17 for holsom please? 💖
NOICE. Thanks for the opportunity to whip out an au i’ve been wanting to explore for a while - aka, Ransom and Holster live up to their nicknames in the wild west. cw for just one instance of (fairly mild) old-timey slang for gay men, violence, and blood.
17. Needing to kiss to hide from bad guys
The rusted hills, dotted with scraggly patches of green and the occasional cluster of buildings thrown together in some semblance of civilization, speed past in a winding, sepia-toned blur. Ransom stares out the dirty window, counting mountains and valleys as the train trudges through the desert in an attempt to distract himself. He spins his hat in his hands, fingertips tracing over the brim as he slides it through his fingers over and over again. Anxiety is bubbling deep in his chest, white water churning between his lungs that’s quickly rising to his throat and he’s having a hard enough time breathing already that he thinks it just might kill him this time.
He tears his gaze away from the western wilderness, turning his head to take in his partner’s relaxed form. Holster’s asleep, arms crossed over his chest as it gently rises and falls with his deep breathing. His hat - identical to Ransom’s - is pulled low over his eyes and his feet are propped up on the empty seat across from them. The train car is mostly empty, the only other passengers all the way on the other end. Still, they’re witnesses, and their wanted posters might not be the most anatomically accurate (the sketch artist doesn’t seem to realize that not all black folks look alike so Ransom’s doesn’t contain any individual characteristics and Holster’s still features the beard he’d sported last winter) but they’re still wanted, dead or alive, and having so many people around makes Ransom even more uneasy than usual. It’s bad enough that they’re traveling by train but they hadn’t had much of a choice after their horses disappeared during the night (stolen, no doubt, by the sore losers in the poker game Ransom had played last night while Holster had entertained himself on the saloon’s piano). They’re too exposed like this, it’s too dangerous, Ransom has to get them out of here right fucking now -
“Shut up,” Holster says suddenly, voice low. Maybe he wasn’t asleep, after all. It’s difficult to tell, even when they’re curled together for heat next to a dying campfire on a cold desert night. He hasn’t moved at all but his mouth is turned down in a deep frown. Ransom scoffs and idly knocks their shoulders together.
“I didn’t say anything.” He shoots back, reaching over to flick the brim of Holster’s hat so it slips back and reveals more of his partner’s face.
Holster’s frown deepens. “Shut your brain up, then.” He orders, uncrossing his arms just long enough to pull his hat back down into place. Ransom lets him settle back into his comfortable position before he snatches the hat off Holster’s head.
“They’re gonna hang us.” Ransom whispers harshly, holding Holster’s hat up as a flimsy barrier between them and the rest of the passengers in the car. Holster finally opens his eyes and levels a flat glare at Ransom, blue eyes flashing in the late afternoon light. He’d be terrifying if Ransom didn’t know him so damn well; what most folks see as a dangerous, unpredictable outlaw Ransom knows to be a certified grump with a soft spot for anyone or anything he considers small, which is to say, almost everything.
“They are not.” Holster says, voice matching his unimpressed expression. He’s unnervingly calm for a man on the run but one of them has to be and the white water that’s churning in Ransom’s gut isn’t easing up anytime soon so it falls on Holster to be the rational one today.
Still, Ransom rolls his eyes. “Oh, right, they might opt for a firing squad instead.” He hits Holster’s arm with his own hat, throwing it into his partner’s lap with a huff.
“Why do you always assume we’re gonna die?” Holster asks, finally uncrossing his legs to push himself back up into a sitting position instead of the slouched lounge he’s been in for most of the train ride. He smooths his hands over his hat, pressing the fabric back into position with smooth, easy motions before setting it aside when he has the brim and crown positioned just right.
“We tend to do things that get people killed.” Ransom reminds him. They’d met fighting in a war, for God’s sake, and when their time as soldiers came to an end they promptly chose an equally dangerous profession in an equally dangerous place.
