Chapter Text
Over the years, Goodnight's become numb to the whispers that follow him around, the distorted echoes of stories that have already turned to legend.
If he had much in the way of pride left, he might be above swallowing how much he hates his reputation for long enough to take advantage of it. But then, if he had much in the way of pride left, perhaps he might not hate his reputation quite so much. He certainly doesn't have much else left to work with beside it. It's a useful thing sometimes, to be Goodnight Robicheaux, sending men who these days could kill him without a breaking a sweat backing down with their tails between their legs. A fight avoided is as good as a fight won. It's certainly better than a fight lost.
He's quite certain that he once had more pride than that too, but that time seems far distant now. His reputation in any case is built on doing so much worse than taking advantage of the awe and fear of those who don't know better. There's blood enough on his hands that he doesn't see how useful half truths could possibly blacken his soul any further. He doesn't have much guilt or shame left to spare for something so comparatively petty, but he's just enough of a hypocrite to hate the sound of the stories they tell about him while still playing his own part in perpetuating them.
Much of his life, it seems, is now predicated on pretending to be someone he isn't. Stepping into the larger-than-life caricature of his legendary alter ego is perhaps a margin less pathetic than the alternative of trying to remember how to be the man he thinks he was, once. Before.
He can still shoot, when some rush of visceral panic doesn't root him in place and set his hands to uselessly trembling. He's still wily enough that bringing in hapless would-be outlaws for whatever petty price is on their head hasn't killed him yet. Nonetheless, there's an inevitability to the path he's on. He can see it laid out before him as clear as a paved road; the limbo he's been drifting through ever since the end of the war, devoid of purpose, continuing steadily downward until the day when he freezes up at the wrong moment, when some man too young and stupid to be afraid isn't cowed by his name any more. He can envisage that end so clearly that he can taste something like bitter disappointment at the back of his throat every time it doesn't happen.
Sometimes the way his finger freezes on the trigger now is the only thing that keeps him from hastening the end himself. Of all the acts of cowardice his weakened spirit has seen fit to visit on him, that one is perhaps the hardest to stomach. But if nothing else it's deserved. They called him the Angel of Death, and perhaps that's why his nightmares take the form they so often do: the true incarnation of the title to which he was only ever a pretender, a pale imitation, poised to punish him for his hubris. The stories they tell of him grew around grains of truth, close enough still to the rough shape of what happened that he can't call them fiction. But to hear them whispered by children who never saw war feels akin to hearing blind men telling tales of the light of the sun.
There's honour of a sort in meeting a man on even terms, in looking him in the eye as you kill him. So what can there be other than shame then in the way he killed his enemies, silent and unseen from a hundred yards out? None of them had a fighting chance. Most never even knew he was there until it was already too late.
War makes monsters of all men, he's heard it said. He knows it for the lie it is. It certainly didn't make monsters of the boys who died trembling and terrified in stinking rifle pits, torn apart by artillery fire before time and trauma ever had the chance to harden them. Some might think him proof of the proverb from the way his reputation precedes him, but he knows that for a lie as well. It made a mask of the man he used to be, and a coward of the creature hiding behind it.
Still, he endures, anticipating his end but lacking the nerve to truly go seeking it. The seasons turn and he drifts onwards, until he's no longer running from his fate or running toward it, but simply running for fear of what might happen if he stops. Acquaintances come and go, his only constant companion the sick restlessness of a hunted man burning across the back of his neck. He keeps his flask topped up with whatever he can get his hands on, and tries with varying degrees of success to drown the nightmares.
And then inevitably there comes a day where he meets a man who hears his name and doesn't blink, who tilts his head with a trace of idle curiosity but appears otherwise unmoved, and Goodnight feels the relief of a weary traveller cresting the last hill above their destination wash over him. The end of the road at last. He lifts his chin and makes no move to reach for his gun, at peace for one fleeting moment in the fatalism so many have mistaken for confidence, and waits.
The shot he's expecting never comes. As it will later turn out, this is only the first of many surprises the man he'll shortly come to know as Billy Rocks has in store for him.
He'll embellish this meeting later, spin stories, turn it into some grand tale that becomes more elaborate with every retelling. But what he remembers of it later is just this one moment; of standing on the precipice, on the very edge of the end he's seen ahead of him for so long, and his very own angel of death choosing not to pull the trigger.
Subsequently, mundane reality closes in again, and the rest of that first meeting is an oddly prosaic thing. He introduces himself again, bemused by the rare experience of doing so to someone to whom the name apparently means nothing. Receiving an introduction in return turns out to be far from a formality. The stranger winces slightly at Goodnight's game attempt to repeat back the name he's given, cajun drawl laying the emphasis in all the wrong places, and accedes to an anglicised version instead with with the faintly exasperated equanimity of one well used to worse. By the time they've made it that far, two facts have become thoroughly cemented in Goodnight's mind. Firstly, that even years ago at his very best, he might well not have been capable of collecting this particular bounty. And secondly, that he's not especially sure he wants to.
It's not the end of the road in quite the way he'd been anticipating, but it's an end nonetheless, and the start of something entirely new; an unexpected road branching off, skirting along the edge of the cliff up ahead rather then plunging straight down the face of it. For the first time in a long time, the path laid out before him looks uncertain again, the inescapability of that end suddenly called into question. And for the first time in a long time, he isn't walking it alone. It's a matter of convenience at first that has them riding out together, with the vague intention - on Goodnight's part at least - of parting ways at the next town. A lone traveller, after all, is more vulnerable to trouble on the road.
