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Running Gun: Chapter 2 of Playground Posse |2.7K| (western au)

summary. gunslingers silco and jinx are running from the law while you’re running from your past. when happenstances causes your paths to collide and your good nature taken advantaged of, you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

trigger warnings. this series will contain domestic abuse and suicidal behaviors in future chapters.

chapters. 1 | X

a/n. massive thanks to @eye-of-zaun for betaing the crap out of my og draft and for everyone who reblogged and left a nice review on the first chapter ;w; would have lost motivation if it wasn’t for ya’ll. ao3 link.

taglist. @sweatandwoe, @maplewhisk, @agoutighost, @frugi7, @intpthinkinginquiet, @ouranxiousheart, @nunanuggets, @holysmokesblog, @will-grammer

“Y’know there’s something about ya,” Jinx says, leaning on the back legs of her chair, her feet propped up on the table’s edge, “you’re easy to talk to.”

Deadpan you stare at her, in the same rocking chair they’ve kept you in since the day of your hostage. Wrists bound and back aching to get some sort of support. That bed–the one you paid for with your own money–sure looks comfier every passing hour. They keep the thundermug underneath your seat. It’s easier than taking you out back every time you need to take a piss–and you have to go a lot. One of the perks of being held at gunpoint.

The room is a compacted space that adheres to the “waste not, want not” model against modern motifs. A literal cube in design, does well storing a twin bed in the far corner of the room, sandwiched between the wall and nightstand that houses a lamp on its counter and a holy book in its drawer. There’s a pine cabinet set of drawers that face perpendicular to the foot of the bed with the safe–a feature that made this room run for luxury price–bolted to the floor boards below. On the other side of the room was the dinner table you were seated at, small in size with just enough of a diameter to keep Jinx’s swinging legs from colliding with your shins.

“Ya should smile more, toots.”

She smiles, bracing the edge of her chair as she leans forward. Jinx shivers on impact, a painful pressure digging in her side, causing her smile to widen with a strain.

“It would get rid of ‘em forehead wrinkles.”

That natural desire to rebuff her comments dies at the base of your throat when Silco stirs in bed. You swallow and watch him scratch his chest before shifting on his side, tugging his hat close to his face. A moment passes before you speak, “What’s it like? Being a running gun?”

“Um…” Crossing her arms on the table, Jinx thinks hard, eyes looking upwards to the corners of her brain. “It’s fun”–dangerous “and the payout is huge.” If there’s a payout. “It’s the best!” Except when it isn’t.

Her hand subconsciously ghosts over the bullet wounds in her side.

–

They wind up staying at the inn for a week while Jinx’s side mends. Silco sleeps through the days, always above the blankets and bedding with his hat covering his face.

“He can’t sleep at night,” Jinx whispers, sitting catty-corner to you at the table, shuffling a deck of cards, “gets all wildly. We used to be on shifts but did no good with both of us up.”

“Why is that?” you mumble, rubbing the tender imprint of rope around your wrists. By noon of the third day they stopped bothering to bind your wrists during daylight so you could play games with Jinx. Mostly card games; some you knew and others you’re sure she made up herself with wild rules that only a child could think of.

“Heck if I know. He’s got more hang-ups than a county jail on Sunday,” she peers over her shoulder at Silco sleeping before flashing you a toothy grin while dealing you in, “he likes to say I talk too much, but get ‘im under the stars and he’ll sing more than a prairie song, if ya catch my drift.”

Jinx waggles her eyebrows and you crack a shy smile.

Silco hits her with a pillow and you let out a snort.

You forgot how good it felt to laugh.

Each day is spent much like the last; Silco usually sleeps til dawn while you play cards with Jinx and she tells you about her travels from over the horizon, the enemies she’s made and the friends she’s lost. At night, you’d read her the books you brought along, they were also filled with adventures that seem dull in comparison with her tales but she listens with rapt interest, cheeks squished against her palms and elbows on the table, captivated by the unique cadence of your words—a lovely staccato that entertains even Silco, who listens from the bed as he applies a generous dose of liniment to the surrounding area of his eye and sore joints.

Almost a waste you’ll be dead at their departure.

Strapped for funds and bleeding every time he takes a trip to the saloon, that ring of yours will have to be pawned, but given your attachment… the walls are too thin to slice it off and he’s already tried prying it from you while you slept. Disposing of a corpse is never an easy task in these small towns with local busybodies. It is something he’ll have to do early; before the sun wakes up and the roosters start calling.

On the final day of the week, Jinx hands you a cookbook to read next. A troubled expression sets on your face.

“Uhm,” you wet your lips as she watches expectedly. You open the book, filtering through pages till stopping at a tightly folded paper that acts as a bookmark.

