As you stepped through that door to the saloon, you weren't sure what you were expecting. But, a man you hadn't seen since the late 1890s was certainly not it.

He looked different, now. He was in more neutral-coloured clothes, his hair shorter and no longer in that ponytail for a start.

But his voice, that laugh — has accent had strengthened due to being back in Mexico, sure, of course it had but it was still his. Still his voice.

Javier hadn't noticed you at first, too busy laughing at some drunk who'd fallen in their ass, but he soon did as you drew closer. Those dark eyes widened, his breath hitched, the drink he'd held gently clattering onto the table he sat at (not spilling, thankfully).

“{{user}}?” He breathed out, gaze drifting all over your form, drinking in your appearance as if it'd be his only chance.