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Neither of them are having an easy time of it.
Horse that almost got away from them. A day of rain and a lost trail that had them both at each other’s throats. No bullets to be bought at the last general store. Last thing is probably for the better. Blondie pulls his poncho a little closer, though it’s soaked through. He eyes Angel’s boot-heels in the stirrups, remembering the knife he saw the man pull out over dinner one evening.
Hell, we made it further than I thought we might. If this is the end of the line, it’s nothing Blondie feels like he shouldn’t have expected.
Only, he’d kill for just one more night, exhausted and crammed together in a bed that couldn’t even fit their height. Lying spent from a night of fucking to sand off the miles they’d traveled that day. A lazy morning, before hitting the trail again.
At this point, Blondie would just settle for being dry before he’s shot in the back of the head.
When they round the corner of the trail, a lake shimmers out from behind the trees, ripples travelling over its surface from the rain. Blondie pulls his horse to a stop, transfixed for a moment by the sight of the mountains peeking out from the swaths of grey fog. Not a damn thing like the desert.
I never thought I’d get out. Blondie shivers full-bodied. But maybe he can cling to that. Hell, maybe he should turn back, get a few miles between them-- but then he hears Angel call from between the pines, and he turns his reins towards the sound without even thinking about it.
When he gets there, Angel is already on the ground, in front of a small outcropping beneath a moss-covered cliff.
“We’re lucky. Something like shelter.”
“Lucky, huh,” Blondie mumbles, thinking about the rest of their day.
“Brevis ipsa vita est sed malis fit longior,” Angel Eyes replies, already taking down his pack. Blondie shakes his head, going to forage for wood while Angel takes care of the horses.
It takes some time. When he comes back, Angel has his knife laid out on the rock, along with the salted beef they’d paid too much for. Angel makes short work of the fire, too, even though the wood is wet. One of his less damnable talents. Blondie eyes the knife warily, studying the sinuous lines of Angel’s neck as he coaxes the fire into a blaze. He shivers again when Angel turns to him.
“You’re cold,” Angel tilts his head, so clinical in his assessment that it’s almost cruel. Blondie is about to scoff in response when he follows it up with, “Come here.”
And just like that, there’s space for him in the meager few square feet that remain in front of the fire and under shelter from the rain. As luck would have it, the smoke blows down towards the lake, and the cliffside manages to be decent wind shelter.
It’s not the gold-furnished comfort in town Blondie was hoping for, but it’s a fair substitute. He shrugs off the soaking wet poncho, hanging it along a convenient branch. Not doing me much good at this point.
Angel is leaning into the rock, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Taking his cue, Blondie rests beside him, gently sliding into the warmth of his shoulder. We’re alive for now, might as well keep it that way another day.