“Fair.” Holster’s lips curl into a languid grin; he’s probably the only person on earth who can look amused while confronting that very fact. Ransom scrubs his hands over his face, trying to force some of the bubbling anxiety out of his system. It doesn’t help, but the gentle pressure on his arm does. He looks up in time to see Holster’s concerned expression. “Hey, look at me.” Holster murmurs, slipping into the empty seat across from Ransom as he takes both of his partner’s hands. His thumbs circle over Ransom’s knuckles in a soothing pattern. Ransom stares down at their hands, the way their fingers and palms fit together, how their skin tones compliment each other, fixating on the scars that dance over Holster’s knuckles when he moves, lightning bolts shifting over his skin. Holster squeezes Ransom’s hands before he speaks again, drawing his gaze up to his face. “We have a plan. Get to the next town, find horses, and make our way back to Samwell. We know it’s close by and Lardo’s the sheriff. She’ll keep people off our backs until Shitty can help us build our case and get the charges dropped. Bing, bang, boom, we’re humble bounty hunters again, back on the right side of the law.”
“Bing, bang, boom,” Ransom echoes, holding Holster’s big sky gaze. He suddenly wonders what Holster sees in his eyes and promptly hammers the stray thought into submission, deep in the back corner of his mind where it belongs. They have enough troubles without adding Ransom’s inclinations to the mix.
“That’s what I said.” Holster nods firmly, and when he squeezes Ransom’s hands again he’s smiling.
God, Ransom loves him, and Holster has no idea.
Ransom opens his mouth with absolutely no idea what’s going to come out but before he can say anything the train screeches to a halt. Ransom’s thrown forward, directly into Holster’s lap, but before he can even process the fact that his hands are braced against his partner’s very broad and very strong chest and his forehead is pressed against Holster’s neck with his lips touching his bare skin just like Ransom’s imagined a thousand times over the train jolts again and they’re thrown back into Ransom’s seat. Holster ends up with his torso in Ransom’s lap and his legs under the seats, arms splayed on either side of Ransom’s hips, and before Ransom can even begin to deal with that he sees a cluster of men on horseback through the dirty train window.
“Holtzy,” He murmurs, voice low as the other passengers in the car begin to squawk and shout in indignation. Holster follows his gaze immediately, pushing himself up so he’s pressed against Ransom’s side. The posse thunders past their car in a cloud of dust, close enough for Ransom to count the gaps in one man’s teeth and the drops of sweat on another’s brow. He knows them all too well; he and Holster collected the bounty on five of the eight men in the group. The remaining three broke them out of jail before the execution, and Ransom doubts any of the men will be happy to see either of them again.
“It’s the Chads. The fucking Chads.” Holster grumbles, already pushing himself up to grab their knapsacks from the luggage rail over their heads. Ransom gathers their hats, plopping one on Holster’s head before placing the other on his own. “Out of all the fuckers we’ve turned in, it had to be the Chads.”
“We gotta go.” Ransom spins Holster by his shoulders and pushes him down the aisle of the train car in the opposite direction as the Chads. “They’ll sweep the whole damn train for valuables and they can’t know we’re here.” Gunshots echo outside the train as they sprint past the other passengers and jump onto the next car.
They make their way through the rest of the passenger cars with ease and when they hit the cargo cars Ransom thinks they just might make it. They’re climbing over crates, trudging through coal, and weaving through baggage, almost in the clear.
The door slams open suddenly, silhouetted figures filling the white-bright doorway. Ransom freezes, the white water rising up in a sudden, vicious wave to choke him in his throat, but Holster reacts instantly. He spins around, pressing Ransom against the wall of stacked crates they’d just climbed over, and seals their lips together in a sudden kiss. His hands frame Ransom’s face, broad palms spread over Ransom’s jaw and neck, and his body his holding Ransom firmly in place but his lips are so, so gentle. Ransom opens up with a shaky gasp, hands curling around the fabric of Holster’s shirt, and when Holster turns his head just so to deepen the kiss Ransom pulls him closer, tugging him down until Holster has to brace a hand against the wooden crates to keep them both from toppling over.
Ransom vaguely registers the door slamming shut, the Chad’s disgusted shouts. It’s just a coupla Marys, one says, and the group agrees to double back and check the car when they’re finished with the rest of the train. There’s a sharp crate corner pressing into his thigh and splinters digging into the exposed strip of skin on his lower back where Holster’s rucked his shirt up. They’re running out of time and completely out of options.
