“When was that decided?” Grant demanded slowly, feeling ice creep into his words and a scowl threaten to overtake his features as he stared at Gavin through the bars. The man looked different through the metal gate, dark eyes full of cold malice and ugly snarl twisting harsh features into something cruel and wrong.

“The mayor just announced it.” The deputy informed curtly, voice clipped and harsh. “He’s as eager to watch the bastard sway as the rest of the good townsfolk.” The man went on, narrowing his eyes. There was something sharp in his tone, something cold and mean that implied Grant was somehow in the wrong.

“Hang the bastard!” The Kid seconded in a weak snark, pumping his fist towards the sky with a grim expression straightening his soft features. Well, he couldn't be too bad off if his humor was still intact, Grant supposed.

Gavin sneered at the boy, ignoring his words to turn back towards the door with a final, “See you at dawn.” Thrown over his shoulder in way of parting.

Silence followed in the wake of the door slamming shut behind Gavin, the sound echoing through the small jailhouse like the deafening thud of a final nail being hammered into a coffin. With a grim twist of his stomach, Grant supposed that’s what it was, after all.

“Let’s finish getting that leg wrapped up.” The sheriff finally prompted after a long moment, keeping his eyes locked on his hands as he reached for the supplies, not wanting to look at the boy damned for death. The sight that met him did nothing to help. The Kid’s blood still covered his hands, red smeared over his fingers and ran down his wrists as if he’d personally killed the boy himself.

Part of him felt like he had.

Soft fingers reached down and gently took a bloodied hand off where it sat uselessly on top of the bandage roll. Grant didn’t even realize he was shaking until he saw his fingers vibrate against the steady grip of the outlaw, delicate digits rubbing gently over the top of his hand to smear the crimson stain over the perfectly pale skin of the fugitive.

“It’s not your fault.” The Kid insisted, voice softened and steady. “Blame your ass of a deputy, if anyone.” The boy jibed easily, light touch of humor to his tone that didn’t match the tired sag of his shoulders at all.

Grant tried to focus his energy on something other than plotting out a million different plans to punch Gavin in the mouth that he’d never actually go through with. He picked the bottle of whisky up from where he’d sat it earlier and poured a splash over the now empty hole in the Kid’s leg before putting it aside once more. Then he grabbed the bandages and began carefully wrapping them around the cleaned injury, lifting the boy’s leg gently off the bench a few inches with one hand and circling the cloth over the wound a few times with the other. All the while, he felt as though he were in some sort of daze, like his body was simply going through the motions with his mind left in the dust behind him.

He just couldn’t shake how wrong all of this felt.

“Jeez, who died?” The Kid snarked as Grant finally drug himself out of the cell and locked it behind him; the click of the lock doing absolutely horrible things to his gut. The joke was in poor taste and did nothing to help Grant's roiling nausea.

“Really, Sheriff, if I’m not making it to tomorrow; long, awkward silence is at the very bottom on the list of ways I’d like to spend my final hours.” The outlaw insisted earnestly, scooching down the bench as he spoke until he was laying flat on his back with his feet propped up against the wall and an arm dragging to the floor, fingertip drawing small shapes absently in the dust.

“What’s at the top?” Grant asked with a forced chuckle as he made his way back to his desk and sagged into his chair, feeling ages older than we’d he scrambled out of it minutes ago. The least he could do was humor the boy.

“Come back in here and I’ll show you.” The Kid purred, bringing up the hand not doodling on the ground to pump a fist in front his mouth, lips spread and tongue lolled out in invitation.

Grant really wished he didn’t feel so absolutely shitty - As it was, the weak stutter his heart gave at the suggestive display only served to leave his chest aching.

Before Grant could answer, the front door creaked open again, a low, droning noise different than the previous slammings the poor thing had endured all morning. The sheriff lifted his head to see an old man in a long, button up black shirt enter the room and glance around almost timid like, shoulders arched in constant tension and a book clutched to his chest so tightly his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

“Howdy, Sheriff.” The man greeted when his timid eyes fell on Grant, startling back some as if he hadn't expected the man to be sitting there. When he turned to the lawman, Grant could see the wooden beads slung around his neck and the shinning cross at the end of it - And understood why the fellow was there with a nauseous twinge.

“Mornin’, Reverend.” Grant grunted dryly, the words tasteless in his mouth and sticking in his throat like he’d swallowed a fistfull of sand.

