Just about the only problem with a six-figure bounty is that you’ll find an axe hanging over your head night and day, day and night. If there’s any one thing Hellion can count on in this world, it’s this: there will always be someone who wants him dead. He’s lived like this for some time now, so it’s become second nature to keep his eyes peeled and his ears open, always at the ready should he find himself caught in a foe’s crosshairs.
And so when someone approaches his room at Raven’s Rest, he’s listening, and he’s at the ready. None of the gang, he thinks, would seek him out in his quarters, except for maybe Rambler, or Paragon—but both know better than to sneak up on a wolf in his den, and would no doubt have trumpeted some kind of warning signal. In one smooth motion that’s more reflex than conscious action, he pushes himself off his cot, reaches for his shotgun, cocks the hammer, and aims the barrel of the gun at—Gull? The door swings open to reveal a familiar face, and it’s by the grace of sheer instinct, of the split-second, intrinsic knowing that this is not a man he wants dead, that stops him from pulling the trigger.
“Well,” he drawls, looking all too bored considering the gravity of the situation, “that would’ve been unfortunate.” He lowers his shotgun just enough that he can make eye contact with Gull, despite his longing to look other way. “Who would I’ve called on to patch up the gaping hole in your stomach?” he asks, poking Gull’s lower abdomen with the barrel of his shotgun before slinging it over his shoulder.
Either you came out fine from the train or have gotten better with your stupid persistence to avoid me. “Can’t it be both?” Hellion jeers, flippant as ever in the face of an earnest attempt at reconciliation.
He’s discomfited by Gull’s peace offering of jam, mostly because he’s as bad at receiving kind deeds as he is at giving them. He sees the olive branch for what it is, but he’s spent too long living in the trenches of his survival instinct to remember how to reach out and take it, or how to want to reach out and take it, for that matter. “Not unless there’s whiskey at the bottom of that jar,” he mutters under his breath.
He becomes acutely aware of his surroundings, that it’s just him and Gull here, held in by four walls. Suddenly, the room seems too small, the air between them too thick, rife with tension, and there’s a hot itch that begins to climb up his arms, neck, and cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic perhaps only Gull knows about from ages past, and blows out a long breath through his nose. “Is there no one whose life you ought to be saving right now?” he asks, and his words cut a little sharper than he means them to.
There’s not much Hellion could do that could catch Gull off guard. Perhaps it’s the fact that Gull has seen Hellion in his vulnerable states of many varieties, that his extremes don’t seem so extreme anymore. Perhaps Gull could have done better to announce himself but regardless, pointing a gun at him was not at all unique or troublesome. And his lack of fear wasn’t because Gull was the only doctor in the gang. Perhaps he’s too cocky that Hellion, deep down, still cares a little too much than to blow his guts out.
That’s what he tells himself, anyways. Makes him feel less a fool.
“Surely I’d die.” He states to Hellion’s regard, not fully grasping the joke. “But the least you could do is tell an epic tale about me.” He looks down at the barrel poking his round belly. A show of jest that makes him feel there’s moves in the right direction.
Gull then looks down at his jar of jam, as if he is seeing it for the first time. “Why must something have alcohol in it to have value? It’s sweet, and quite refreshing. I shall leave it here for you anyways.” He gently places the jar of jam on the stand beside him. Hellion doesn’t have to eat it now. He could eat it later when he’s all alone and no one will know. They can choose to never speak of it again. That seems to be on par for the two of them.
He takes another bite of his bread and jam, humming to Hellion’s words as he inquires about what Gull could be doing. “No, that’s precisely why I have come here. Everyone is in tip-top shape but you didn’t swing by so I just wanted to make sure you were not in peril.” He swallows, looking closely over Hellion. A figure he used to know well, but much younger, much softer, less jaded and broken. He’s still getting used to this slightly altered form. “Are you in peril?”
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