rider had already taken out 4 people who'd drawn their guns, and Peter shot several others who attempted the same. On instinct, his aim sought out different points in the body; wrists, shoulders, legs, knees, but nothing fatal as long as it didn't hit any important arteries. Given their situation though, he might need to adjust his aim to more lethal points.

Peter, Rider, and Masacre were huddled behind their table, and Stinger, Fool Killer, and Terror were behind the opposite table. Slappy had dove behind the bar, knocked the bartender out with a solid punch, and snatched the hidden long rifle as his own, peeping over the tall counter.

"Agh, dammit," Rider growled, dropping more bullets into his gun chamber. "And things were going so fucking well."

"What do we do?" Fool Killer asked across from them.

"First of all, shoot every bastard that points a gun at ya," Rider snapped, "Get back to me once that's over."

"We need to get out of here," Peter said, peering around the table and firing a few shots, "We're cornered here." The table they've claimed was set in the far corner of the room; a perfect place to watch the coming and going of everyone who entered, but it also left them pinned in one place.

"As soon as you seen an opening, feel free to let me know," Rider said as he twisted and fired several expert shots and pained, disgruntled cries followed in the wake of every bark of his gun.

"They're closing in fast," Slappy yelled, his body jolting every time he shot the rifle, "If we don't move, we're gonna be stuck here! Rider!"

"I know, I know," Rider shouted. "Let me just-"

Before he could "just" do anything, an explosion rocked the building and the unfortunate people who were near the door were blown with shards of glass and bits of wood. Wincing and trying to rub the ringing from his ears, Peter peeped over the table, toward the collecting dust that used to be the front of the building, and watched as someone new strode in.

A pair of hard eyes roamed the room, the left eye was marked with a diamond symbol, and an irritated pair of lips sneered at the bloodied bodies that had gotten caught up in the blast. Peter exhaled in relief and went to stand, but Rider caught his wrist and pulled him back down.

"Whoa, what are you doing? That's Domino."

"That's the thing about the life of an outlaw," Rider grumbled, "You can trust them so long as there isn't a target on your back. Dom's an ally, but even she could turn tailcoat if the bounty would help her team. And with how much they're offering, even I'm debating turning myself in."

Rider peered over the table, guns cocked, "What business, Dom?" He chirped, "Don't suppose you've seen the Bounty Wall this morning."

"Everyone in this damn town saw it," Domino snapped back, but held her hands up to show her empty palms, "But I'm not looking to collect, alright. See, no weapons. Soon as Warhead told me the news, I came to help. Figured every ballsy bounty hunter in this rats nest would be gunning for your ass."

Rider examined her a few seconds longer, before the skepticism in his eyes melted and he jumped to his feet, "Fantastic. I never doubted you, you know."

"Right."

Peter was slower getting to his feet, Rider's words still bouncing around in his head. Domino led Rider away from the blasted wall and gestured impatiently for Peter to follow. "That explosion won't disorient them for long. Gorilla is waitin' round back with a ride outta town. Get outta here and find somewhere to lay low, Wade. Don't get your ass arrested or I swear I'm just throwing a stick of dynamite in your cell and letting' ya explode."

"Dom, has everyone told you you have the softest, kindest heart in the West?"

Domino snorted, "You damn well lucky I've such a kind heart, smartass. Now get outta here before I do decide to collect that bounty."

Rider grabbed Peter's hand and headed for the back exit, only stopping in the doorway briefly to turn back around. His eyes swept over his posse, who'd been starting to follow, "I'm cutting connections to all of ya," he announced, "As of this moment, ya'll are no longer affiliated with the name Dead Rider. If'n we see each other again and this bounty still got ground, I'm ain't pulling my shots."

They all collectively nodded, and with a final jerk of his head, Rider pulled Peter out of the room.

"What was that for?" Peter asked as they ducked into the kitchen.

"They'd just be in the crossfire if they followed me with this kind of loot to my name. S'better just to cut them off and go our separate ways. Besides, traveling in a big group's gonna slow us down."

It made sense, so Peter didn't question it. If they wanted to move fast and efficient, a smaller group was the way to go. Still, it was weird that he was feeling a little sad to see them go; but he shook that feeling off as much as he could.

