A/N: This is a western AU that happened because of a prompt that lollians sent me on Tumblr. I have no clear plot, but I do have a collection of things that I want to happen and some pretty neat OCs (if I do say so myself) that I plan to include. In fact the fic may best be described as a record of Erik and the Daroga's time together, wandering through the American West sometime post-1875. Other PotO characters will appear as the story progresses.

Title comes from the song of the same name by Chris LeDoux.

Fahim will be the first to admit that he has taken an easier pace ever since he caught up to the elusive Erik, surname uncertain. Possibly Destler, though Delacroix, Devereaux, De Stacpoole and De La Fontaine have all been bandied about as possibilities. Something that begins with a 'D' and sounds vaguely French. That much Fahim does know.

It must be nearly a month since he left Fort Griffin in search of the man. He was not alone then. Henry and Warren were with him, and so was Pete Fisher of the livery, with Tom Elder left in charge of the office. By rights it should have been a bigger posse, but most of the men he would have called on had already left with Marshal Comerford ten days earlier. The only reason Henry and Warren had not joined that posse was the bleeding that had freshly awoken in Henry's lungs after a 36-hour poker game. Carried to his room half-conscious by the men he had recently fleeced, he spent five days in bed after he got the coughing under control and Warren had refused to leave him for anything longer than the time it took to buy more whiskey, partially out of worry, partially out of the knowledge that if he was left alone too long then Henry would attempt escape (Fahim can appreciate both of their concerns). By the time Henry was back on his feet, the Marshal and fifteen good men had already left, with Fahim in charge of the office. Then the infamous Erik had shot three people over a dispute with a faro game, and it was time to get another group together.

Things had gone well, for three days. Fahim had picked up the track easily enough and they had followed it over the river. Then Pete's horse got snakebit and died, and Pete turned back on foot. Another week, and the trail had petered out, when a rumble of thunder on a clear day spooked Henry's horse and threw him. (As long as he lives, Fahim will always remember the sickening crunch when Henry hit the ground, the way his own heart pounded, certain he was dead, the way Warren half-fell off his horse in the rush to get to him and roll him over. In the event, Henry was only winded, but the very memory makes Fahim shiver. So close. Too close.) The impact restarted the bleeding in his lungs, and in between gagging and choking he insisted he was all right. Bound to be some…minor vessels torn and not arterial, but, in spite of Henry's being a medical man and thus knowledgeable about his own condition, Warren was little comforted by his words and insisted that they double back for the line shack they'd stopped at earlier, belonging to the DH ranch. Between the two of them, he and Fahim had bundled Henry up onto Warren's horse (Henry grumbling the whole time about how it was completely unnecessary because he was perfectly fine), then Warren climbed up behind him to be sure he wouldn't fall off and they turned back.

It was Fahim's own decision to keep going. He had a feeling that if he just kept heading west he'd find Erik, and his mother had always told him to trust his feelings. And damn him, but the man had committed murder over a card game, and had outstanding warrants against his name in several counties, and Henry had gotten half-killed over him. Not a chance was Fahim going to give up on bringing him in.

He rode on with no trail to follow, working on instinct, letting the Fates lead him on. And while his horse (Darius has always been highly reliable) picked his way over the land, Fahim's mind wandered over what he would do with Erik himself. Try to corner him, disarm him. Erik is a fast draw, as he proved back at the gaming tables. Best to try and get him before that stage comes along. And his thoughts would flicker back to Henry, coughing blood, to Warren supporting him, murmuring in his ear, and a twisting mass of anxiety, longing, and envy would worm its way through Fahim's heart again. What those two have—

What those two have was not allowed to matter. Not in the face of the job at hand.

Two days passed after the doubling back of Henry and Warren, then two more days, and two more, and almost before Fahim realised it a whole week had gone by, and his untethered feeling of being on the right track proved out. He found the elusive Erik playing poker in a run-down saloon in a two-bit town whose name he was too tired to learn. The butt of a pistol to the back of his head while he was still unawares, and Erik went down bleeding. And then, with the help of two men who had lost a good deal of money to Erik, it was out with him, tie him onto the back of his horse before he came back to his senses, and off again, back over the territory they had already crossed.

He would have liked to have given Darius time to rest after the journey, but doing that would have risked losing Erik again.