Ransom doesn’t give a fuck about any of that.
Holster pulls away all too soon, turning his head with a furrowed brow and deep frown and he looks wrecked. When he gaze flickers up to meet Ransom’s he looks fucking distraught, raw and flushed and utterly gorgeous.
“I’m sorry,” Holster whispers, voice trembling, and Ransom shakes his head and pulls him back down for another kiss because he shouldn’t ever apologize for this. The kiss starts deeper this time as they push and pull against each other with shaking hands and pounding hearts. Ransom breaks this kiss, reaching up to frame Holster’s face in his hands.
“You couldn’t have done that before our lives were in grave danger?” Ransom asks, still breathless, and Holster’s laugh is more of a gasped huff but he’s smiling when he ducks his head forward to press his face against Ransom’s shoulder.
“Can I do it again when we’re not in grave danger?” Holster replies, and the words might sound like a joke but Ransom knows his partner well enough to see the question for what it is. He cups Holster’s cheek, tugging him back up, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s barely a kiss; a tender brush of lips that still somehow manages to make Ransom’s heart stutter in his chest. Holster leans in close, pressing his forehead against Ransom’s temple, and Ransom’s not sure how long they stand there, breathing each other in, before Holster sways back.
“Let’s get out of here.” He reaches out to brush his knuckles against Ransom’s cheek, callused hands so gentle. They draw their guns and make their way to the door, and after a quick look in every direction they make a break for the cluster of horses gathered by the pilot car. There’s just one Chad on watch, easily disposed of with a firm blow to the back of his head, and it takes them just a few minutes to cut the rest of the horses free after selecting two for themselves. Ransom mounts as Holster sends the horses running in all directions with firm slaps to their rears, and he’s oriented by the time Holster swings into the saddle of the only remaining horse.
Shouts ring out behind them as the Chads finally take notice, and Ransom has just enough time to match Holster’s blinding, brilliant grin before their horses begin to gallop away. Shots are fired but Ransom pays them no mind once Holster yells at him to keep going, and he doesn’t look back as long as he can hear the steady pounding of Holster’s horse behind him.
It’s almost too easy. They ride until the sun drops almost to the horizon, pushing the horses to their limits, until they crest a ridge. Ransom finally pulls his horse to a stop, using the elevation to search for any Chads behind them or any water before them. The coast is clear for miles back and he spots a small homestead ahead them but not much else. His horse knickers, idly circling, and Ransom gently steers her back in the right direction as Holster pulls up beside him.
“We’re close to Samwell.” Ransom says, more focused on getting his horse to calm the hell down than anything else. Holster grunts in response; he must not recognize where they are. “See that butte? The town should be on the other side of it, maybe a day’s ride.” He twists around, trying to indicate where Holster should look without taking his hands off the reins. Finally, his horse calms, taking the few steps to stand beside Holster’s. Ransom peers down the ridge, analyzing in the small homestead. There’s smoke coming from the chimney and they’re certain to have water and feed for the horses if they can barter for it. He glances back at Holster, trying to gauge their options. “What do you think? Worth a - Jesus Christ, Adam.”
Holster is hunched over, face pale and pinched. His clothes are stained red, blood streaming from his left side and right shoulder. Ransom can see the holes in his jacket and shirt where the bullets tore through, and when he reaches out Holster sways in his saddle.
“Hey, no, stay with me.” Ransom commands, clutching the fabric of Holster’s shirt to keep him from falling. “Adam Jeremiah Birkholtz, you’re not allowed to die. Not ever, but especially not today.” Holster huffs out a ragged laugh, the sound tapering off into a groan as Ransom slips off his horse and guides Holster forward.
“Fuckin’ typical.” Holster pants, wrapping his arms around his horses’ neck so he doesn’t topple to the ground. “‘Course I die on the same day I, fuck me, I finally get to kiss you.” He sucks in a gasping breath that ends in a cough. Ransom pulls himself into the saddle behind him, murmuring apologies when he jostles Holster in the process.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? No dying, you hear me?” Ransom wraps his arms tightly around his partner, holding him in place as he holds the reins and the horse takes off. They gallop towards the homestead, Holster cursing with every hoof beat, Ransom trying not to think about Holster’s blood seeping into his clothes.
