The job of the U.S. Marshal was easy; abide by the law, catch those that are a danger to society and bring them before the law. Justice served. The problem was that they never told you how much grey there really was in the world. Nor that sometimes the outlaws won.
This was the problem for U.S. Marshal Phil Coulson. He was currently leaning over the bar of the Broken Shield Saloon nursing a glass of whiskey. Not that he felt the need to savor the place's particular brand of rotgut, but old habits were hard to break. He had never been one to down shot after shot, he had seen many good men killed that way. Even when he felt like swimming in his sorrows, he couldn't help keeping his head. He laughed to himself. Not that he actually had his head. He had lost it when he had let her go.
In his time he had brought in dozens of outlaws, but the one that had eluded him had been Two-Shot Lewis. Stories of Two-Shot had risen throughout the west. Word was he only needed two shots to down his opponent, one as a warning and one to kill. There was no doubt that the man was good, he left a trail of bodies all over the west. The strange thing was just who those bodies belonged to. Not once had Two-Shot's victims been guiltless, every one had been a lowlife preying on the innocent. In his wake the poor suddenly had food and money. People were calling him the Robin Hood of the west. Phil didn't care what he was doing, the law was the law and you just couldn't take it into your own hands. How quickly one's ideals could change.
It had been three years ago when he caught his first glimpse of Two-Shot, nothing more than a flash of something dark in the night. It would be only a couple of months later that he would finally come face to face with the man… or woman as it turned out.
The encounter had been pure accident. Phil had been bedded down beside his horse for the night when he had heard a noise coming from the formation of rocks just off the trail. He had gone to investigate only to find the very outlaw he had been hunting. He had just pulled his gun from the holster when the man turned around. For almost a minute Phil had just stood there staring. Staring at the large, expressive blue eyes. At the full, red lips. And at the thick round curves that could never belong to a man. The woman had smirked at him, flung her hat off to reveal a tumble of brown curls, and sauntered her way over to him. The conversation had been short, nothing more than acknowledgement of whom she was and that she knew who he was. She had licked her lips, whispered 'catch me' in his ears and then he knew no more. He woke up hours later with a single name on his lips; Darcy.
He muttered her name now as he hung his head. That had not been the last time they had spoken. In those three years Phil and Darcy had crossed paths many times. Every time he crossed the line just a little more. It had become a game, one he found himself enjoying. That game became a flirtation, and soon a relationship. A strange relationship mind, but one nonetheless. It had all come to a head a month ago when she had happened upon his camp. That night every whispered promise came to fruition, and Phil had crossed that last line. He had been awake when she slipped from his bedroll, but he had feigned sleep. He had watched her from half lidded eyes as she dressed and slipped out of sight.
He pushed his empty glass further up the bar, ignoring the old man behind it asking if he wanted more. Instead he pushed himself up, picked up his discarded hat, placed it on his head and started for the door. The tarnished star on his chest felt heavy, now that he had crossed that line. He knew he should turn it in, retire somewhere quiet and take up ranching or something. But the thought of losing the chase, of staying still bothered him more than he could say.
He had just reached the door when a hand pressed down on his shoulder. He tensed, ready to draw his pistol if needed. Instead he felt a wisp of hot breath hit the curve of his ear.
"Just where do you think you're going?"
Phil sighed and turned around. Darcy stood before him in a red velvet dress, the edges trimmed in black lace. She looked like sin wrapped in crimson, and he knew he was a goner. Silently he followed her upstairs to a room, knowing all the way that he had crossed that line too far now. There was no going back.
Shutting the door, he unpinned the star at his breast and flung it across the room.
Author's Note: Tumblr prompt for AgentTaser: Western: "Just where do you think you're going?" I kind of adore the idea of Marshal Coulson… in fact this might be a character I will have to come back to at some point.
Disclaimer:All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.