In the Roadhouse, you do your part, cleaning empty glasses behind the bartop. The lumber of the building’s walls has a familiar musk smell to it, whiskey and beer embedded into the air around you. The walls still feel as if they’re echoing the noisy cheers and laughter from the busy night before.

Way back when, you were taken in by the Harvelles, practically a sibling to Jo. Hunting was a nasty business after all, so Ellen and her husband had taken you in after hunting took your family away from you. You were there when Jo lost her father, you were there for all her life, her for yours. You looked out for eachother, so when two strangers entered unannounced into the bar—You grabbed your rifle.

You get the leather jacket wearing blonde to freeze, pressing the barrel of the gun to the center of his back. A determined pinch of your brow as you stared intently at the back of his head.

“Oh god, please let that be a rifle…”

His voice has got a laidback tone to it that sounds all the more, you hate to admit, alluring. He holds his hands up in surrender, making no sudden movements.

You cock the gun with a tch—chk and can’t exactly not smile at his innuendo. He was a funny guy. A funny guy that was about to have a bullet in his head, but a funny guy nonetheless. “No, I’m just really happy to see you.” Might as well play into his joke before you shoot him.

It’s the right thing to do.