It’s dark by the time they reach the small cabin. Ransom doesn’t know what awaits them but he doesn’t have the time to go through every possible scenario before choosing the proper course of action. Nothing matters but getting Holster inside, finding someone who can help Holster, staying by Holster’s side through whatever comes next, healing Holster, fixing Holster, making Holster as he was.
The cabin door opens before Ransom’s feet hit the ground, two figures rushing outside into the night. Holster’s pale and sticky with sweat; Ransom sacrifices a split second to brush his knuckles over his partner’s cheek, mirroring Holster’s tweet touch from the train car. Holster opens his eyes but his gaze is unfocused, roaming over Ransom’s face as if he can’t find a single point to focus on.
“No dying,” Holster whispers, the anchors of his lips drifting up in a crooked smile.
Ransom presses his forehead against Holster’s temple. “No dying,” he murmurs, tightens his grip, and pulls Holster off his horse. They fall to the ground in a graceless pile, Holster shouting in pain, and all Ransom can do is hold him until two pairs of hands pull them both up. He can hear two stranger’s voices and feel their hands on him but getting his feet under him is all Ransom can focus on. The white water that was in his throat is now roaring in his ears and encroaching on the edges of his vision; one of the strangers (the taller one, Ransom knows one is tall and one is short and one is blonde and one is not and he knows they both have accents but for the life of him he can’t figure out where from) hauls Holster up and together they carry him towards the light streaming out of the cabin threshold where the shorter stranger is waiting.
The cabin feels further and further away with every step, but after what feels like thousands of years they finally make their way through the door. The shorter stranger clears off the table and together they lay Holster down on the rough hewn surface.
The strangers spring into action, circling around each other in the small space. Ransom stands there, frozen, drowning in helplessness as the two men gather supplies. He feels absolutely useless, rooted to the ground and unable to move a muscle. He’s not even breathing, he realizes absently, and when his vision clears just enough to take in Holster’s prone form stretched out the a stranger’s kitchen table, his inability to force air in and out of his lungs doesn’t even register as an issue.
Holster’s eyes fly open; Ransom takes a ragged breath.
He flies forward, leaning over the table to cup Holster’s cheek in his palm. “Hey,” Ransom whispers, ducking down so Holster’s wild gaze can finally settle on him. “I’m gonna fix you up,” he promises as he smooths his palm over Holster’s pale skin. Holster takes a shaky breath and grins that sweet, crooked grin.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ haunt you if you let a Chad kill me.” Holster mumbles, his words slurring together. Ransom laughs, too relieved by the sound of his voice to remind him, for the thousandth time, that ghosts aren’t real. He ducks down and presses his lips to Holster’s clammy forehead.
When he looks up, the two strangers are standing still. The tall one is holding a basin of steaming water while the short one has a stack of clean bandages, and they’re both staring directly at Ransom - or, more accurately, the way he’s protectively curled over another man, the way he’s gently holding another man, the way he’s kissing another man - but they don’t look disgusted the way the Chads had.
They look -
Well, they look exactly like Jack Zimmermann, son of Bad Bob Zimmermann, the sheriff who single handedly cleaned up the northeastern territories and Eric Bittle, a criminal wanted for seven counts of armed robbery.
They look exactly like Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle, and they’re inexplicably both here, together, at a homestead in the middle of nowhere, staring at him and his partner, who’s still bleeding out on their kitchen table.
“I need hot water, a needle and thread, and booze. Highest proof you’ve got.” Ransom orders, because he can only deal with one unimaginable scenario right now and he’ll choose Holster over whatever clusterfuck he’s found himself in any day of the week.
Jack Zimmermann blinks at him. Eric Bittle glances at Jack and sets the bandages down, wordlessly handing Ransom a bottle of whiskey.
“This is gonna hurt, isn’t it?” Holster grumbles, hand outstretched as he fruitless reaches for the bottle. Ransom holds it out of his reach as Jack and Eric finally begin moving again and gives his partner a nod; there’s no use in lying to him. “Bing, bang, boom, motherfuckers.” Holster’s head thuds against the table, gaze focused on the ceiling, and Ransom gets to work.
