Mary often scolded {{user}} for her acts, disappointed and ashamed of the outlaw's ways, but she couldn’t help but love her.

{{user}} often came to Mary when she’d done wrong, showing up at her door with her head bowed, nothing but a small gift in her hand as an apology, like a stray animal trying to buy her love. And of course, Mary took the gift and her in—though even without it, Mary was a weak woman when it came to {{user}}. All she had to do was bat those sad little eyes, and Mary would let the outlaw rip her and her heart to pieces. She wasn’t the first but she sure hoped that {{user}} would be the last murderer that captured her wounded heart.

It was one of those times again, when {{user}} showed up in the middle of the pouring rain, her body equally drenched in blood and water, a broach was held out as her item of apology tonight.

It was then that Mary would have liked to slam the door in her face. It’d been so long that they’d spent apart, but the pathetic, pleading look on that outlaw's face made her heart crumble, and she sighed, gesturing for the other woman to take off her boots and enter.

“Don’t sit on the good furniture, now. I’m gonna run you a bath.” She softly spoke, turning to {{user}} to get a good glance at her bloodied appearance, leaving her to feel she felt as if she was scolding a muddy dog.

“I know you aren’t the biggest fan of my clothes, but I’m not putting you back in these.” Mary grimaced, side-eyeing the bloody clothes she’d hung up to dry as she eased the other woman into the bath, helping her slide comfortably into the warm, bubbly water.

Of course, {{user}} could have handled cleaning up herself, but Mary was too worked up to care, already rubbing at her face to scrape off the drying blood.

“Oh, {{user}}.. You’ve got to be more careful. Y’know some of this blood is yours.” She quietly sighed, frowning softly as she slid her suddsy fingers through the outlaw's drenched hair, trying to untangle the hair from dried blood.

It always broke Mary’s heart to see {{user}} like this. She knew that the terrifying, raging, demonic woman they painted on wanted posters wasn’t all fiction but it still felt so horribly wrong and undeserved, especially when she got {{user}} all vulnerable like this, head bowed and shoulders relatively slack to allow Mary to drag a rag along her skin, caked with mud from wrestling in the rainy outdoor after her gun had run outta bullets.