For three days Erik rambled, mumbling nonsense in a variety of languages, breaking out into high strange laughter. It was a struggle not to look at him, at his shining gold eyes and misshapen nose and his pitted scarred face, the warped lips. He has seen the crude sketch of the face on wanted posters, has heard it described, has glimpsed it in smoky saloons even before the shooting, and it is not exactly the sort of face a body can forget. But to be faced with it every day— For the words from those lips to be incomprehensible— A chill in Fahim's blood made him shiver each time their eyes met, even if Erik's tended to roll away again after a second or two. And with that laughter—how could he be a man, and not simply some sort of haint sent to torment the living? How can anything like that be flesh and blood?

(The blood from his head wound dried rusty brown down the side of his face, made him look like a demon from one of the old stories Fahim's grandfather told him as boy just to unsettle him and hear him squeal before drawing a laugh by twisting the terrifying tale back to absurdity and innocence. The first river they came to, Fahim washed the blood away, and Erik's grin was lopsided.)

Fahim was just getting anxious over him, anxious that he could manage to slip his bonds, anxious that his murmurings were simply ramblings but a spell of some sort, and Fahim has never been superstitious but when faced with something like that… But there was no need for the anxieties because Erik quieted, and those disconcerting eyes cleared to piercing. They passed a peaceful day, riding at a decent clip. Then that night, Erik asked, softly, what he was wanted for this time.

(And with the softness of his voice, Fahim's first thought was, so he is a man after all.)

"Two counts of murder, one of serious injury. If the man hasn't died since." And he was gutshot, so odds are he has. But Fahim didn't add that bit. One more death would not change the sentence, and the man may look like some sort of a wraith but it would likely be crueller to specify three men killed than two, might trouble him more.

"They'll hang me." The words were flat, a simple expression of fact, and Fahim looked at him trussed beside the campfire, but the mangled face betrayed no emotion.

"Most likely."

To that there was no reply. Erik just sat, staring into the fire that made his eyes glow.

Fahim did not sleep that night.

Another two days passed in silence between the two, until a rainstorm forced them to huddle close or else die of wet and cold. (He has never been a religious man, but Fahim will testify to the end of his days that that rainstorm was sent by divinity.) Fahim had set his guns and knives a good distance away, and made certain that Erik wasn't armed (even removing one small throwing knife from the bottom of his boot that he had somehow missed on his early frisk of the man). And he was still well tied.

Afterwards, it is more than Fahim can manage to decipher what happened. Perhaps it was the heat of their two bodies pressed close, or perhaps it was the shared bottle of whiskey that Henry had stuck in Fahim's saddlebags when they first rode out ("best there be one that I not have, just in case"), or perhaps it was the longing, the aching longing deep in his chest that has twisted at him ever since he rode out of Fort Griffin, and long before in truth, for there to be someone, someone to touch him, to hold him (to love him), the longing made all the worse by the memory of the tenderness with which Warren treated Henry, lying behind him at night so that he would be propped up to keep the pressure off his lungs, lightly stroking the hair from his face. And Fahim has known for years what lies between them, though they have never said it to him in so many words and he has never asked, but there is a difference in knowing it and seeing it, and the night that Henry had a particularly bad coughing fit that left him weak lying back against Warren, and Warren twined their fingers and lightly brushed his lips to Henry's forehead when he thought Fahim was asleep, sent a bolt of such longing through Fahim he thought he might die then and there.

Whatever the cause of it, one factor or a culmination, in the darkness listening to Erik's soft breathing beside him, it simply seemed right, simply seemed natural.

And Erik must have thought the same, because when Fahim's lips met his he did not protest, his lips trembling for only the barest moment before parting for Fahim's tongue. No hesitation, no questions. And though his hands were tied, his fingers curled around Fahim's own, pulled him closer, and in the darkness of the night they held each other close.

(And that night has not been their last. And their kisses have not grown any less sweet.)

Each day Fort Griffin gets closer and closer. Their pace is slow, their stops frequent, and Fahim lies to himself that it is because the horses need to rest but he does not believe his own attempts at justification. A faint smile crossing Erik's lips makes Fahim's heart flutter. He dare not give voice to the twisting feelings inside, to the way he feels light as air each time their eyes meet. It is wrong for a lawman like him to feel such things for a wanted man. However right it feels in the still hours before dawn.

But silently—silently he has resolved what he will do. Slip into town, check Henry and Warren are well, gather what things he wants, and slip back out again. But he will not tell Erik. Not just yet. There are still so very many miles to go. And for such an important decision, for both of them, he will not have it made on impulse.

A/N: I hope you have enjoyed this first installment, and please do leave a review!