✩ { Meme } ✩ - ✩ { @fultonfixit } ✩
{ ☆ } Shoot... Fulton wasn’t supposed to see him in this state. Marshall had been careful to be quiet as he entered their his home— although, the inventor stays over so often that he might as well just move in already —door closing with only the slightest of creaks, the duck discreetly locking it behind him. An uncommon act in the small town of Gumption, even for someone semi-wise to the ways of the world, like the sheriff. After all, it’s a tight-knit place. One where people can feel comfortable enough to leave doors unlocked and windows open, even in the dead of night. Gumption is a safe town... A good town.
Marshall can’t remember the last time he felt the need to lock his door.
Whipping around at the sudden voice, disheveled feathers ruffle at the sight of Fulton. Heart sinks at the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice. ‘Shit, shit, shit...’ Internal mantra is steadily repeated, caramel hues riveted to the other’s gaze as he plasters an (obviously forced) smile onto his face. Clothing is torn and dirty, Marshall even more so. With blood-stained feathers and a shiner that is bound to hurt like Hell for days, he sheepishly takes off his hat— proud possession now squashed and adorned with a boot print, as if it’d been stepped on —and lightly wrings the rim in his hands. A nervous habit that he’s never been able to shake.
“Oh... I uh, heh... It’s nothin’ worth gettin’ all up in arms about.” An uncomfortable chuckle slips out, gaze wandering to the side as his absentminded wringing gets harder. Breathing is more labored than usual, despite him simply standing by the doorway— could be a side effect from when he’d gotten kicked in the ribs —but Marshall forces words out with a casual levity, “Just a li’l squirmish with some of the... newer visitors t’ Gumption.” Before, the duck had thought that a couple of prospectors meant the little dirt town was picking up. Gaining traction and becoming a staple in the expansion of the West... Now he knows better.
Ever since the Gold Rush, people from all across the country seem to flock to the ‘boom town’. Bringing with them dreams, tools... and beliefs. Some don’t bode well for the sheriff, whom rumors have stated might be figuring to ‘hitch his wagon to a different kinda horse’. Which normally, wouldn’t be frowned upon too harshly in the secluded town. Backward in many ways, but one can't say that the people are behind when it comes to their tolerance. If their sheriff is happy, that li’l boy many of the older residents had watched grow: the one who always lent a helping hand, cared for his sick parents when just a youth, has been caring for everyone else after his efforts hadn’t been enough... As long as he’s found a reason— a REAL reason —to smile, well... Who cares if it comes from a missus or a mister?
Not that Marshall is aware of that common belief amongst his neighbors... All he knows is that quite a few of the incoming strangers certainly don’t have it.
“You really shouldn’t have stayed up waitin’ for me, y’know. You’re goin’ t’ be dog tired in the mornin’...” He weakly adds, brows furrowed with good-natured concern as he forces his gaze to meet Fulton’s once more. Because even now— battered and bruised, with a limp in his gait and a screaming pain in his side —the Sheriff can’t help but try to mother-hen the man he loves. “You should head t’ bed. I can handle this alright on my own...” Even as the words slip out of his beak, Marshall knows that Fulton won’t follow them. { ☆ }