Peeling back its corner, a mournful smile etches in your features as you reminisce in the memories that came from that faded old paper. It was a fake bond written out in your name, given to you for participating in the county fair cook off. You found it very assuming at the time but your husband was pissed at the results, claiming the contest was rigged from the start. He had a temper back then as well and that night you helped him tip over the neighbor’s cow.

At Jinx's insistence, you remove the bookmark from its slot and start at the beginning. It’s best not to dwell in the past anyhow. As you pretend to read you sprinkle in foreign phrases from past novels and she repeats them with youthful enthusiasm.

“Arrivederci!” The word flows off Jinx’s tongue with a kick of southern drawl and she grins, “What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” you ask, a sly way of not having to admit you don’t know the answer. You believe its etymology is Italian, something along the lines of a farewell; but Jinx’s definition is far more entertaining.

“It sounds like a swear, so I’ma gonna use it as one.”

You smile kindly, “You don’t strike me as someone with a dirty mouth.”

Jinx scoffs in a deliberate laugh, cocky grin splitting her features before lurching forward. She pats your cheek, grimy fingernails squeeze into your flesh as she holds you in place. “Don’t be stupid, ya don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Her hips sway and her gun–pow-pow as she calls it–flares in the light.

You somber quickly, eyes lock as tepid fingers curl around hers and you take a gamble, “I know a lonely person when I see one.”

A connection illuminates her violet eyes briefly and her features turn soft with raw sentiment until her name is called and she fervently turns to answer.

“Go take a bath,” Silco insists, floor boards creak beneath his weight as his spurs jingle with every step. Off her confusion he continues, “It’ll aid in your recovery.”

Between his stern eye and stiff lip there’s little room for an argument, so she grabs some spare change from the nightstand and peels out, sparing you one last glance on her way. “It was nice knowing ya.”

She almost sounds regretful.

Silco waits by the window, watching her walk across the deck and down the stairs. “You did fine work on my trousers.” His thumb skirts across the decorative ouroboro that coiled around his thigh. Its gold threading is a shade brighter than the florals adorning his yoke, but a week whitened by the sun will take care of any discrepancies. “I’m curious, why the snake?”

“The snag in your jeans was too wide to be sewn without it hikin’ up an inch higher than the other leg.” you remark, keeping close tabs on his other hand, big and slender, sitting comfortably on the gun in its holster. He doesn’t name his guns like Jinx does. He doesn’t snore as loudly as her or laugh at his own jokes the way she does. According to Jinx, he couldn’t read as well as her and when he comes back to the room in the dead of night, reeking of booze from the saloon across the street, he doesn't loudly slur his words like her either. In fact, his voice gets quieter and his touch more tender, as if that buffer that keeps his stoic ethos in check disintegrates. Most importantly, however, he's not attached to you like Jinx is. “Are you gonna kill me?”

“Eventually.” His tone is casually dismissive, “You’d be saving me a lot of trouble by handing over the jewelry.”

“It’s worth no more than a day’s work,” you swear, “otherwise my husband would have pawned it himself for a round of beers.”

“A day’s pay is more than we have now.”

Silco turns with swagger, shifting his entire weight from one leg to the next as he stalks towards you. Personal space–or rather a lack thereof–is one of the few things he and Jinx had in common. Fearful limbs freeze and joints lock, preventing you from budging as he leans in, his hand steadying himself on the back of the rocker. He’s so close you can feel his sharp inhale against your cheek then the warmth of his breath as he rasps into your ear, his other hand stretches before you, palm open and expecting, “I’ve been a patient man, hand it over.”

You stare at his hand with near tangible despair inflaming your chest. Digits recoiling tightly around your makeshift bookmark. Oh. Capricious relief soothes your nerves and your words leave your mouth on their own, “If money’s all you want let me pay you to take me up north.”

“With what?” They’ve already commandeered all of your possessions and pawned the rest. He eyes you callously as you lift the piece of paper to his view.

“With this.” You unfold and present the counterfeit bond at a distance from his scrutiny;, praying his illiteracy wasn’t greatly exaggerated. “It’s a registered bond, worth a thousand and will be maturing in…” He plucks the bond from you for closer inspection. You wet your lips. “Uhm, it will--it will be matured in…”

“Three weeks.”

“Huh?”

Silco turns the bond over, tapping his finger on a five digit number printed to appear stamped in red ink above the fine print that hailed the certificate as a forgery. By sheer luck, the numbers were arranged in such a way they resembled a date three weeks in the future.

“That's it!” you surprise both of you when your hands flit upwards to clasp his own, a smile flourishing at your good fortune, “Yes, I can collect it in three weeks”–you might be able to pull this off–“All I need is safe passage to the city of Yagas. If you can promise me protection, I’ll partition the bond with ya fifty-fifty.”

“Yagas?” Silco’s brow furrows, “That’s crossing mountain terrain.”