The godly man turned away from the lawman and turned his attention instead to where the Kid was still lounging horizontally with his legs in the air against the wall, watching the pastor with unabashed warriness. “Are you a religious man?” The newcomer asked calmly, welcoming smile shining across his face as he flipped open his bible and flicked through a few pages.

Looking at him, you’d never know his charge was staring at him like a rabbit might stare down the slobbering snout of a fox, tense and ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

“No, sir.” The Kid answered evenly, bringing his hand up off the ground to lace his fingers together atop his stomach as he shifted his gaze to the ceiling.

“Can I interest you in my services anyway?” The man of god offered warmly, body language visibly more relaxed now that he was actually doing his work, clearly in his element.

“You sound just like my mother.” The Kid deadpanned, turning a little to give the pastor a wiry, dangerous smile that looked more like a coyote's sharp toothed smirk than anything.

The reverend paled slightly, stuttering out some unintelligible syllable before closing his mouth again so quick Grant swore he heard his teeth snap from where he was sitting, old eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “As you will.” The man dismissed stiffly, voice strained around a locked jaw as he turned and made for the door without a second glance.

Despite his wolfish ways, when the minister had departed Grant swore he caught the softest hint of a quiet sigh from the jail cell, drawing his attention to the boy still lying atop the bench. However, the Kid had pulled his legs down from the wall and shifted to lay on his side, dragging his knees in close to himself atop the wooden platform, and was glancing down at something in his hand. The sheriff couldn’t quite make out what it was from where he sat but it had a metallic glimmer to it and seemed to be hanging around his neck on a string, though he’d never seen it before so it must usually be kept under the outlaw’s clothes.

The Kid clasped the thing tightly within his hand, gripping onto it like a lifeline and rolling his thumb over it in slow, soothing stokes as if to settle himself. His features softened and a tiny frown played over his lips, almost like the conversation with the pastor had bothered him more than he was letting on. “That was a lie.” He sighed quietly, his voice small so that Grant wasn’t certain the words were meant for him.

“Of all the things you’ve done, lying to a man of God is the one that bothers you?” Grant snorted lightly, crossing his arms over this broad chest as he watched the boy carefully. This attitude shift was unexpected to say the least… Grant didn’t know what to make of it.

“I would just as soon lie to God himself, the sick bastard.” The outlaw chuckled with a shake of his head, amused smile making a brief appearance before it vanished as quickly as it had come. “I mean, my mother didn’t sound like that.” The boy went on after a long moment, eyes distant and as coluded as a stormy sky getting ready to open on the world. “She never worked in front of me.” He explained, soft voice thick and halting, as if every word tried to stick in his throat and choke the life out of him.

Grant was left silent, confusion crawling its way up the back of his neck leaving him wordless. If the Kid had murdered his mother, why did he speak so sadly of her now? It… Didn't make any sense.

“Some guy tried once, after she’d already told ‘em to back off.” The outlaw mused, voice shifting to something fond. “She popped him right in the mouth. Knocked out a tooth right out of his ugly face.” The Kid chuckled warmly, amused smile creeping its way across his features at he recalled the memory.

Something strong and angry twisted in Grant’s gut as he watched the soft, almost happy expression play out gently across the Kid’s face. This… Didn't seem right.

This was wrong.

“You know what would brighten the mood?” The lawman asked abruptly, his sudden outburst causing the outlaw to jolt as the sheriff pulled himself out from behind the desk and grabbed his whisky bottle off of it as he went. “A drink!” Grant announced cheerily, grinning widely as he moved across the room and flopped his ass heavily down just beside the cell.

“What are you doing?” The Kid asked slowly, confusion clear in his voice but the sound of him shuffling around and pulling himself up out of his lying position could be heard behind the lawman soon after.

“Nothin’.” Grant snorted then tipped back half the bottle in one fell swig before slamming it down heavily beside him. “Nothin’ at all.” He repeated slowly, drawing his jail keys off of his belt and twirling them around his finger, the metal jingling merrily as he circled the large ring around the digit in a slow cycle. He was careful to keep his eyes fixed on the other side of the room.

Then he pretended to be surprised when he woke up on the cold, concrete floor of the jail cell with shattered glass caught in his hair and the smell of whisky covering his clothes.