(Cain hadn’t been kidding on the day of their arrival. It seemed if the man had extra hands, they were going to be used- good bad or otherwise.
Jason couldn’t complain. He enjoyed the simplicity of being able to work and stop thinking for a moment. The routine of tiring his body from sun rise to sun set, with the promise of a shower and home cooked meals twice a day. Truly, no complaints.
It’s about a week into their working, though, that Jason had started to slow down. The sun bore on him too hard. His limbs were starting to buckle easier. More sweat poured from his brow. He had started gritting his teeth more obviously. It was close to sunset when Jason drops what he’s got on his shoulders, lets out a deep, shallow breath.)
Fuck.
(He grabs at his stomach and hisses. His arm looks as though it’s trying keeping everything together.)
@saw-shadow-company
Cain hadn't noticed Jason slowing down, not really--or if he had, he simply chalked it up to the strain of ranching. It's normal to slow down. Normal to need to take a day. Normal to need some rest. It's hard work, bein' on the ranch. Even Cain, a big, warmblooded brute of a man, needs rest sometimes.
And yet--
Jason's arm grabs at his stomach, his knees buckle and one hits the hay in the barn, and Cain feels his heart stop. He sees blood, he sees furrowed brows and bullet casings--he blinks, and it's gone. All that's left is Jason bowed over his unbloodied stomach, drenched in sweat and pale as a sheet.
"Jason?" He breathes, dropping the bag of feed and rushing over. Cain's hands shake, hovering close to Jason without touching. Never touching, not Jason. "Hey, what's--what's wrong, Jase? Y'hurt?"