It's a quiet journey, enough so that he's left with the distinct impression that his companion is not entirely comfortable conversing in English, but even mostly silent company is an indulgence he hasn't had in a long time. They make the two-day ride with the horses mostly at a jingling trot, the sigh of the wind through wild grass punctuated by the rhythmic thud of hooves, and part ways with little more than nods of acknowledgement at the edge of the town, a charming little hovel by the name of Bear Creek. And that might have been the end of it, if not for the fact that the town in question only has one hotel. As it turns out the proprietor is a rather backwards sort, and by the time Goodnight has hitched his horse and acquainted himself with the surroundings, he's already in the process of refusing to rent a room to Billy in rather impolite terms.
If he was expecting anger in response, by all appearances he'll be disappointed; while anyone might reasonably have lost their temper, Billy looks frankly bored by the situation. But the man's manner is certainly more than enough to spark a flare of irritation in Goodnight. A name is all he has to trade on these days, but more often than not it's enough, and impulse has him stepping forward to interject. He takes rare satisfaction in watching the man pale as he introduces himself.
"I hope," he says, giving a smile that's all teeth and no warmth, "That it won't be any further trouble for my friend and I to take rooms at your fine establishment."
The proprietor blanches a little further as his meaning sinks in. His eyes flicker sideways to Billy, who is watching the proceedings with an air of mild interest, and he mumbles something that might, in poor light, have passed for an apology. His eyes remain mullishly lowered as he takes their coin and hands out keys in return.
The bartender in the saloon across the road turns out to be a rather more hospitable fellow, or at the very least more concerned with the colour of the money being handed to him than the colour of the hand offering it, and it's a straightforward matter to exchange another few coins for a bottle of moderately drinkable whiskey and two glasses. It's early enough in the evening that the saloon is quiet, the few other patrons present barely sparing them a glance as they take a table.
"...who are you?" Billy asks eventually, considering him over the rim of his glass.
"I don't see that introducing myself a third time will clarify anything," Goodnight replies, purposely light, as he raises his own glass to his lips. Billy shakes his head.
"Not your name," he corrects, just a trace of impatience colouring the flatness of his tone. "Who you are."
Well that's always a more complicated question to answer, isn't it. He's not sure some days that he knows the answer himself any more. "Someone with a reputation to trade on," is the response he finds in the end. If Billy had been hoping for something a little less cryptic, he doesn't show any particular sign of it. He gives a small shrug and sips his drink, apparently finding that sufficient.
Accepting the way of things with an eloquent shrug is, he'll come to discover, something of a habit with Billy. There's a matter of fact air to the way he deals with the world that's rather refreshing, working with what he has in front of him without wasting his breath blustering or complaining. It's a rare trait. Most men talk too much. He's fully aware that he's one of them, skating by on charm and an easy grin and the looming spectre of his reputation. Billy, on the other hand, prefers to listen, repetition ingraining the sounds of an alien language into memory. However many years may pass, he'll never not be a stranger here in a nation often hostile to those it sees as other. There's a pang of regret for that, of indignation on behalf of someone who's made nothing but a good impression on him in the time they've known each other. But if nothing else it's something - possibly the only thing - that he can bring to the tentative alliance they're building; the ability simply to fit in here, to open doors for both of them that might remain closed to Billy were he by himself.
That's the point he chooses to lead with when, four days into the ride from Bear Creek to something a little more like civilisation, he offhandedly proposes the idea of sticking together a little more long-term. Billy, in the act of adding more wood to their campfire, takes the time to finish what he's doing before sitting back on his heels and giving Goodnight a long, assessing look. His expression is inscrutable, but there's a glimmer of something that might be cautious interest in his eyes.
"What's in it for you?" he asks eventually. There's a stray piece of kindling still in one of his hands, some deadwood twig. The way his thumbnail scratches away at the bark clinging to it is the only outward indication he gives of being anything but completely calm and at ease.
"In addition to the sparkling after-dinner conversation?" Goodnight responds, raising his eyebrows. He shrugs. "Another pair of hands and eyes are always useful. And frankly I'm bored of travelling alone."
It's all true enough, for what it is. And it's certainly a sight easier to explain than the almost mythical image burned into his mind of looking his own end in the eye only to have it shrug and put up its guns. He can give all the explanations he likes, but in his heart he knows that there's no logic to this. On his part at least it's a visceral decision made by some deep instinct that cares little for reason.
Billy snaps the twig in half and tosses in into the crackling campfire. "Okay," he says. If Goodnight had hoped for some kind of elaboration, after a few seconds pass in silence it's clear that he isn't going to get any. Nothing wasted, he thinks, considering his companion in the flickering light of the fire. Not a movement, not a bullet, not a word. He tries to picture himself moving through the world with that kind of calm self-assurance and finds that he can't. He's been teetering on the edge of god only knows what for far too long to imagine what having his balance again would feel like.
Slowly the fire burns down to embers, smouldering on through the night. By the time dawn comes and they're ready to move on again, there's nothing left but ashes.