Together they made their way out of the building, only coming across a few of the kitchen staff, who backed off the moment a gun was pointed to their chest. They were kicking their way out of the back door in no time, where the monstrously huge man Peter met back in Domino's shop was waiting.

He handed the reins over to Wade the instant he saw them and swung his heavy, double-barreled rifled more snugly into his hands. "Get goin, Wade, else I'm taking that money myself."

Rider winked at him.

Peter faltered, "There's only one horse."

"Didn't have time to get you both yer own pony. Now hop to it and skip town. I ain't making no promises that I'll hold my good graces if your still here in the next minute."

"You are all so testy," Peter growled but swung up onto the horse. He held his good hand out to Wade, "C'mon, I'll ride, you cover us. With your multiple lives, you're the most protected out of us both."

Rider grabbed his hand and hoisted himself up after Peter. They had to get close to make room, but Peter didn't allow himself to get worked up over it. Too busy worrying about the possibility of getting shot in the back.

Just as Gorilla stepped out of their way, a voice down the narrow path between the two buildings shouted, "He's this way! He's tryin' to escape!"

Peter huffed. He couldn't believe that this was his second time getting run out of town. Rider didn't seem as ruffled though and easily let off a shot and a second later a body hit the ground, but the damage was already done. More would be rallying.

"Go on, git out of here," Gorilla said and gave the horses flank a sharp smack and they lurched forward.

Peter snapped the reins and clicked his heels into the horses flank, speeding off. "What's the fastest way outta town?" he shouted.

"The main square, just past this bend."

"Good. Be ready to cover us."

"Don't worry, Deputy, I've got us covered." Peter ignored the lewd tone. He was starting to expect it now.

"Here we go," he said and turned the corner. The people on the street's jumped back, barely avoiding a collision with the horse, as they sped into the open street and Peter clicked his tongue, spurring the horse on faster when he saw the road that would take them out of town.

Thankfully, surprise was on their side, and most folks were too busy avoiding getting trampled to think about stopping them, so they were met with little resistance. The carts and carriages made for good cover too.

Regardless, their luck didn't hold up completely, and by the time they were speeding fast the last building and into open territory, a small group of riders were hot in pursuit.

"Rider," Peter warned when he felt a bullet slice the air next to his good shoulder.

"I got em'," Rider said, "You keep yer eyes on the road."

Peter felt Rider twist and his arm snuck past Peter's waist to grab the pommel to stabilize himself, followed by the bang of a gun. Several more shots went off, including the sharp ping as someone must've landed a hit on Rider, if his grunt was any indication. Peter heard him spit a curse.

"They're fallin' back," he announced soon after. "That'll teach those horse shits."

But Peter didn't slow down. Right now their first priority was putting as much distance between them and that town as conveniently possible.

Vaguely, he realized that this was the first time he was truly alone with Dead Rider. No posse to back him up, no rooms keeping him in. He had a horse and open terrain.

"I wouldn't, Deputy," the husky, lowness of Rider's voice rumbled in his ear, and he felt Rider's arm curl sharply around his middle, pulling Peter even closer. The cool tip of a gun jabbed his lower back.

He hadn't even realized he'd gone so still.

"We're in this together now, and don't think for a second that you ain't my leverage anymore. We're not done yet."

Peter grit his teeth but kept his eyes forward.

He ignored the press of the gun that was level with his heart or the ache in his arm as he and Dead Rider fled.

A criminal and deputy together, running from outlaw and law-men alike.

End Notes:

Now, there WILL be a sequel to this book and we'll follow Wade and Peter on their shenanigans as they outrun EVERYBODY. And them becoming closer of course, because I do love a slow-burn.

Once again, thank you Jai for the absolutely beautiful illustrations you drew for this book! They're absolutely amazing and thank you for listening to my story-building, ideas, and thoughts. You're the best!

Again, big thanks to TwoIdiotsThatWriter as well, because your beta-reader figuratively saved my life and I appreciated all your feedback!

Hope you guys enjoyed some cowboy spideypool. Let me know what you think is gonna happen to them now that they're both officially on the run.

Thanks for reading! :D