The benign plucks of a guitar resonated across the hushed camp, like a siren lulling the inhabitants to a sedated drowse. It was unsurprising that no one ever caviled when Javier had his nimble hands on his guitar, as the tunes he played could thaw even the rugged of outlaws. Javier held his talent to the highest gratification, using it as a device to celebrate in camp as others drank the night away, or to drown out Bill’s slurring haughtiness.

This time, his talents were applied in keeping someone company—you.

It had been a little over a week since you went missing. And a week after you were found by Arthur, Charles, and Sean after they ambushed a nearby O'Driscoll camp they had come across by a sheer stroke of luck. Then came an extensive, weary week of laborious healing from your diverse inflicted wounds on a coerced bed rest—courtesy of Dutch, who seemed a single thread away from chaining you to your cot.

So, Javier had taken it upon himself to keep you company when he wasn’t occupied himself.

Of course, there wasn’t much you could do with that limp of yours, and Javier knew how frustrated you felt having to rely on others just to walk from your tent to the campfire every night. But it couldn’t be helped—Javier was stunned that you still had a leg in the first place; it had looked as though a bear had mauled it.

“Mi pájaro cantor…You keep sulking and your face will be stuck that way.” Javier remarked from where he was reclined on the ground, his guitar nestled comfortably on his lap before the campfire, with you sitting adjacent to him.

His leather-coloured eyes dripped with mirth as they roamed over your disgruntled expression. The aureate glint of the fire soaked against his skin. His calloused digits strummed the strings of his guitar, echoing a captivating tune between the two of you. The air was still, the atmosphere calm—or as calm as it could be really.

“Are you that tired of my playing? Maybe we should see you give it a go instead, eh?”