“That’s why I’m offering five hundred.”

He grows silent, tentatively removing one of his hands to stroke the spot under his devil eye. It’s the second time you’ve seen him do that and you’ve come to believe it’s synonymous with deep thought. His other hand breaks free from your grasp and he folds the bond up, tucking it into his breast pocket. “You got yourself a deal, partner.” His grin is infectious.

You’re in awe, to put it lightly. Your heart flutters, its own specific panic welling up inside you as you play a dangerous game of bait and switch. Three weeks will come and you recognize that you’ll be at a dangerous impasse with the consequences possibly being similar to the situation you’re in now. But what an exhilarating rush in the meantime. One step closer to being free.

The door slams shut behind you, a click of fastening fixtures and mechanical clank of a locking bolt, rips you from your thoughts. “H-hey!” you sputter, turning from the door to your wrists. They’re bound again. “Come back!” you whine, “I thought we had an agreement!” You shift in your rocker, clenching your thighs together. Damnit. I really need to pee.

—

When Jinx returns, she is excited to see you still breathing and hear the news that you’ll be joining their little posse of two. “Weeeeell, I wouldn’t say yer part of the posse.” She barks out a laugh, running a hand through her wet bangs. “Wouldn’t use the word at all.” Water droplets splash on the ground and you when she flicks a finger gun your way. “But with you around, Silco will get off mah case ‘bout the workload.” You maintain a tight smile; she’s going to work me like a mule. “So put it there, partner.”

You outstretch your hand ready for the gesture, but retract hesitantly when she clears phlegm from her throat and hacks into her palm. She doesn’t let you go, connecting the two hands in a loud wet SLAP. You feel sick.

The next day is spent preparing for the trip ahead and you’ve come to the conclusion that Silco is incredibly bossy. It’s incredibly frustrating and you wholeheartedly preferred him more when all he did was sleep and pick up hash from the drugstore for supper. First, he makes you sell your mule to cut costs on feed and water. “Two can ride a saddle together,” he says. Maybe, but it ain’t going to be comfortable.

Then he tells you that you’re only allowed to bring one source of leisure. A rule that Jinx says he’s steadfast on, “He always travels unbelievably sparse and crude.” She pouts, shoving some metal scraps into her sun bleached satchel. For Silco it’s a deck of cards with clipped corners and a missing queen. You take the cookbook. Jinx wants to know how the story ends.

When it’s time to mount, you try to hitch yourself with Jinx but she holds up her palm with a hefty “Oooh no. Fishbones’ already pullin’ his weight with the bedroll.” Her thumb juts to the heavy tarp rolled up and bounded haphazardly with cords around the saddle’s rear jockey and cantle. “Addin’ you will slow ‘im down.”

“Don’t tell me I have to ride with him.”

“You scared of me?” Silco rides up beside Fishbones, leaning against the horn of his saddle. His kerchief is wrapped over his left eye and tucked beneath the trim of his hat. On anyone else the combination would look stupid but from your angle so far down on the ground, he looks foreboding. His mount is far taller than the quarter horses you’ve seen—darker too. You’re used to seeing pintos more like Jinx’s, brown on white speckled legs and a hand or so smaller. Much like his owner, Silco’s horse is intimidating. “Then walk.”

Balling your fists you step closer and mumble, “Care to help me up?”

Silco reaches for your hand and pulls. There is no finesse in his manhandling, practically yanking your arm out of its socket while positioning you behind him on the saddle’s skirt.

With a cluck of his tongue the horse starts to move with strong steps that cause you to rock painfully against the hard leather. It’s nothing like riding your mule, low to the ground for a smoother ride. You check how Jinx is faring, if the motion was hurting your hips you could only imagine what her side must feel like. Your concerns are put to rest, however, when she meets your wearied expression with a grin of manic glee.

“Hey, Silly! You wanna race?”

She doesn’t wait for a response, kicking off with a Hi-yah! that sends Fishbones into a wild sprint.

Silco tightens his grip on the reins and you voice your disapproval, “She can’t be serio-US!”

Dirt flies everywhere as his horse increases its gait in record time. you jerk forward, pressing your cheek into Silco’s back as you cling to his lithe frame. “This is asinine!” You cry.

“Rise up,” he shoots back, “You’re ruining his back.”

The slightest twinge of heat runs across your cheeks and you obey while mentally cursing yourself for getting roped up with a couple of outlaws. As civilization shrinks behind you and the desert blooms past the horizon, the reality of the situation sinks your stomach.

You almost wish you never left home.

#silco #Silco x Reader #My writing #if i wasn't going for a theme in the title names i would have named this chapter 'almost' 🥺#anyways next chapter's title is saddle tramp 🥴#this chapter just about killed me #but it turned out better than expected #cowboy au

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