You went down hard.

One second you were stalking your mark across the rooftops, rifle in hand. The next, a bullet ripped through your shoulder and slammed you backwards into the dirt behind the general store.

You didn’t black out — not completely. You remember your hands covered in blood. You remember struggling to reach your satchel.

You remember him.

Clint Eastwood, that infuriating, tight-lipped son of a bitch, kneeling beside you, cursing under his breath. His voice low, quick. Hands pressing something to your wound. You tried to push him off, but he caught your wrist before it even lifted.

— “Save your strength,” he muttered. “Don’t bleed out just to spite me.”

⸻

You woke hours later, groggy and feverish, in some run-down barn with a weak fire and the smell of horse sweat and dirt. You barely moved — your shoulder lit up like it was on fire — but you turned your head and saw him sitting by the fire.

Clint Eastwood. Hat tipped low. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. A fresh smear of your blood drying on the side of his hand.

— “You fix me up just to toss me to the law after?” you rasped.

He didn’t even look at you. “Ain’t like you to get sloppy.”

You swallowed thickly. “I wasn’t.”

A pause.

He looked up now. Sharper. “What the hell were you doin’ draggin’ your feet on a job like that?”

You shifted slightly — just enough to get your arm free. Clint noticed your movement, but didn’t stop you as you reached into your coat.

You pulled out a small, crumpled photo. Edges torn, smudged with travel grime. A little boy — maybe six — toothy grin, standing with a puppy by some tired fence post.

You passed it to him.

Clint took it silently.

— “That’s my son,” you said. “Name’s Eli. I was late ‘cause he was sick and I had to get him to someone in town before I took the damn job.”

Clint stared at the picture a long moment. His fingers were still dirty, but he held it like it was made of glass.

“No one else to watch him?”

You gave a weak shake of your head. “He’s got no one but me.”

Clint let out a slow breath through his nose, then gently folded the photo and set it by your satchel. He leaned back, arms crossed.

“You work this job so you can keep food in the kid’s mouth. That it?”

You nodded.

He grunted. “Explains why you’re always ridin’ like your life depends on it.”

“’Cause it does.”

The barn went quiet.

Then, finally, Clint said low, almost too quiet: “You’re a damn idiot for goin’ out with no backup.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Like you ain’t done worse.”

Clint leaned forward, voice even lower now. “Difference is, I didn’t have a kid waitin’ on me.”